9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “So you agree with the Chief Deputy? This Holton fellow is perpetrating a ruse?”

  I didn’t know people actually said things like “perpetrating a ruse” in real life.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said.

  Costa looked annoyed. “What exactly are you saying, Mr. Becker?”

  “It’s ‘Beck’ . . . anyway, I don’t believe for a minute a meteor landed in Rodney’s yard. But I’m not so sure something didn’t fall out of the sky at Rodney’s place.”

  I explained the inconsistency between Rodney’s expository style and his admission that he had only heard the meteor hit and not seen it. I steered clear of my legally privileged conversation with Rodney the day after the “meteor strike.”

  Agent Costa jotted a note on his pad. It probably said something like, “Don’t like Becker already.”

  “Anything else?” he asked, again looking my way.

  “Do you think he wants to hear about what Benny saw, Gunner?” I asked, turning to the Chief Deputy.

  Gunner looked peeved. “No. I don’t,” he said, with finality.

  Costa made a note. “Who is this Benny? And what did he say?” His questions were directed at Gunner.

  Gunner rolled his eyes at me.

  “He’s just a crazy old coot with an active imagination. Heavy drinker. Prob’ly PTSD from Vietnam. You know . . . Agent Orange or somethin’.”

  Agent Costa nodded knowingly.

  “Of course,” I said, “he did witness Holton bringing the meteor in from his field. And then there was the guy he saw snooping around Rodney’s farm in the middle of the night. You know who I’m talking about, Gunner. The one that was shooting at the cows?”

  Gunner cleared his throat. “So you see, Agent Costa, why I discount Benny’s information. And why you have to take Becker here with a grain of salt.”

  “It’s ‘Beck,’” I said to Gunner. “And just because shooting at cows may be funny, one can’t discard it for what it’s worth.”

  “And what would that be, Mr. Becker?” Costa asked.

  “Well . . . I suppose you’d have to judge for yourself, Agent. But to me, it says there was somebody skulking around Rodney Holton’s farm in the middle of the night. I’d say that’s worth looking into, whether they were cow hunting or not.”

  Agent Costa considered for a moment. “I will concede your point, Mr. Becker. A prowler deserves my attention. Now, unless you have more deep background on this meteor business, we should be off.”

  “Off where?” I asked.

  “Holton’s farm, of course. I want to see his meteor.”

  * * *

  I was happy to tag along. I wanted a closer look at the toasted bowling ball.

  I sat in the back seat of Agent Costa’s black Lincoln on the way out to Holton’s farm. Gunner had demanded to ride shotgun.

  “So Agent Costa,” I said by way of passing time, “why do you care so much about Rodney’s sideshow?”

  “I’m afraid that’s ‘need to know,’ Beck. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” I checked the mirror to see whether he was smiling. Not even a twitch.

  It was probably FBI humor, but I found it unsettling nonetheless.

  * * *

  Based on a few knocks on Rodney’s front door, followed by some peering through his windows, it appeared Rodney was not at home.

  While we debated how to proceed, we heard a cow bawling from the direction of the cow yard, followed shortly by a flurry of curses and expletives. We tracked the sound of the ruckus around the corner of the red wooden cattle barn and down an embankment toward the cow yard – the penned area where the cows gathered to be fed and watered.

  Soon, the reason for the noise became apparent. Rodney had trapped a decent-sized Hereford steer between a movable steel gate and the wooden fence of the cow yard and was trying to negotiate the animal into a holding pen twenty feet farther along. Being fully occupied with the physical demands of wrangling this steer, Rodney hadn’t noticed our arrival.

  “Can you use a hand over there?” I called. The other two guys looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

  Rodney braced himself against the steel gate and chanced a look in our direction. “Becker?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You look like you could use some help.” I started climbing the slatted wooden fence. I had some experience in my youth handling cattle on a farm not far from here.

  “Hell, yes,” Rodney said, a rasp of exertion and fatigue in his voice. “Grab that smaller gate over there.” He pointed. “You push him along and I’ll steer him into the pen.”

