Storm Front

by John Sandford

  “Probably a little late for that,” Yael said. “Especially if you plan to go back to Lebanon. The Hezbollah do not like people who say ‘no’ to them. They’d cut off more than your testicles, though they might start there.”

  “See, I don’t want to hear this,” Awad said. “I am an innocent pilot-in-training. I don’t need ‘Hezbollah agent’ on my résumé.”

  —

  BOTH VIRGIL AND YAEL asked a few more questions, but got nothing more of substance. Crawford swore he’d told Virgil everything he knew, and Virgil said, “If you find out anything else, call me up.”

  “I think I’m done with this case,” Crawford said. “Hezbollah, the Turk, Mossad. And you know if a guy’s from Texas, and he’s driving a Caddy, he’s gonna be carrying a gun.”

  “Yeah, probably,” Virgil said. “Staying clear might be a good idea.”

  Crawford switched the kitchen match from one side of his mouth to the other, and back. “I understand you’re chasing after Ma Nobles.”

  “You got something on that?” Virgil asked.

  “Nope. Not other than the observation that Ma has some excellent headlights. I personally wouldn’t mind examining her high beams.”

  “Thanks for that,” Virgil said. “I’ll put it in my report.”

  “What is this?” Yael asked.

  “Car talk. American men love cars,” Virgil said.

  “There were ambiguous undertones,” she said.

  “You really do speak great English,” Virgil said.

  —

  WHEN THEY WERE back out on the street, in the dazzling sunshine, Yael said to Virgil, “I will confess, this was an amazing interrogation. He tells you everything, because you ask.”

  “He’s our only private eye,” Virgil said, as they walked back to his truck. “There’s not a lot of private detective business around here, so he makes ends meet by selling marijuana to the college students. He’s probably got a hundred pounds of it down in his basement, which is why he’s careful about committing any other crime—like going into Jones’s house. If we find a reason to search Crawford’s place, he’d be in trouble.”

  “You’re saying that he’s a drug dealer, and yet you don’t arrest him.”

  “Well, he sells only California-grown pot, and none of the heavier stuff like cocaine or heroin,” Virgil said. “That mostly keeps the Mexican dope out of here. I mean, we can bust as many people as we want, but somebody will still be selling weed. Better to have it somebody we know, who buys only California, instead of letting the cartel in.”

  “Also, it gives you an excellent lever when you need one.”

  “That’s the other reason,” Virgil said.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “Pretty sophisticated for a rural state, huh?”

  “Yes. So, what is next?”

  “Next we check out Jones’s farm.”

  “Perhaps we should go to the Holiday Inn, instead?”

  Virgil said, “Here’s what I’m thinking: if we get hold of Jones, we could probably get the stone. Once we get the stone, everything stops, and right quick. We no longer have to worry about the Turk or the Texas guy, or Hezbollah, because we’ve got the stone. But another possibility would be for me to drop you at the Holiday Inn, you could check in there, too, and keep an eye on the place, while I go out to the farm.”

  Yael mulled that over for a moment, then shook her head. “I think I ride with you. You’re a lucky guy. One of my advisers tells me, ‘Good intelligence is important. Good luck is critical.’”

  “That would be one of your advisers at the antiquities bureau?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  —

  THEY’D JUST CLEARED TOWN running northwest, when Virgil saw a red Ford coming up in the rearview mirror, and it gave off a certain vibration. He said, “Shoot,” and looked around the interior of the truck for a baseball cap—anything but the straw hat he’d been wearing—saw nothing handy, but then spotted a farm driveway coming up. He stood on the brake and swerved down the drive, and pulled up toward the house.

  “This is it?” Yael asked, frowning. Instead of an old farmhouse, they were looking at a newer ranch-style house with an above-ground swimming pool and a children’s play set in the side yard.

  “No. I’m just . . .” Virgil was watching the mirror, and fifteen seconds later, Ma Nobles went by in her pickup. As far as Virgil could tell, she never looked down the drive. He put the truck in reverse, backed down the drive, and edged out to the highway. “The woman in the truck ahead of us . . . I’m interested in where she’s going.”

