“I get juice, adrenaline from the case.”
“Yet you don’t have a job.”
“Yet,” Mac replied with a tired yet rueful chuckle, “I don’t seem to be out of work.”
“Touché.”
“You know, Mr. Rahn, some friends have said to me that lawsuits against the oil and gas industry are suicide.”
“Are you familiar with The Art of War?”
“Sun Tzu.” And Mac realized where Rahn was going. “The battle is won before it is fought.”
“Very good, Mac,” Rahn replied with approval. “Most people suing don’t have all the resources and money needed to throw at the problem, nor do they have the evidence we had. That case was over before it was ever filed, and I had no interest in settling it. That sucker was going to trial, which is why we retained Sterling. I would have buried Deep Core in legal fees a thousand times over and had billions upon billions left. Deep Core is a pimple on my financial ass. I would have happily bankrupted them. And like we discussed, Deep Core had financial issues and had to get outside investors to get their North Dakota operations going. We’d have buried them.”
“Which again might explain the ruthlessness with which they’ve operated here,” Mac answered as he leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “They saw Callie Gentry coming with Sterling and knew they might have the goods on them. They were trying to head off the lawsuit before it started.”
“I would agree with you. These wells needed to hit and hit big for the company to truly survive and for whoever fronted the money to get paid. A lawsuit, allegations of contaminating the water supply of a town of twenty thousand—as you see, the story writes itself.”
“That’s motive. Means and opportunity are easy from there,” Mac answered. “The lawsuit would have killed them.”
“That was the plan.”
“Not a bad one, Mr. Rahn. Sterling, as much as it pains me to say, was a damn good lawyer.”
“That he was. Callie and I studied up on him. Unfortunately,” Rahn muttered, “she studied a little too closely.”
Mac nodded. “I doubt it was strictly her fault. The man had a history.”
“So did she,” Rahn answered sadly, looking down at his plate. “I loved that girl, but she had a history of, shall we say, bedding the men she worked with.”
“I suppose that was her social sphere.”
“It was. She was married years ago, but it didn’t last. Callie loved business, loved the chase of it, loved the wealth she was accumulating, and didn’t seem particularly interested in things like marriage or children—those didn’t drive her. But she, like anyone else, had needs. And unattractive she wasn’t, so I imagine she did a good job of seducing Mr. Sterling.”
“Sterling was who he was,” Mac answered. “He didn’t really seem to care who his sexual pursuits affected.”
“Ahh, the reason you are here,” Rahn noted. “Your ex-wife. Only a man who had feelings for the woman would be putting himself through all of this.”
“Nah,” Mac replied, shaking his head, picking up some potatoes with his fork. “Not those kinds of feelings, anyway.”
“Really?”
“Who’s the cynic now? Meredith is innocent, and I don’t like the idea of someone getting away with nine murders and then an attempted tenth on her, and then an eleventh and twelfth last night.”
“I will tell you this—whatever her mistakes, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life, what little there is left of it anyway, knowing someone got away with killing my goddaughter.”
“So let’s talk about that,” Mac suggested. “All you have is the copy of the memorandum?”
Rahn nodded disappointedly. “That’s it. I wish I had the research, but I don’t. It never reached me. What I do know is Deep Core, or people tied to Deep Core, did it.”
“And the ‘who’ of Deep Core may be those men who tried to run you and the sheriff down last night,” Bull Phelps stated.
Mac turned to his left to Phelps. “What did you see?”
“Two men in a black SUV,” Phelps answered. “I looked for a plate, but they’d killed the lights that illuminate it. I just know it was a Tahoe, a newer one.”
“The boxier model?” Mac asked Phelps.
“Correct. Like I mentioned last night, I didn’t see them coming up on you until it was too late. I mean, they timed it perfectly.”
“A little too perfectly,” Mac mused, biting into a piece of bacon. “It’s like they knew we were coming out.”
“Eyes inside?”