  I picked up the gate that Rodney had indicated and assumed a position behind the reluctant animal. Together, we made good progress, and within minutes, we’d managed to maneuver the thousand pound steer into the holding pen.

  Rodney leaned his buttocks against a post and bent over, trying to catch his breath. I looked at the steer in the pen. He was favoring one of his hind legs.

  “He’s lame,” I said. “Is that why you wanted to separate him? Or did we hurt him on the way over here?”

  Rodney’s oxygen debt was easing. “No,” he said between breaths. “He’s lame. Gotta get the vet to take a look.” More breathing. “I been arguing with this sonofabitch for the past hour.” He looked at a watch on his left wrist. “The vet should be here any minute.” Still bent over, he turned to me and shook my hand. “Thanks for your help, Becker. Bastard about killed me dead.”

  “It’s an easier chore with two,” I said. “Haven’t you got a hired hand to help you out with stuff like this?”

  Holton had returned to vertical, but was still leaning against the wooden pole. “Nah. This is the first time I’ve had to corner one of ‘em on my own though. I’ll get some help next time.” He took a final deep breath and rallied off the pole. “Sonofabitch!” It was an expression of exhaustion, not irritation.

  I laughed. “Survival’s the key,” I said with a smile.

  “I s’pose so.” Rodney finally took notice of my companions – the uniformed Chief Deputy and the black-suited Ichabod Crane. “So what brings you folks out here? Hope you’re not lookin’ for the exhibit ‘cause I took it down yesterday. Not enough demand, you know.” He pointed at me. “And you already saw it.”

  “All forty bucks’ worth,” I said. Now that was an expression of irritation.

  Costa held his badge and credentials at arms’ length toward Rodney and me.

  “I am Agent Costa of the FBI and you may know Chief Deputy Sheriff Gunderson. We came to speak with you.” The law men still stood outside the fence and showed no inclination to join Rodney and me among the cow dung in the yard. “Have you a place we can sit and visit?”

  “Sure. Right.” Rodney was still trying to catch his breath. “Picnic table in front of the house. If you all don’t mind waitin’ a couple minutes, Mr. Becker and I will hose off our boots and be right up.” Rodney glanced down at my ruined deck shoes and filthy pants legs. “Sorry about those. You should wear boots on a farm.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Let’s just hose the manure off and go talk.” The shoes and Chinos were likely ruined. I really should wear boots on a farm.

  There was an agricultural spigot on a standing pipe alongside the barn with a rubber hose already attached. Rinsing manure off footwear is routine business on a cattle farm. As I think I mentioned, I have some experience.

  A few minutes later we joined Gunner and Costa at the green picnic table near Rodney’s front door. They stood as we arrived. Then we all sat, with the cops on one side of the table and Rodney and me on the other.

  “So, fellas, what can I help you with?” Rodney had picked out Costa as the point man.

  “We’re here to see the meteor,” Costa said, “and to ask you a few questions.”

  “Well, the meteor ain’t handy just now. So how ‘bout we start with your questions . . . if you all don’t mind?”

  “Very well,” Costa continued. “Exactly when and w
here did you find the object in question?”

  Rodney considered.

  I assumed he didn’t want to admit his space rock hadn’t landed in a crater on his lawn, as he’d so widely advertised. But he also didn’t want trouble for lying to the police.

  Rodney leaned in. “Can we keep this just between us?”

  Costa leaned close to Rodney. “No. That’s not how this is going to work. And I’ll be asking the questions. All you need to do is tell us the truth. Easy peasy.” Costa leaned back to upright.

  Easy peasy?

  Rodney leaned back, too. “Yessir. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.” Rodney slipped off his seed cap and scratched the back his head. He clearly was still deciding which truth, or how much of it, he was going to share. I knew Costa and Gunner were thinking the same thing I was. Rodney was not slick enough to con trained investigators.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s the deal. But I’d appreciate it if you all didn’t spread it ‘round more than necessary.”