  “This is not about Jones?”

  “No, it’s a different case. Be patient, this won’t take long.”

  —

  THE HIGHWAY RAN PARALLEL to the Minnesota River, where Ma and her son had allegedly stashed the fake barn lumber. Virgil stayed well back and they drove along four miles, then five, and finally Ma turned north on a gravel road toward the river. Virgil pulled to the shoulder of the road, hooked his iPad out of the pocket on the back of the passenger seat, and called up a satellite view of the area.

  “No bridge down there,” he said. “The road does go along the river for a while.”

  “She made a lot of dust on that road. If you go down there, she could see it.”

  They never had a chance. Ma’s truck reappeared at the corner, and she turned toward them. As she went by, she smiled, twiddled her fingers at Virgil, and continued back toward town.

  “She saw us,” Yael said.

  “I was almost sure she didn’t,” Virgil said. “She never looked at us when she turned off.”

  “Then . . . she has an outlook. They saw us coming behind, they saw us go to the shoulder, they telephoned her.”

  “Lookout, not outlook,” Virgil said. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking. Which means the real turnoff is somewhere between here and the driveway we turned down. That’s helpful.”

  “She won’t be going there now.”

  “No. And Jones’s place ought to be about a half-mile up the road.”

  —

  JONES’S PLACE WAS just what Virgil had expected from Crawford’s tax-roll information. The house was old, and in poor shape: an early twentieth-century frame farmhouse in need of new paint, new roof, new windows.

  New everything.

  A garage at the end of the driveway had a hayloft and was in the same shape; a machine shed farther down the drive was falling apart, and a head-high stone foundation was all that remained of what had once been a barn. All of it stood on what looked like ten acres, most of it covered with lumpy fescue and knee-high weeds. A cluster of old, arthritic apple trees stood to one side of the house, while overgrown bridal wreath and lilac bushes lined the driveway. A “For Sale” sign, with a “Reduced” card fixed to the top, faced the highway, and looked as though it had been there for a while.

  A black ragtop Jeep sat in the driveway.

  “Here we go,” Virgil said. He pulled in behind the Jeep, to within inches of its back bumpers, pinning it between two lilacs. If anyone managed to get to it, to flee, they’d have to go forward and then across the front yard to get out. Virgil popped the door, got his pistol out of the back, and stuck it in his belt at the small of his back.

  Yael was pointing at the front door like a Weimaraner. Virgil said, “There’ll be a side door. That’s where you go in.”

  She said, “Yes?”

  She and Virgil walked down the driveway and as they did, a slender dark-haired woman with green eyes walked out of the side door and asked, “Can I help you?”

  Virgil took her in. She was pretty in a reserved way, and when their eyes met, they went “clank,” like eyes sometimes do. She would not be a candidate for marriage. “We’re looking for Elijah Jones.”

  “Dad’s not here,” she said. “H
e lives in town.”

  “We’ve been there,” Virgil said. “I’m an agent with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. We have a warrant for Reverend Jones’s arrest.”

  “His arrest?” Her hand went to her throat. “What for?”

  “On a hold request, for theft, from the nation of Israel, and for failure to declare the importation of an artwork or artifact of value more than eight hundred dollars, which is a federal offense,” Virgil said.

  “My God, what’d he do?” she asked. But Virgil saw the flicker in her eyes, and Yael glanced at Virgil to see if he’d picked it up. He nodded his head a quarter of an inch. Not only was the woman not telling the truth, but that kind of pickup put Yael distinctly with the Mossad.

  “You’re his daughter who works with the DOT?” Virgil asked. He dug around in his memory and came up with, “Ellen?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “We tried to get in touch with you, but were told you were on your way to Alaska,” Virgil said.

