9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Oh, no. That’s totally not like Rodney. Under normal circumstances, I’d have bet a hundred bucks Rodney would’ve laid eyes on any meteor that came down in his general vicinity. Hell, I’d have thought he’d have pictures of the fireball in flight.”

  “So, Gunner. Do you think this anomaly in Rodney’s story might mean something . . . I don’t know . . . interesting?”

  Gunner wiped the smile off his face.

  “Honestly? I can’t imagine what. Maybe he’s just losing his touch. Whatta you think it means?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. You were supposed to tell me I was wasting my time thinking about this and that it wasn’t unusual at all for Rodney to only hear the meteor hit and not see it.”

  “Well, if it helps, I do think you’re wasting your time.” Gunner smiled.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. For now, it looks like I’m going to have to spend another Jackson to get a closer look at Rodney’s bowling ball meteor. When I figure out what’s up, I’ll let you know.”

  I stood to leave.

  “Hey. Hold on a minute,” Gunner said. “If you’re lookin’ for a puzzler to take your mind off Rodney, I got a guy coming in says his neighbor’s up to something sinister. Would you like to sit in?”

  I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through my nose. A diversion wasn’t what I’d come here for, but it’d do.

  CHAPTER 8

  Ames, Iowa.

  Kent Evans still had a big problem with his plan to increase vaccine demand by infecting livestock with a virulent pathogen. He couldn’t figure out where he could go to infect a herd without suspicion falling on him. He knew he wasn’t a typical agro-terrorist, if there was such a thing. On the other hand, some lawman connecting a Foot and Mouth outbreak with his visit to the infected feed lot a few days earlier was a risk he preferred not to take. Choosing where and how to take this final step had stalled his grand plan for more than a week.

  Then he saw it. The article was a sidebar on the Agri-News Today website. The headline read: “Ottawa County, Minnesota Farmer Narrowly Avoids Meteor Strike.” Beneath the title was a picture of a farmer dressed in denim overhauls and a green seed cap, and wearing a broad grin. His right hand pointed to a round black object, partially embedded in what the caption claimed was the man’s yard.

  Kent scanned the article. The meteor had landed on Rodney Holton’s farm just yesterday, it said. Holton was holding public viewings for a fee. As background for the piece, the reporter had described Holton’s farm as “a small beef operation.”

  Kent’s wheels started turning.

  What were the odds of a meteor strike and the first U.S. instance of Foot and Mouth Disease in almost a century happening to the same farmer, and in the same week? Zero. Anyone investigating the disease was bound to connect it to the meteor, at least for a while.

  Evans checked his computer for the location of Ottawa County, Minnesota. This was perfect. It was a four hour trip, at most, from his home in Ames. He could drive there, infect the cattle, and return home without anyone knowing he was ever near the place. As a side benefit, Holton wasn’t even one of Kent’s customers. There would be no connection to trace back to the veterinary pharmacist from Iowa.

  Opportunities like this didn’t come along every day, and Kent Evans wasn’t going to look this gift horse . . . or cow . . . in the mouth. Tonight after the kids were in bed, he would tell his wife he needed to pull an all-nighter at the lab. “Paid janitorial stuff,” he’d say. Four hours later he would arrive at the meteor farm, ready to deliver his present from South Africa to Rodney Holton’s Herefords.

  * * *

  It was just after 1:00 a.m. when Kent Evans’s Subaru pulled slowly up to Rodney Holton’s mailbox in Ottawa County. Kent rolled down his window and confirmed the fire number. This was, indeed, the place. But he couldn’t just drive in, now could he?

  Evans guided the station wagon another quarter mile down the gravel before coming upon a rutted field road that led directly into a rock quarry. He judged the small, obviously unused, quarry to be a logical spot to park while he hiked up the hill to Holton’s cattle barn.