  “No promises,” Costa said.

  “Right. Here’s the deal,” Rodney said again. “I’m out in my fields – it’s Sunday afternoon, I guess – and I’m sittin’ on my tractor, just sorta checkin’ the corn, ya know. Then outta nowhere, I hear this thumpin’ sound in the corn. Maybe a bear, I’m thinkin’, or a big ‘coon.”

  I wondered what had become of the wolverine.

  “So I get off the tractor to check it out. That’s when I see the meteor. I thought it was a meteor then, but I learnt different. It’s a meteor-ite. That’s what they’re called after they hit the ground.”

  Rodney was thinking on the fly and he was buying time. As long as he was still talking, I figured Costa would wait him out.

  “Anyway . . . this meteor has knocked down two rows of my corn for close to forty feet. I can show you the spot if you want?”

  “Maybe later,” Costa said.

  “So I’m still not sure what this thing really is. I mean it had to . . . like . . . fall right outta the sky. So I look around to see if somebody’s messin’ with me or somethin’. But there’s nobody there. It’s just me and the space rock.”

  Rodney checked Costa and Gunner to see if they were still with him. I almost laughed. Of course he had the attention of his audience. This wasn’t a show . . . it was a police investigation. Rodney was definitely not as smooth as his reputation implied.

  “So I figure this thing’s maybe worth a couple bucks. The news guys on TV said that Russian meteor could be worth millions, you know.” Rodney checked his audience again.

  “Go on,” Costa said.

  It was pretty clear by this point that Gunner was going to let the federal agent take the lead. Naturally. Gunner still considered the whole idea of investigating a meteor a waste of time. On the other hand, I was pretty sure Agent Costa had his reasons for coming out to the boonies of Ottawa County – reasons he had yet to disclose.

  “So I wrap this meteor up in my shirt – it’s a light cotton plaid. I can get it for you if you want.”

  “Maybe later,” Costa said. “Keep going.”

  “So I bring the meteor back to the house.” Rodney paused. “That’s about it.”

  “So the object in question just fell out of the sky, is that right?” Costa asked.

  “Far as I can tell.” Rodney wiped his palms down the front of his shirt and looked at all three of us in turn.

  “And you thought it was a bear, but it turned out to be this meteor,” Costa said.

  “Yeah. I know it sounds goofy. But I just couldn’t figure what it might be . . . you know . . . out in the middle of a corn field.” Rodney removed his cap again, this time to draw a shirt sleeve across his perspiring brow.

  “Okay, Mr. Holton. Let’s have a look at this meteor, shall we?” Costa said, standing.

  Rodney balked at the suggestion. “Whatta you need to see it for?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Holton. Now, where is the meteor?” Costa had the TV cop role down to a science.

  Rodney twisted like a cornered gerbil. So far, for me at least, this interview had been far more entertaining than any of Rodney’s shows.

  “Am I in some kinda trouble here?” Rodney said eventually. “‘Cause if it’s illegal to sell meteors without a license or something, I didn’t know nothin’ about it.”

  “Mr. Holton,” Costa said, with authority. “The meteor.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Rodney had buckled. “I got it hid in the old chicken coop. I’ll show ya.” He rose from the table and we all followed him to a weathered, red wooden building where Rodney forced open both halves – top and bottom – of the sagging wood door.

  “It’s in the fourth roost on the left,” he said, pointing the way for Agent Costa.

  Costa eyed the chicken droppings that covered the concrete floor. “Please bring it to us,” he said.

  Rodney shrugged then disappeared around the corner of the dark doorway.

  It’s not unusual for chicken coops to have hinged wooden window covers so the farmer can control the laying hens’ perception of daytime, and with some regularity, increase their egg production. The windows were presently shuttered, hence the murky dimness inside the coop.

  “What the hell!” It was Rodney.