“Maybe,” Mac answered and then thought of his hotel room in Williston and his surveillance system. “Eyes or perhaps ears.” He made a mental note to check a couple things when he got back to Williston. Then his phone beeped. It was a text from Bud Subject: “911- Call Me!” Mac looked at his watch. It was 6:03 A.M. Mountain Time. Subject was up early in Minneapolis.
“Mr. Rahn, I need to make a call. Where I am or who I am talking to will not be a part of it, but it could be about this case.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ll put it on speaker.” Mac dialed. “Bud, Mac. What’s up?”
“Where the heck are you?”
“Working my case at an undisclosed luxury location, enjoying one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had. Where are you?”
“At my desk, drinking cold coffee, and eating a stale, vending-machine muffin, you little prick. Ed and I’ve been at something for you all night. I think I found the driver of the SUV you took shots at last Sunday behind your ex-wife’s house. Do you have a computer nearby? It’s hard to read this stuff on your phone.”
“I have my laptop.”
“I’m sending you an e-mail,” Subject replied, and Mac dug into his backpack and pulled out his computer. Rahn slipped a note across the table with the network access key for the lodge’s Internet.
It took a minute, but the laptop was up and connected. Mac clicked into his e-mail. He opened the file from Subject, which showed an Oklahoma driver’s license for a man with a mustache and bushy eyebrows who was six feet one, 190 pounds. He took his photo in a collared flannel shirt and light-blue jean jacket with wool collar. “Billy Joe Hutchinson?”
“Yeah, we think it’s a cover ID,” Subject speculated. “We only have credit and driving back three years, and then nothing before that. But he rented the black Suburban SUV down at the airport three weeks ago, so he and his partner likely weren’t in town just that night. We think they’ve been around for awhile. We did a little checking around the hotels out there, and Billy Joe and another man were staying at the airport Embassy Suites. They registered a black SUV with this tag for his parking pass. The desk clerk remembered him because he wore a cowboy hat. In fact, he and his partner both did.”
“Partner?”
“Yup,” Subject answered. “His name is R.C. Wilton on the room registration. These two had adjoining rooms. I looked up good old R.C. This, too, is a cover ID, we think. Credit history and driver’s license goes back just a few years. I’d say these two boys are a team.”
“I don’t suppose you asked for hotel surveillance footage?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Gerdtz bellowed from the background. “Click down further in your e-mail, and you’ll see it.”
Mac did as instructed, found the video icon, and clicked on it. The footage was from twenty-two days ago, when the two men checked into the Embassy Suites. He studied the video, with Phelps looking over his shoulder. “Recognize them?”
Phelps squinted, stared for a minute, and then shook his head no.
Mac watched a little more of the two men in cowboy hats, and something registered. “Ed, is this the only footage you have?”
“If you scroll down further in the e-mail, there’s another link from the night they checked out.”
He clicked on the other icon and gave it a look. The cowboy hats, the mustaches, the jean jackets, and the tobacco chew bulge in the lower lips—something about all of that regi
stered. He’d seen these guys somewhere.
Mac reached into his backpack and pulled out a large brown folder. He flipped over the flap and thumbed through various manila folders until he found the ones labeled Biggs and Coolidge. He pulled the photos out of each and spread them across the kitchen table and scanned the images.
“Mac, are you still there?” Subject asked.
“Yeah, Ed, I’m still with you,” he replied, spreading the photos out across the table. “I’m looking at pictures for a match. Hang on.”
“There.” Phelps pointed to a photo from Coolidge. “That’s this Hutchinson guy,” he added as he held the photo from the East Union Tavern next to the laptop picture of the Oklahoma driver’s license photo.
“I have them both here,” Mac answered Phelps, pointing to two pictures taken by John Biggs in Bismarck. “See here?” Mac pointed to the first picture. “This picture is focused on Gentry, Sterling, and Murphy, but these two guys in the foreground—two cowboys sitting at the bar. It’s a little dark, but there they are in this photo, and then in this one there’s a little more illumination. They’re sitting at the corner of the bar. No doubt about it, it’s them.”