  Before leaving his car, he prepared the “delivery system” he would use to infect the cattle. He couldn’t count on getting close enough to actually touch his targets. A water pistol containing distilled water and saliva from one of the infected tissues would have to suffice. The hardiness of the virus was one of the reasons he had chosen it in the first place . . . and one of the reasons FMD was so feared by farmers. The other reason was its communicability from one infected animal to many others. FMD had been known to spread through the air to infect animals as far as twenty-five miles distant from its source.

  Kent didn’t need twenty-five miles to cause a Foot and Mouth panic. Twenty-five inches would do.

  He abandoned the Subaru wagon near the quarry’s sandstone wall and headed off on foot, carrying the FMD squirt gun in a belt holster.

  The hill he climbed was covered with mature oak and maple trees, as so many bluffs in this area were. Years of cattle grazing between the trees had worn paths traversing the hillside. Kent followed a cow path as it climbed the hill knowing it would lead, eventually, to the barn.

  As he was about to leave the cover of the trees, Kent stopped to catch his breath. The climb had been steep and he had never been much of a hiker. He needed a short break.

  With his shoulder leaning against the trunk of an aging maple for support, Kent breathed deeply the floral scented air of the meadow that lay before him. The mix of clover, orchard grass, and alfalfa in the pasture graced the calm with a light, almost cheerful fragrance.

  Forgetting for a moment the purpose of this visit, he bent down and lazily pinched the flower from an alfalfa plant at his feet, then plucked a few purple blossoms from the flower’s receptacle – a term he’d acquired in a biology class somewhere in his distant past – and sucked their sweet nectar. In his youth, he had spent many hours in pastures like this one, striding freely though knee deep grasses to bring his father’s Holsteins home for milking.

  Looking up, Kent considered the stars above him, layer on endless layer of bright points of light shimmering in a field of deep blackness. It was hard for him to believe, in such an immense universe, that anything he might do would really matter in the grand scheme of things.

  Then again, he didn’t need to change the universe tonight, just make a slight adjustment to the part of it that controlled his income. He spat the alfalfa petals from his mouth and moved on.

  The moon was just rising over the hilltop as he neared Holton’s place. He’d been thankful for the near total darkness to conceal his activities. Now he welcomed the dim lunar glow. It would help him avoid any thin wire fences that might cross his path, and allow him to approach the sleeping cattle as silently as possible.

  Presently, the dark form of an old wooden cattle barn appeared over the ridge. Kent crouched low when he saw it. Now, stealth was paramount. Cattle could be skittish. And there was a good chance that Holton had a dog as well.

  The soles of Kent’s Reeboks pressed softly on the dew-dampened grass of the pasture as he drew nearer and nearer to the barn. Step after silent step he maneuvered closer until he found himself within a stone’s throw of the cow yard. From here he could hear the animals muttering and stomping, and could smell the familiar odor of beef manure.

  Every type of manure had its own distinct aroma. And Kent had made enough agricultural sales calls to discern whether he was visiting a dairy or beef facility, or a pig farm, or a sheep operation, by their smells alone.

  The air had felt calm to Kent, but apparently there was a slight breeze after all. It was by utter fortuity that the wind had blown the smells of Holton’s cow yard toward him, instead of carrying his own scent toward the cattle, potentially thwarting his entire effort.

  Crouching low, he placed one running shoe carefully in front of the other until he arrived at the wooden fence that prevented the cattle from ranging among the f
arm buildings. He would need to climb at least one board in order to have a clear shot at the animals.

  Steady, Kent. Easy does it.

  As he placed a foot on one of the fence rails a nail creaked and Kent froze. But it was too late. Several cows were already scrambling to their feet, hoofed legs flailing to find purchase.

  He had to act now!

  Moving swiftly, he brought his other foot onto the fence board and drew the water gun from its holster. Pointing it at the nearest bovine, he used both hands and firmly squeezed the trigger.

  But nothing came out.

  The animals were rustling about now, on the verge of running. Fighting his instinct to flee, he squeezed the trigger over and over again until finally, a stream shot from the plastic barrel.

  His first shot hit one animal squarely in the face. That was good, but the others were starting to move away.

