by Joe Field
Black Gold in North Dakota
COOPER SMITH BOOK 2
JOE FIELD
Text copyright © 2017 JOE FIELD
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by PAUL BUNYAN PUBLISHING, Minnesota
This is for my beLoVeD family and the kindred spirits of the North Star State
Chapter 1
Williston, North Dakota
Gabby Hanson wiped the sweat off of her forehead with a towel as her legs raced to keep pace with the treadmill’s spinning belt. The treadmill’s red display lights showed her speed at seven miles per hour with a three percent incline. She was fifty minutes into her workout with ten hard minutes to go. She concentrated on Taylor Swift’s voice in her headphones, singing about the year 1989. Gabby preferred to run outside, but it was a December night in northwest North Dakota.
Good luck with that, thought Gabby.
The only movement around here at night came from oil drills, roughnecks, and strippers. Gabby didn’t associate with any of those hell-raisers, so she found herself running alone on a Saturday night at the barren Williston Area Recreation Center.
The locals called the community’s new state-of-the-art fitness center the “ARC,” partly to shorten the long name but mostly as a pun on the gigantic interior wood wall that ran nearly the full length of the 650-foot center hallway, which was on scale with Noah’s ark. At seventy-six million dollars, the facility was the largest and most expensive city-owned indoor recreation center in the country. As one of Williston’s city council members, Gabby had helped promote a yes-vote back in 2011 for a one-percent sales tax increase to help pay for the ARC. She was proud when the measure passed, but over time she grew disgusted by all the roughnecks who converged on the ARC to wash their oil filth off after a day on the drill.
These treadmills and weights are pretty much just a cover for the world’s most expensive shower house.
Gabby had seen it one too many times. The roughnecks would come into the ARC covered in black oil grease from head to toe, and leave thirty minutes later looking clean and refreshed.
Then it was straight to the bars or strip clubs downtown. The few that were loyal to their wives would head back to their man camps to rest up before hitting the drills hard again in the morning.
Just as she was about to slow to a jog, Gabby looked up and saw two roughnecks walk in. Great, here we go again. Gabby kept her pace up so the men wouldn’t know she was finishing her workout.
She recognized one of them. He reminded her of the Marlboro Man. Tall and strapping, he wore a tan cowboy hat and a thick work jacket over a red and black flannel shirt. His cowboy boots left tracks on the ARC’s clean floor. The second man was shorter, and stocky. Built like a bulldog. He was either wearing all black, or his entire outfit was stained through with grease. Bulldog looked more like the hillbilly variety, maybe from Louisiana or Mississippi.
As the men neared, Gabby could see patches of exposed white skin on their faces and hands, which were mostly hidden beneath a black oil slick. She tried to place where she had seen Marlboro. He was staring right at her. Despite the sweat dripping from her brow, a shiver ran through her body at the way he looked at her.
Like she was an object. His object.
Instead of her planned cool-down jog, Gabby picked up her pace and looked away from the roughnecks. Her legs had become jelly minutes before, but there was no way she was stopping now. When she turned her head back, Bulldog was standing next to her treadmill, with Marlboro a few feet behind him.
Bulldog waved at Gabby and motioned for her to take her headphones off.
Just go take your shower and leave me alone. She pointed down to the treadmill to show she was busy.
Bulldog again motioned for her to take off her headphones.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Gabby grabbed the treadmill rails with her hands and lifted her legs off to either side of the belt as it continued to spin. She reluctantly took off her headphones. “Can I help you?”
“Well, pretty lady, that depends on what you’re doing later tonight.” Bulldog’s accent was clearly Southern, with a twang like an out-of-tune banjo. He snickered as he looked back at Marlboro; Gabby followed his glance and caught the taller man gazing right into her eyes over Bulldog’s shoulder.
“Leave me alone—I’m trying to work out here.” Gabby moved her headphones back up toward her ears.
Bulldog lifted his hands quickly in defense. “Wait just a minute. I do apologize for being so up front. And, I realize I look like a swamp creature right now, but once I get cleaned up I’ll come back and we can make proper introductions. How does that sound?”
Gabby ignored his comments and put her headphones back in her ears before she began running again. She could see Bulldog mouth, “feisty.”
Get bent, loser.
Bulldog gestured toward the shower rooms and then back to Gabby’s treadmill, suggesting he was coming back to talk to her after his shower. With that, the roughnecks turned to walk toward the locker room. Marlboro gazed at Gabby one more time before he followed Bulldog to the showers.
Gabby’s skin crawled.
How did my sweet hometown come to this?
Gabby longed for the Williston of her youth. Back then, the town had a simple routine and rhythm that provided stability and comfort. It was a quiet town where you knew everyone’s name and business. Williston natives looked forward to the Friday fish fry at Saint Joseph’s church, and talked about Williston High’s prospects on the gridiron that fall. When the oil money and men came in, people touted it as progress and positive change. To Gabby, the change came too fast and she felt hoodwinked by outsiders who seemed to care only about making fast money. She hated the fact that these roughnecks had invaded her backyard to pillage the land and corrupt the town. Most of all, she hated that these horny toads constantly tried to pick her up. Sure, she was a single woman in her mid-twenties, with what most of her friends would describe as good looks. Gabby had fair skin, with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair. She noticed people were drawn to her bright sea-green eyes, and the dimples and freckles on her cheeks radiated youthful energy when she smiled. Her long hours in the gym helped her body stay slender and toned.
