Mad River

by John Sandford

  Holding the bed blanket over her shoulders, she went back to the living room and found Jimmy watching television. She looked at the screen, which showed a half dozen men having sex with one another in an improbable oral-anal chain. Jimmy cackled and said, “The old fuck was queer as a three-dollar bill. He’s got, like, a hundred of these things.”

  She looked at the screen and said, “Jeez. That’s nasty.”

  “Look at that guy,” Jimmy said. “He’s got a cock like a fuckin’ horse.”

  Jimmy, Becky thought, looked wide-awake; more than this, he looked excited.

  And she looked at the screen again and back to Jimmy, and suddenly understood a lot. She thought, Oh, no.

  15

  VIRGIL AND DAVENPORT hooked up at a restaurant across from St. Kate’s, a Catholic girls’ college where Virgil had done some of his best work in chasing women, when he was a student at the University of Minnesota. The thing about Catholic girls was, they had a deep feeling for sin, which made catching them a lot more satisfying than it might have been otherwise.

  Davenport was waiting in a back booth, chatting with a woman sitting at an adjacent table; he was wearing one of his two-million-dollar suits, but was tie-less.

  Virgil nodded at the woman, who looked mildly put-out by his arrival, and slid into the booth opposite Davenport. He said, “How y’ doin’?”

  “Only fair,” Davenport said. “The governor says that if we don’t catch these kids in the next couple of days, it’ll knock two points off his popularity. He cut funding for the highway patrol, and the union’s been looking for something to stick up his ass.”

  “He didn’t actually cut funding, he cut the funding request,” Virgil said. “The actual funding went up.”

  “A technicality,” Davenport said. “Also, you’re starting to sound like a Republican.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So . . .”

  “Can’t go much longer,” Virgil said.

  “But they could kill a lot more people.”

  “I know, everybody knows. It’s a goddamn disaster, Lucas.”

  • • •

  THEY ATE REUBENS, and Davenport said, “We’re getting a lot of credit for you arresting McCall, so anything you want . . .”

  “I’m heading back down as soon as I get out of here,” Virgil said. “I’ve got a few places to look now. If you could send me a couple guys, and we find them . . .”

  “What about the Murphy thing?”

  “That’s why I want to find them. Because of the Murphy thing. I’m buying the idea that Murphy paid to have Ag murdered. I’d like to keep either Jimmy or Becky alive—both of them, if it’s possible—and get them to talk about Murphy.”

  “Might not be possible,” Davenport said. “A couple of deputies down there more or less told the TV people that it’s a duck hunt. It’s shoot on sight.”

  “They were going to kill McCall, too, but I got to him first,” Virgil said. “But if they get to Jimmy and Becky, it could be that Murphy walks on a murder.”

  “I’ll send you Jenkins and Shrake. I’ll have them on the road in an hour, in separate vehicles. You need to turn over every rock you can find. Then, when it comes to our funding . . .”

  “See, that’s what we really needed,” Virgil said. “A good reason to catch them. Like funding.”

  “You know what your problem is?” Davenport asked, jabbing a french fry at Virgil.

  “I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

  “Yeah. You only think of one thing at a time. See, a smart guy, like myself, we know it’s important that we catch these kids, but we also know funding is important. There’s no conflict there.”

  “I feel chastened,” Virgil said.

  • • •

  VIRGIL GOT OUT of the Cities, heading straight west, then cutting southwest. Davenport called as he was clearing 494 and said that Jenkins and Shrake would take a couple hours longer than he’d thought, but would definitely be in Bigham that night.

  On the way west, it occurred to Virgil that if Sharp and Welsh were hiding in a farmhouse somewhere, they were probably watching television—and that he might be able to communicate with them.

  He was working through that idea when he ran into his first National Guard patrol, twenty miles north of Bigham. Traffic was jammed for a half mile back from the checkpoint, and he used his lights to jump the line, driving along the shoulder. Two Humvees were working the checkpoint, with an M16-armed MP behind each vehicle, as a third MP checked the cars and waved them through.

  When Virgil came up, the first MP stopped him, checked the truck, and then waved him through.

  And this, he thought, was well out of the search area.

  He was stopped three more times before he got to Bigham. At the last stop, he showed the MP his identification and asked, “Are you guys set up here permanently? Or are you roaming around?”

  “We move around. Headquarters is set up in Bigham, and they move us.”

  “Good.”

  Virgil got to Bigham a few minutes after three o’clock in the afternoon. The Guard was working out of a field tent set up in the parking lot of the law enforcement center, and Virgil checked in with a red-faced major who was running the operation. The major, who was a lawyer from Moorhead in civilian life, showed him a map of the covered area, which included Bare and all the adjacent counties, with a bias to the west, to take in Marshall.

  In addition, there were either Guard or sheriff’s deputies on the north side of every exit onto I-90, which was well to the south, to prevent Sharp and Welsh from crossing the highway and heading south into Iowa. There were also patrols at every bridge over the Minnesota River, which would keep them from going north. Mutual aid agreements had brought in other sheriffs’ deputies, highway patrolmen, and even town cops to patrol east- and west-bound roads out of the area.