  “That was a joke about getting away from my ex,” she said. “But about Dad . . . You can’t find him? I’m sure he never smuggled anything, or stole anything, that’s crazy talk. He’s very ill. We tried to talk him out of going to Israel this summer. We were supposed to meet out here this morning, to see if there’s anything anybody might want in the house before they burn it down—”

  “You’re going to burn it?”

  Ellen looked back at the place and nodded. “I’m afraid so. It was my great-grandparents’ place, but I can hardly ever remember even coming here. My grandfather was a preacher, and then Dad. The land was all sold off, the house can’t be fixed . . . the land’s more valuable with the house gone. We’ll burn it, then clear it with a bulldozer, fill in the basement, and then maybe Chuck Miller will add it to his farm.”

  Virgil said, “Nice to have apple trees . . . and asparagus.” He could see the feathery bush-tops of asparagus growing down the far fence line.

  “The apple trees are pretty much shot. Mostly good for firewood, now.”

  Virgil came back to the case: “We went to your father’s house this morning. He wasn’t there, but he was last night. We haven’t been able to locate him, but we did find a spot of blood on the floor.”

  “I just can’t help you,” she said. “I’ve tried calling his cell, but it goes right over to the answering service, so it’s probably turned off.”

  Virgil said, “He’s not in the house. This house.”

  “No, of course not. You think I’m lying?”

  Virgil said, “No, I just have to ask—because if I ask, and if it turns out that you are lying, then you’ve committed a crime, and I can come back to you on that. I mean, you can refuse to talk to me, but you can’t lie to me to cover up a crime or hide a criminal.”

  She put her fists on her hips: “That’s a mean thing to say.”

  “I try not to be mean,” Virgil said. “But this is a serious matter, Ellen, and you should not be fooling around with it, thinking otherwise. Your involvement in this, if you’re involved, could jeopardize your whole career.”

  Yael chipped in: “He is trying to sell this artifact he stole. The people he is trying to sell it to are extremely dangerous. People who might kill him, if they need to, to get the stone.”

  Virgil added, “Hezbollah, among others.”

  Yael added, “And Texans.”

  Ellen nodded. “I will keep trying to get in touch. I’ll go into town and look for him. I’ll leave messages. I’ll do everything I can.”

  “Don’t get too close,” Virgil said. “Like Yael said, these people could be dangerous. There’s a lot of money involved.”

  “I promise: I’ll tell you the minute I find him.”

  They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Virgil got her father’s phone number, and then, like an afterthought, she asked, “Before you go, do you want to look inside? To see that I’m telling the truth?”

  Yael said quickly, “I would.”

  Virgil said, “Go ahead. But old houses can be dangerous—Ellen should go with you. I’ll take a look at the machine shed and garage.”

  —

  THE TWO WOMEN WENT INSIDE, and Virgil headed toward the garage. He stepped inside, saw nothing, then checked to make sure the two women were out of sight in the house. They were; he hurried back to the truck, got inside, and dug into Yael’s handbag.

  She carried a small clutch purse inside, with a snap, which he unsnapped. In one of the credit card slots he found two key cards for the Downtown Inn. Like most seasoned travelers, she’d gotten two, so she wouldn’t lock herself out on a quick trip to the Coke machine. He took one of them, and put the purse back in the bag.

  He got out of the truck, eased the door shut, walked quickly behind the row of lilacs, to the end of the driveway, into the machine shed. Nothing there, either, except one piece of an old hay rake, a rusting fifty-five-gallon drum full of ashes, with two ancient yellow Pennzoil cans sitting on top. They were empty as they always are, with two triangular punch-holes in each of them.

  He looked at the weathered boards, then stepped outside, looked in his directory, and called Ma Nobles.

  She answered by saying, “Were you following me, Virgie?”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Virgil said. “I was actually on my way out to an abandoned farm owned by a guy I’m investigating, which is about a mile on down the highway from where you saw me. On the south side. Got an Edina Realty sign on it. They’re about to burn it down. I was looking at it, and realized the whole thing is made out of the kind of lumber you’re selling.”

  “In good shape?”