Phelps nodded. “I sure think so.”
“Ed, I think I’ve tied those guys to some other photos I have. You’ve really come through. Now I need you to do one more thing.” Mac told him what it was.
“That’s an interesting thought. That would practically clear Meredith. We’re on it, Mac,” Subject stated enthusiastically. “We’ll be in touch.”
Mac thought for a second, smirked, scrolled through his contacts, and clicked on the next number.
“Homicide, Coolidge.”
“Linc, it’s Mac. I’m going to send you an e-mail with some footage and pictures courtesy of the Minneapolis Police. I think I may have identified who killed Weatherly and Kane.” Mac sent the e-mail and waited for Coolidge to review it.
“Mac, that sure looks like our guy in the East Union Tavern. I mean, I can’t say for sure, but boy, the similarities are pretty tight between the DMV photo and these.”
“Then let’s try to confirm this a little better.”
“How do we do that?”
“By seeing when they came to DC.” Mac explained what he was thinking.
“I’m on it,” Coolidge answered. “I’m going right now. You’ll know as soon as I know.”
Mac hung up and then had another thought and dialed again, this time for Leah Brock.
“Mac, you’re alive, at least.”
“I’m in good hands. How’s the sheriff? Any update?”
“He’s still in surgery.” Brock sighed. “Mac, the chief wants to talk to you. What should I tell him?”
“To fuck off.”
“Seriously, Mac? I can only stall for so long.”
“I’ll give him time later. For now, how is security around the sheriff?”
“There’s anywhere from six to eight people on him at all times. Nobody is getting near him. Everyone from the sheriff’s office and our force is on duty and looking for a dark-colored SUV missing part of a left front headlight. So far, nothing has turned up.”
“I’ve got a witness that says it was a Tahoe. Let that be the focus.”
“Witness? What witness?”
“An eyewitness who for now shall go nameless. Remember my warning.”
“Tahoe, got it. Anything else?”
“They could have blown town. But on the off chance they haven’t, I have two men for you to look for. I think they were the ones from last night, and I’m betting they’re the ones that killed Adam Murphy and the Bullers,” Mac replied and typed the e-mail and attached the pictures. “Get these photos out to everyone in law enforcement. They could still be hanging around.”
“How did you get these guys?” Brock asked.
“Minneapolis police, mostly. Remember what happened at my ex-wife’s house last Sunday? The break-in, attempted murder, and then the chase?”
“Yeah.”
“Minneapolis found the SUV I popped a bunch of holes in. They found it and traced it to these two.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get going on these. What do you think about using the media?”
“No. If they are around, they’ll certainly run if they show up on the news. If they run, they might be gone for good, so just strictly law enforcement for now. That’s my advice.”
“I agree. Anything else?”
“There is one other thing to do that might be a little trickier.” Mac told her what he wanted. “What do you think?”
“Why do you want it?”
“If they say what I think they might say, I’ll tell you when I get back to Williston.”
“That’s all you can tell me?”
“For now. By the time I get back, I should know a few more things, and then I’ll tell you what this is all about. So what do you say?”
“I think I’ll get to work on it.”
Mac hung up and then thought of one other thing he could do to get things going. “One more call.” Mac hit the button for the Judge.
“Mac, is everything going all right?”
“Yes, Judge, better than expected. Now your godchild needs a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I’m wondering if you could grease the skids over at the FBI. I have two probable cover IDs for a couple of what I think are professional killers. They look like cowboys. Just from their look and attire, and without being completely stereotypical, I’m thinking Texas, Oklahoma, and maybe Colorado might be good hunting grounds for these guys. I’m wondering if we have someone over at the FBI who’d be willing to see if they can figure out who these guys really are.”