  The prison focus group had suggested a bias to the southeast. Virgil told the major about the group, but the major said they didn’t have enough patrols to extend very far to the southeast, unless they broke off patrols to the west. “I’d like to cover you, but we’ve got certain realities to deal with.”

  Those realities, the major suggested, included the fact that two people had been executed in Marshall, and that the Guard needed to cover the areas where the politicians were screaming the loudest.

  The major added, “The way we’re set up, they’ll hit some kind of patrol if they try to move, unless they’ve already gotten outside the interdiction area. Then, you know, all bets are off.”

  • • •

  VIRGIL STOPPED AND SAW DUKE, who had nothing much to say except that everybody was working, and it was killing his overtime budget. When he walked out of the office he glanced across the street where a number of television trucks were parked, and at that moment, Daisy Jones came around the back of the truck, saw him, did a double take, and raised a hand. Virgil went that way.

  Jones was thin, blond, and fortyish, or maybe forty-five-ish, and to Virgil’s knowledge had a fondness for little white truck-driver pills, which she bought from little white truck drivers. She was also one of the smarter on-camera people he’d met; a fairly good reporter, all told.

  She met Virgil in the middle of the street and took his hand and said, “Have I mentioned recently just how attractive you are?”

  “No, and I can use all of the flattery you’ve got. I’m feeling pretty ragged,” Virgil said.

  “I might have a few teeny, tiny questions about this murder rampage, as well,” she said. “For the Twin Cities’ most important news outlet.”

  “And I might have a few teeny, tiny answers for you, if you’re willing to deal.”

  “If you want to meet back at your motel, I’m sure we can work something out.”

  “I’m not strong enough
for that,” Virgil said. “I was thinking more in terms of you putting up the BCA phone number when I tell you how Tom McCall and Becky Welsh had sex after killing one of their victims.”

  “Oh, Jesus, that’s a deal,” she said. “As long as you don’t lie too much.”

  “I’ll lie hardly at all,” Virgil said. “The other thing is, you have to make it look like you spontaneously caught me in the street.”

  “Not a problem,” she said. “You go back in the sheriff’s office and look out the window, and when you see me doing a stand-up, you walk out and I’ll run over and grab you.”

  “Two minutes,” Virgil said.

  “Make it five minutes,” she said. “I’ve got to powder my nose and fix my lipstick—we’re also shooting for network.”

  • • •

  VIRGIL WENT BACK across the street to the LEC, down in the basement canteen where he spent a few minutes in the men’s room sprucing himself up, then got a Rice Krispies marshmallow bar from a vending machine, and a Diet Coke. He went back upstairs and ate the marshmallow bar and watched as Jones set up in the street, and started doing the stand-up. Virgil took a swig of the Coke, ran his tongue over his teeth to make sure no marshmallow was stuck between them, and walked outside.

  Jones was looking at the camera, then half-turned to gesture toward the LEC, did another double take when she saw Virgil walking down the sidewalk, and called, “Virgil Flowers, Virgil Flowers.” She led the cameraman over, at the same time saying into the microphone, “This is Virgil Flowers, the unconventional Bureau of Criminal Apprehension agent who brought in Thomas McCall yesterday. Virgil, could you answer a question for our audience?”

  “The, uh, media relationship is being handled through Sheriff Duke’s office.”

  “Just one question,” Daisy urged. “There is a very strong rumor going around that Becky Welsh and Tom McCall may have had a sexual encounter in the bed of one of their victims, moments after shooting that victim. Is that true? Can you tell us if that’s true?”

  Virgil seemed to consider for a moment, then said, “Uh, I had a conversation with Mr. McCall as we were driving to the Marshall law enforcement center yesterday, and he indicated that Becky Welsh had initiated a sexual encounter with him at one of the victims’ houses, shortly after shooting the victim. We do have some physical evidence for such an encounter, but I, uh, well, that’s all I’d prefer to say at the moment.”

  “So you confirm that.”

  “I’ll just stick with what I said. Nice to see you, Daisy.”

  “Nice to see you, Virg.”

  • • •

  VIRGIL WALKED AWAY and heard her pumping excitement into her voice as she recapped the interview. He was back in his truck, getting ready to pull out, when she rattled up next to the driver’s-side window in her high heels and said, “Thanks. I owe you. And thanks for using my name.”

  “Remember to put the BCA phone number up,” Virgil said.

  “Would you tell me why you’re doing that?”

  “No.”

  “You’re trying to get Becky to call you, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re trying to get her to call, because . . . because you can track the cell phone tower, and then . . . Oh, my God! You’re so . . . manipulative.”

  “If you put that on the air, I’ll strangle you and throw your body in the Minnesota River,” Virgil said.

  “I won’t say a word, until you catch her,” Jones said. “Then I’ll say a lot of words.”

  • • •

  THE DAYS WERE GROWING longer as they moved deeper into April, but it was late enough in the afternoon that Virgil wasn’t inclined to start the road search he’d plotted out with the prison inmates. With Jenkins and Shrake running late, it’d be nearly dark before they arrived.