  “Authentic antique shape, but a lot of the boards look solid, like they could be cut and reused. Anyway, I could talk to the owner about giving it to you, free, or almost free, if you’d tell me where I might find a bunch of lumber at the bottom of the river . . . and how to get it out of there.”

  After a long silence, Ma said, “Free, huh?”

  “They don’t want to burn it,” Virgil said.

  “I’ll take a look at it, and call you,” Ma said.

  “I’ll tell you, Ma,” Virgil said. “We got a couple people looking at you real hard. This would be a good way to keep your ass out of jail. And your boy’s, too.”

  “I’ll take a look,” she said again, and hung up.

  —

  VIRGIL WAS WALKING back up the driveway when the two women came out of the house. Yael shook her head: nothing inside. Virgil told Ellen about Ma Nobles.

  “Well, sure, she can have it if she wants it,” Ellen said. “Maybe . . . for a few dollars.”

  “You’d have to work that out with her,” Virgil said, looking up at the house. “But you know, it’s just sort of old and neat. I’d hate to see it go up in flames.”

  Virgil gave her Ma Nobles’s phone number, and he and Yael got in his truck. As they backed toward the highway, Yael said, “She knows where her father is.”

  “Yeah, I know. The blood.”

  Yael nodded: “You told her there was blood on the floor of the house, and she never asked about it. She knows he’s not injured badly, and that he was bleeding in his house. And she did not ask about the artifact.”

  “Mmm. I’d hate to put her in jail, though,” Virgil said. “Probably doesn’t want to betray her father, which I can understand.”

  “It seems to me, after some discussion and observation, that you do not wish to put anyone in jail.”

  “Not true,” Virgil said. “I know about nine people right now that I’d like to put in jail, and who deserve it. Just not anyone you’ve met.”

  She asked, “Now what?”

  7

  The Reverend Elijah Jones, sweating like a pig in Miami, walked down the hillside through the trees toward the picnic tables, carrying the bowling bag in his left hand, his right hand in his pants p
ocket, pressed against the right side of his groin.

  He was not hurting, but only because he’d taken so much oxycodone that he wouldn’t have felt anything less than an amputation. Yet something down there, in his groin, something vital felt like it was coming loose. Without the pills, he thought, he’d have felt like he’d just dropped his balls into a bear trap.

  Walking two hundred yards down the hill hadn’t helped. He didn’t have much time left, he thought, before he’d be so clouded that he’d be incapable of pulling off any kind of deal, much less one with a Hezbollah agent, two Turks, or a famous TV star.

  He got to the bottom of the hill, walked across a patch of scrubby grass to the concrete table, had to lift the bowling bag to its surface, groaned as he did it.

  Not a groan of pain, but of incipient death. How much longer, Oh Lord? Two weeks? The docs had told him that the cancer in his brain would kill his ability to breathe, before it got to his reasoning faculties. He’d get to enjoy every minute of his own death.

  A hundred yards away, two men, remarkably out of place in the bucolic park, were watching him carefully. He’d told them to wait there, when they arrived, so he could be sure that they were alone, that there wasn’t a troop of Turkish cavalry over the hill. Now they were looking at him, a black-bearded man in a black suit and ministerial collar, and he lifted a hand and waved them over.

  They walked up, peering around as they came. The park had two softball diamonds down at the far end, where fifty kids and forty parents and coaches were either playing or watching two separate games. Closer to the picnic area, a half-dozen teenagers were kicking a soccer ball around, and at the other end of the picnic area, three stoners, two male and one female, were playing Hacky Sack. Poorly, and passing a joint.

  The stoners glanced at the Turks as they came up, then turned away. The two gave off a specific vibe: they didn’t want to be looked at, so you’d best not do it. They were both broad men in silvery suits, with wide pale shimmery neckties, like the sides of king salmon. The broader of the two had a gray Stalin mustache. The other one was wearing round sunglasses as black as welding goggles, which made him look like a malevolent Mr. Mole. He was carrying a briefcase, and Jones felt a quick spark of hope: maybe it would happen.