“Get me the pictures, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Mac sent the pictures via e-mail to the Judge. He checked his watch. It was just after 7:00 A.M. He yawned. He’d been up over twenty-four straight hours, other than a half-hour catnap on the flight.
“What are you thinking, Mac?” Rahn asked.
Mac sat back in his chair, looked at Rahn, and sighed. “Mr. Rahn, I’m thinking that as much as you don’t want to, at some point very soon, you’re going to have to come out of hiding. You’re going to have to speak to how you obtained this memorandum and of what you know. Are you going to be willing to do that?”
Rahn clasped his hands together and leaned his chin down on them in thought. After a minute, he exhaled and nodded slowly. “For Callie, I will.”
“Good,” Mac replied. “I respect what you’ve done. I’ll do what I can to keep the people who have to know at a minimum until the time comes. But sooner or later, I think you’ll have to speak, if we’re going to get what we want here.”
“I understand,” Rahn answered. “I knew that if I took this step, I might have to do that. Let the chips fall where they may.” The old man poured himself another cup of coffee. “So what’s next?”
“Sleep,” Mac replied tiredly. “I need to sleep for a few hours. Do you have a place I could crash for a bit?”
Rahn smiled. “I think we can fix you up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“The Art of War.”
Wheeler watched his rearview mirror as he approached the right turn. The only vehicles behind him were the bright headlights of the two tanker trucks he’d passed, transporting the fluids that made the oil and gas fields work.
Fifteen minutes ago, he dropped his alibi off at her apartment. They met up at their usual place, the Wolf’s Den, sat at a table in the middle of the place, visible to all, made PDA spectacles of themselves and didn’t leave until nearly 1:00 A.M. She spent the night with him, and he never went near the County Line, never took a call, and acted suitably horrified when word reached him about the sheriff. His alibi was as solid as it could possibly be.
He turned right and motored down the rough country road, vigilantly watching the rearview, but nobody turned to follow. Two miles down the road, he reached the turn to the farmhouse and took the lengthy approach
road to the house, where only a sliver of light glowed out of the small, vertical gap in the kitchen-window curtains. He parked, slid out of his pickup truck, and looked to the right at the aluminum barn. The double doors that were typically slid open were now completely closed, concealing the Tahoe.
He walked up the steps and pushed his way into the kitchen to find Royce sitting in a chair, a .45 in his hand, pointed at Wheeler.
Wheeler put his hands up.
“Were you followed, Speedy?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive. I was very, very careful,” Wheeler answered, panicked. “Jesus Christ, would you put that fucking gun down?”
Royce lowered it and looked to his right as Clint walked into the kitchen, his .45 in his hand, hanging casually toward the floor. Clint walked to the window and spent a moment peering through the narrow gap in the curtains. He turned and shook his head. The coast was clear.
“After last night, we’re not taking any chances,” Royce cautioned, resting the gun back in his lap. “At times like these, it’s not always easy to know who your friends are. Someone could suddenly decide we’re a liability,” he suggested.
“It wouldn’t be me,” Wheeler answered. “How far do we go back?”
“Since we was kids,” Royce replied.
“That’s right,” Wheeler stated hotly before sitting down. “If you two are a liability, I’m a liability.” He pulled a burner phone out of his pocket. “We need to call O’Herlihy.”
“Why would we even stay around here?” Clint asked. “We need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“Agreed,” Royce affirmed. “Why stay? Why push it?”
“O’Herlihy will make it worth your while,” Wheeler promised. “He wants to talk, and he’s putting more money on the table.”
“I don’t know,” Clint replied.
“Look,” Wheeler pleaded, “I know you two can run and nobody will be the wiser, but I can’t run. Not like you two can. I need your help for just a little longer.”
Royce looked over at Clint, who shrugged the shrug that said, “We gotta have our guy’s back.” The three of them went back to childhood. That meant something to all three of them. Wheeler took the less violent route through life, but he’d always been there for them the last four years with work—good-paying work—and they needed to pay him back now that he was in a spot.
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