  And then, since every farmer within two hundred miles was now guarding his property with a shotgun in his hand, approaching lonely houses in the dark did not seem like a good idea. And if you weren’t killed by a farmer, you just might find Sharp and Welsh, who’d light you up before you knew what was happening.

  Virgil called Jenkins and told him to call Shrake, and that both of them should check into a motel somewhere close by. “Call me tonight and let me know where you are. We’ll head out on the road early tomorrow.”

  “How early?”

  “Right after it gets light.”

  Virgil looked at his phone for a minute, then dialed. He got John O’Leary on the second ring. “This is Virgil Flowers, with the BCA.”

  “You got the rest of ’em?”

  “Not yet. I’m glad I caught you. I need to talk to you.”

  “Come on over. We’re all here—the funeral’s tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Come on over, Virgil. I wanted to thank you anyway, for catching the first one of those little vermin.”

  • • •

  ON HIS WAY OVER, he called the Lyon County sheriff, in Marshall, and asked if McCall had gotten representation.

  “Yeah, he’s signed up with one of our public defenders, Mickey Burden. You need to talk to her?”

  “Yeah, and maybe the county attorney. Got the numbers?”

  He called the county attorney first, a Josh Meadows. “I talked to Mickey an hour ago. She’s a little pissed about that interview you did with Channel Three, and about the questioning of McCall, when you were driving him in.”

  “It was all aboveboard,” Virgil said.

  “That’s one of the things she’s pissed about. It’s all right there on the tape,” Meadows said.

  “You gave her the tape?”

  “No, but we described it to her, as a courtesy. We’re going to have to give it up pretty quick, though. She’s going for a court order right now.”

  “As a personal favor to me, and since she’s going to get it anyway, could you give her a copy now? Or let her listen to it?” Virgil asked.

  “I could, if you tell me why,” Meadows said.

  “Because I want her to hear that McCall was holding out a critical piece of information—and that if I don’t get it, that’s another strike against him. I’ve got another thing going here, which I will tell you about when I see you, but it’s complicated. I need McCall to talk to me.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to her, see what she says,” Meadows said.

  “I’m going to call her and make an appeal. Maybe it’ll help,” Virgil said.

  “Fine. Tell her to call me, then.”

  • • •

  HE CALLED BURDEN as he pulled up outside the O’Leary house, and sat in the street and talked to her.

  “You poisoned the whole jury pool when you said they’d had a sexual encounter,” Burden said, when she came up on the phone.

  Virgil said, “No I didn’t. He was bragging to me about it. What can I tell you?”

  “You should have kept your mouth shut,” she said.

  “I’ve got reasons for doing what I did, and if I were to tell you about them, which I won’t, I think you might approve,” Virgil said. “Anyhow, I’ve called to tell you that I asked Josh Meadows to release the interview tape to you, and he agreed. You can get it right now.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then she said, “I wonder why I’m so suspicious?”

  “Because I want something,” Virgil said.

  “Ah,” she said. “That’s why.”

  “When you listen to the end of the tape, you’ll see I stop the interview when McCall asks for an attorney. He was about to give me some critical information, but then decided to withhold it, thinking maybe he could use it to get a deal. I need the information, but it has a very short shelf life. Short, and getting shorter by the minute. If he wants to get anything out of it, he better talk to me tonight. Tomorrow morning might be too late
.”

  “That’s outrageous.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not my doing. It’s his, and Becky Welsh’s and Jim Sharp’s. If Welsh and Sharp shoot it out tomorrow, and get killed, then McCall’s value goes to zero.”

  More silence, then, “I’ll talk to my client.”

  Virgil said, “Do that. And let me give you my phone number.”

  • • •

  THE O’LEARY MEN were waiting for him in the living room again. Ag Murphy’s mother and her sister were at the funeral home. Marsha O’Leary refused to leave her daughter’s body until it was safely in the ground, John O’Leary said. Her children were taking turns sitting with her.

  “I hope you all do well,” Virgil said, looking for the right words. “I know this has to hurt, but I hope you don’t let it do any more damage than it has to. You seem like a pretty great group.”

  “We are a pretty great group,” said Jack, the oldest son. “We won’t get over it, but we’ll get on.”

  “I hope so,” Virgil said.

  After a moment, John O’Leary said, “So . . . you have something specific you wanted to talk about?”

  Virgil said, “Yes.” Then, after a moment, “When was the last time Dick Murphy was in the house, before the shooting?”

  “Couple days before,” John O’Leary said. He looked around at his kids, who nodded. “Yeah. Two days before.”

  “Was he in the kitchen?”

  “I suppose. He was around the house. You think he had something to do with it? Is that where we’re going?”

  “I’m trying to cover all the bases,” Virgil said.

  “No, you’re not,” said Frank, the youngest kid. “You know something.”

  Virgil knew they were smart; ducking away from the fact of the matter wouldn’t fool them, not for long.

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t want this getting out of the house. Maybe not even to your wife or daughter, either, just because . . . they’re a little emotionally tender, and I don’t want them giving away my case by confronting Dick Murphy before I’ve got it nailed down. And anyway, I could be wrong. Okay?”