But where do these roughnecks get off trying to hit on me while I am exercising? I work on the city council for Pete’s sake, not on some pole down on Main Street.
Once they were out of sight, Gabby made a beeline for the women’s locker room. She skipped the shower and quickly changed into her street clothes, grabbing her gym bag from the locker on her way out. She raced out of the locker room to the front of the ARC; thankfully, she didn’t see either of the men. As she exited, the vicious Dakota wind struck her in the face. She pulled a scarf out of her bag. Pressing it against her nose and cheeks, she strode toward her white Volkswagen Jetta, which stood out under one of the ARC parking lot’s lights. It was the only car among a few scattered pickup trucks and one RV camper.
Gabby reached her car door quickly, but her cold hands fumbled with the unlock button on her key fob and the trunk popped open instead. Gabby cursed to herself as she walked around the back of her vehicle. Just as she reached up to close the trunk she heard loud footsteps behind her. She turned around in time to see two large figur
es running toward her, one from either side of the RV. They were the two roughnecks from inside, and they were still covered in oil.
Marlboro reached for her first, but she dodged his grasp. Gabby turned to run toward the ARC, but Bulldog blocked her path. She cried out for help, but there was no one around. She juked quickly to her left. Marlboro was too fast; he stretched his right arm and caught hold of Gabby’s left wrist. His grip was strong but his hand was greasy, and Gabby started to slide her wrist out. She used the momentum to swing the bag in her right hand toward his head. He effortlessly grabbed the bag with his free hand and pulled her in close to him.
Then he squeezed her. A crushing bear hug.
Gabby instinctively kneed him hard in the groin, and he released his hold and fell back.
Bulldog was now upon her and was choking her from behind with her own scarf. Gabby tried kicking back at him, but he was too close. She impulsively reached her hands up to the scarf to pull it down so she could get the air she needed. As she did, Bulldog pulled the scarf down harder with his left hand and snaked his right arm around her waist. She tried to elbow him but had no leverage.
Marlboro recovered and rushed up to Gabby. He wrapped his bulky right arm around her neck and put her in a tight headlock as he took her from Bulldog. Marlboro kept the headlock tense as he dragged her toward the RV. Gabby thrashed her legs, but it was useless; he was too strong. Bulldog ran around them and opened the RV’s side door. Marlboro lifted her into the RV, and as the door slammed shut Gabby’s world went black.
Chapter 2
Dickinson, North Dakota
“I suppose you want the first go at her,” said Doyle. He was sitting in the RV’s front passenger seat and was looking back at the floor where the woman was still passed out. Doyle had been waiting for over two hours for Nash to pull the RV over so he could fool around with her.
“No,” replied Nash.
“So… that means I get to go first?” Doyle shifted excitedly in his seat.
“No, the woman is not to be touched,” said Nash. There was no hint of negotiation in his tone.
“What do you mean?” Doyle whined.
“I mean exactly what I said. The woman is not to be touched.” Nash turned the RV down a gravel road. “Listen, this woman has done more to hurt us oil guys than anyone else in all of North Dakota.”
“What has she done?”
“Don’t you follow any of the local news?” Nash shook his head. Nothing but a backwater Louisiana redneck, he thought. “She is on the Williston City Council, and is adamantly opposed to the oil industry. Her goal is to make life harder than it already is for newcomers like us. She wants to destroy our livelihood and send us all back to the dirty south.”
“Really?” Doyle’s excitement was beginning to turn over to anger.
“Yes, really. Do you want to go back down to Louisiana and spend your days doing God knows what to make a buck? Or do you want to stay and continue to print money here in North Dakota?” Nash turned the RV’s lights to low beam as they came into a clearing. An old abandoned oil drill stood off in the distance.
“Is that why we took her? To take care of her?”
“Yes.”
Doyle was now at the edge of his seat. “Can’t we just have some fun with her first before we kill her? It would be such a waste.”
“The final answer is no. Now grab your gloves; we’re almost there.”
“Almost where?” asked Doyle.
Nash slowed the RV to a crawl and pulled up next to the old drill. “Right here. We are going to go dig a hole behind this drill and bury her.”
“Alive?”
“Yes.”
Doyle’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know.… It’s kind of cold out there.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “How are we going to dig a hole?”
Nash reached behind Doyle’s seat and grabbed two blowtorches. He handed one to Doyle, who scrunched his forehead as he inspected it.
“It’s a blowtorch,” said Nash. “We’ll use it to thaw the ground. After it softens, I’ll take the pickaxe and do the heavy hitting to break up the soil. You’ll follow behind with the shovel. She’s pretty small, so we won’t have to dig for long. Plus, there is a snowstorm coming in the next few days that will cover the hole until spring. That’s all the time we need.”
Doyle took one more look back at Gabby, then he looked over at Nash, and finally out the RV’s front window at the drill. “Well, shoot. Let’s get this over with.”