  Without wasting time, he squeezed the trigger again and again, wheeling from side to side, firing at every animal within range. Before the gun was empty, the animals were all up, grunting, pawing the ground, and trying their best to distance themselves from the unknown threat.

  Across the barnyard, a dog barked. Kent knew it was time to go. He jumped from the fence, his Reeboks carrying him through the pasture and back the way he had come. At first, the barking drew nearer, causing Kent to quicken his pace. After more than a minute at full speed, he tripped on a downed tree and fell to the ground.

  Lying prostrate on the cow path among the bushes he listened for the dog. The barking was still there, but it was quieter now and more distant. It appeared that Rover had decided to stay home and defend his pack. He was no longer in pursuit.

  * * *

  On the journey back home to Ames, a nagging guilt tugged at Kent’s conscience. He knew exactly what was bothering him. He had compromised his principles for the sake of money.

  People do it every day, he reminded himself. Farmer Holton would be compensated for his lost cattle, so there was really no harm. If other farmers lost their herds before the outbreak was fully controlled, they would get paid, too.

  And after the small outbreak of FMD was extinguished, as he knew it would be, all the cattle farmers in the country – and probably pig and sheep farmers, too – would vaccinate their animals against FMD, not daring to chance infection of their herds by the new threat.

  Consumers would pay a nickel more per pound for steak. His vaccine sales would skyrocket. And all would be right with the world.

  If he had to deal with a nagging conscience while this scenario played out, so be it. It was a sacrifice he was prepared to make.

  CHAPTER 9

  Red Wing, Minnesota.

  “Chief Deputy Gunderson?” The voice scratched through the phone speaker on Gunner’s desk.

  Gunner reached over and tapped a button on the phone. “Yes, Barbara?”

  “Your eleven o’clock appointment is here.”

  Gunner glanced up at the institutional wall clock that hung behind me.

  “Okay, Barbara. He’s a tad early. Have him take a seat, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Should I put him in the conference room?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.” Gunner punched the telephone button again then scanned his desk top. Locating a clipboard and yellow pad trapped beneath a pile of paperwork, he gripped the board firmly and snatched it free, leaving the remainder of the pile intact.

  “Been working on your legerdemain, I see,” I said.

  Gunner had begun digging in his top drawer for a writing instrument. He paused to look up at me. “What?”

  “Your sleight of hand,” I said. “You know, prestidigitation.”

  “I don’t follow,” Gunner said still looking my way, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Does this have to do with the mess on my desk? ‘Cause I know where every piece of paper is. It’s my mental filing system. Okay?”

  “I was just complimenting you. But never mind.”

  It wasn’t really fair for me to have to restrict the use of my vocabulary to the relatively meager list of English words Gunner had mastered. Then again, it wasn’t nice for me to flaunt my command of the language in his face either. I would try to do better.

  “If you’re gonna compliment me, do it in English. All right?” He found a pen and tucked it into one breast pocket. Now . . . do you want me to brief you on this guy we’re about to meet?”

  Gunner was doing his best to play the host. I appreciated his efforts.

  “That’d be great, Gunner. What are we up against? Reformed parking violator? Maybe diamond thief?”

  Gunner laughed. “Better than that. I told you this guy said his neighbor was up to something, right?”

  “Yeah. Something sinister.”

  “Well . . . don’t get your hopes up. He’s lived around here forever and has a reputation for being kinda crazy. Maybe you know him. You sorta move in them crazy people circles, right?” Gunner smiled.

  “What’s his name,” I asked, ignoring Gunner’s insult.

  “Benny Volnscheid,” Gunner said.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Really? You don’t know him?” Gunner said with a smile. “Let’s go have a look-see then, shall we?”

  He rose from his chair. I stood as well. The look on Gunner’s face told me something was up. I just didn’t know what.

  “Indeed, yes. I’d say a look-see sounds like exactly the right opening move.” I smiled.

  Gunner rolled his eyeballs, but didn’t comment.

  * * *

  The conference room was on the other side of Reception. As we walked past the receptionist/dispatcher’s desk I caught a whiff of something that could accurately be described as eau de locker room. I turned my head toward the dispatcher and raised my eyebrows at her.