  Costa stepped inside at this point, one hand on his service weapon. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It’s gone,” Rodney said, his eyes wide and chin hanging. “Some bastard stole it.” He turned to Agent Costa. “You! You took it, you sonofabitch!”

  If this was an act, it was a much better one than Rodney had put on so far today.

  * * *

  It took a while to get Rodney calmed down, and a while longer to convince him that it didn’t make sense for us to steal his meteor and then come around asking for it.

  We were standing outside the chicken coop.

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to take the meteor?” Costa asked.

  “Hell, anybody who likes money,” Rodney said, still flustered. “That thing’s worth a fortune.”

  “Has anything unusual happened around your farm in the past few days . . . anything out of the ordinary. It doesn’t have to relate to the meteor,” Costa continued, working his way through the usual law enforcement checklist.

  Rodney thought for a good minute before answering.

  “A few days ago,” he said, “the dog started barkin’ in the middle of the night. He kept it up for prob’ly five minutes. I got up and looked out the house windows, but I didn’t see nothin’ funny.”

  “It is unusual for your dog to bark at night?” Agent Costa asked.

  “Not really. He’ll chase a ‘coon on occasion. Or maybe there’ll be a possum under the porch. But he usually quits after just a little while. This time was longer. But I still had the meteor after that.”

  “When did you last see the meteor?” Costa continued.

  “Lemme think,” Rodney said, removing his cap to scratch his scalp. “It would’ve been this morning, when I moved the bags. No . . . wait. I didn’t move ‘em today yet ‘cause the steer went lame and I had to deal with that. So it was last night when I saw it last . . . about ten o’clock.”

  “And where was it then, Mr. Holton?” Costa asked.

  “It was in the goddamn chicken coop! Where do ya think?” Rodney slapped his cap on one pants leg for emphasis.

  Costa shrugged. “Just making sure.” He made a note on his pocket pad. “And what are these bags you mentioned?”

  “It was for security, ya know. I got three backpacks. One has the real meteor and the other two are decoys.” He looked at Gunner and me. “Keep the robbers guessing, ya know?”

  “I see,” Costa went on. “Are you certain the missing bag is the one with the meteor and not one of the decoys.”

  “Geez, how stupid do you think I am?”

  “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Holton,” Costa said. He didn’t miss a beat.

  Yeah, I’m sure,” Rodney said, giving in
to Costa’s persistent interrogation approach. “The damn meteor’s gone.”

  “Very well. Now . . . can you think of anything else out of the ordinary?”

  Costa’s interrogation had entered what computer programmers would call a “loop.” He would keep asking the same question, over and over, until Rodney ran out of answers.

  Rodney was still in shock from the alleged loss of his meteor, and probably fatigued from the morning’s steer wrestling. He raised both arms, letting them fall to his sides.

  “I can’t think of nothing else,” he said.

  I’d been quiet for a long time and I thought I might chime in.

  “Do your cattle go lame often?” I asked.

  Both Costa and Gunner looked over at me.

  “Almost never. Why? You think they ate the meteor or something?” Rodney was losing patience.

  “No,” I said. “Not really.”

  A small pickup with a box on the back and the words “Goodhue Veterinary Services” on the side appeared in the turnaround by the house. A man wearing tall rubber boots climbed out of the cab.

  “That’s the vet,” Rodney said. “I gotta go. You guys find my damn meteor!”

  “Do you mind if we look around?” Costa asked as Rodney walked away.

  “Knock yourselves out,” he said without turning back.

  CHAPTER 13

  Pyongyang, Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. The day before the meteor went missing.

  After locating the lost capsule, the Koreans wasted no time contacting an agent in the United States. As luck would have it, one of their operatives lived much closer to the landing site than they had any right to expect.

  Initial contact was made through one of many web-based email accounts Pyongyang had established specifically for clandestine communications. The Americans could intercept and decode North Korea’s most sophisticated digital transmissions, yet these simple email accounts had escaped detection.

  The agent was directed to acquire the capsule as soon as possible and await further instructions.