With that, the two men stepped out of the RV to dig Gabby’s grave.
◆◆◆
Gabby attempted to sit up, but her head felt like a ton of bricks. As she tried to clear the fog from her mind, she felt the cold floor beneath her and heard an engine running. She slowly opened one eye and saw she was on the floor of an RV. After a few moments, she started to remember the confrontation in the parking lot. She craned her neck up, but fell back over as her head started to spin again.
The roughnecks. What did those devils do to me?
Gabby’s mind started to fill up with horrible thoughts. She looked down and saw she was still fully clothed, wearing the street clothes she put on after her workout.
They haven’t abused my body yet, but when? Where are they?
Gabby slowly shifted her head from side-to-side as she looked around. She was in a standard RV equipped with a table, a small kitchen, and a bed above the driver’s seat. Both of the front seats were empty, but she could see two figures silhouetted by the RV’s lights moving around outside. The taller one was swinging something toward the ground. Was it an axe? The other was scooping dirt up with a shovel.
Are they digging something up? Then Gabby’s gut wrenched as she realized, I’m dead. They are going to rape me, kill me, and then bury my body. Never to be found again.
◆◆◆
The wind picked up and pierced the men’s faces and hands. “Can we stop already?” Doyle threw out another load of dirt from the hole he was now standing in, already up to his waist. “This is crazy, and I’m freezing.”
“You’ll be done when I say so,” replied Nash evenly.
This is the last time I hire a Cajun to do my dirty work, thought Nash.
“Who made you the boss?” asked Doyle.
“Remember who is paying you for your help tonight,” said Nash. “And as long as I’m paying for your services, you’ll shut up, do as you’re told, and finish digging this hole.”
Doyle rolled his eyes and set his shovel down. “I’m going to go take a leak quick in the RV and I’ll be right back.”
“Come on, man.” Nash shook his head at Doyle. “Okay, just do that last corner really quick. When you finish you can go drain your bladder.” Nash pointed to the far back corner of the hole.
“Okay, boss. Whatever you say.” Doyle turned his back on Nash and started scooping out the rear corner of the hole.
As Doyle turned around, Nash lifted his pickaxe high above his head and swung down with all his force. It landed squarely on the base of Doyle’s neck. Doyle’s body collapsed into the hole. Unmoving, he let out his last remaining gasp for air as Nash rocked and ripped the pickaxe from his spine.
Nash threw the pickaxe down and yanked the shovel out from beneath Doyle’s dead body. He rummaged through Doyle’s pockets until he found the dead man’s keys and wallet, which he kept. Nash then began to toss the loose dirt back into the hole on top of Doyle.
You dumb fool, Nash thought. You just fell for the oldest trick in the West, and now the woman’s all mine.
◆◆◆
Gabby looked on in terror as Marlboro swung the pickaxe down on Bulldog’s back. Bulldog went limp and Marlboro started covering his body with dirt. If he is willing to kill his own partner, what will he do to me?
Gabby was now up on all fours, slowly regaining her motor skills. They must have drugged me, she thought as she fought the dizziness. She wanted to make a run for it, but she had no idea where she was. Plus, Marlboro would easily be abl
e to catch her—and even if she escaped she would likely freeze to death. No, her only option was to drive away.
Crawling toward the driver’s seat, Gabby kept her eyes glued to Marlboro as he continued to bury Bulldog. Her adrenaline spiked—it was now or never. The RV continued to idle as she slid into the seat. She looked at the controls and tried to concentrate. She had never driven an RV before, but she found what looked to be the gearshift. She put it into drive and hit the accelerator hard with her foot.
The RV’s tires spun on the gravel for a second, and then it lunged forward. Marlboro snapped his head around just in time to dive out of the RV’s way.
Gabby impulsively tried to turn the wheels to hit him. The front left tire slid sideways into Bulldog’s grave, causing the RV to bounce violently up and over the dead man’s body in the hole below.
Losing control of the RV, Gabby thrust her foot toward the brakes but hit the gas pedal. The RV accelerated toward the old oil drill platform. Gabby tried to reach up for the seatbelt, but was too late. The force of the impact flung Gabby’s body forward, and her head smacked the front windshield. The glass splintered and her body slumped back down between the two front seats. She was out cold.
Chapter 3
Williston, North Dakota
The bumper sticker on the red pickup truck in front of Cooper Smith read oil field trash and proud of it. A black pickup truck behind him insisted on hugging his rear bumper despite the traffic jam. Cooper tried to ignore him by taking another long drag from his American Spirit cigarette.
My old friend, Mr. Nicotine. Good to have you back.
He blew the smoke out of a cracked window in his trusty blue Jeep Wrangler, christened Wellstone after the late Senator Paul Wellstone of Minnesota. It idled on Highway 2 near Williston, which might as well have been Interstate 90 in Chicago during rush hour. White clouds streamed out from the mufflers on the vehicles as the warm engine exhaust hit the cool December air. Wellstone had crept forward a mere mile in the last half hour. The local news reported that a semi tractor-trailer had jack-knifed across the road and was blocking traffic in both directions.