  She lifted an index finger and made a windshield wiper motion in my direction. I was all too familiar with the gesture.

  Gunner cracked the conference room door and beckoned me to lead the way.

  As I crossed the threshold the odor hit me like an IED. I rubbed my nose casually, trying not to be rude. The source of the intense aroma was a bearded and wild-haired gentleman sitting at the far end of the rectangular conference table. He stood as Gunner and I entered the room.

  The man – Benny Volnscheid, I assumed – was probably in his sixties, though his scarred hands and weathered face might have misled me by a decade either way. His attire was hobo chic – unwashed military surplus fatigues that hung loosely on his broad frame. The hat he held in both hands at his crotch was a Fidel Castro style military lid.

  Gunner crossed the room, introduced himself, and offered Mr. Volnscheid a hand, which Benny accepted without comment.

  “And this is Attorney James Becker. Call him ‘Beck.’ He’ll be assisting me with your . . . uh . . . matter.”

  “My pleasure,” I said, moving forward and extending my hand in greeting. At first, Benny didn’t accept my offer of a handshake, electing instead, I gathered, to assess me from a safe distance. Benny looked me up and down in such a way that I almost felt compelled to check my zipper, or feel for bird crap on my shoulder.

  He had been a soldier. Of that I was certain. I wondered when he’d served, and where. I also felt concern for Benny’s health, both physical and mental. His breath reeked of whiskey and his eyes were cloudy and yellowed.

  After a few long seconds, he must have decided – or more likely, intuited – that I was safe enough, and he accepted my hand.

  “Well,” Gunner said. “Let’s all sit down and get started. Shall we?”

  Gunner selected a seat at the far end of the table from Benny. That was logical enough, for many reasons. I chose a seat halfway between the two men. As I sat, I noticed that some efficient functionary had taken the precaution of covering Benny’s chair with a clear plastic bag. Necessary, I supposed. But I wondered how it made Benny feel.

  “Now, Mr. Volnscheid . . .” Gunner started. But Benny cut him off.

  “Just, B
enny,” Mr. Volnscheid said.

  “Okay, Benny. You called for this sit down, what’ve you got to tell me?”

  Benny looked back and forth between us as if reconsidering the acceptability of my presence in this meeting.

  “You sure he’s okay?” Benny asked Gunner, tossing a headful of dark, matted hair in my direction.

  Gunner looked at me. “Yeah. He’s all right. He works with me sometimes . . . kind of as a consultant, ya know? Might be helpful depending on your concerns.”

  Benny shifted awkwardly in his chair then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the tabletop. “Your prob’ly gonna think I’m nuts,” he said, lowering the tone of his voice, “but I got good reason to think my neighbor’s a terrorist, or at least a drug dealer.”

  As Benny checked our reactions, Gunner and I waited for more.

  “Keep goin’,” Gunner said at last.

  “He lives by himself, but he’s always got lots of cars goin’ in and out, in and out. Yesterday, I seen him standing out in his yard countin’ out a wad of cash. A couple night’s ago, he was walkin’ around with a cuttin’ torch, making signal fires or burning evidence or somethin’.”

  “Who’s your neighbor?” I asked.

  “Holton,” Benny said. “Not Old Man Holton. Wonna his kids.”

  “Rodney?” I said. The description Benny had given sounded like activities surrounding the meteor exhibit.

  “Yeah. That’s him. He kilt his wife and now he’s into more bad.”

  “Why do you think he killed his wife?” Gunner asked, leaning forward.

  “Hell. Everybody knows he kilt her. Just ask around. Poisoned her or somethin’. Anyway she’s dead and he stoled her farm.”

  I remembered a story I had once heard about Rodney marrying into his farm. I didn’t know the details, and killing her sounded a bit extreme, but swindling a woman out of her farm was entirely within his modus operandi.

  Gunner didn’t seem too worried about the alleged murder. In any case, he leaned back again. He still hadn’t written on his pad.