The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  Weller was nodding. “He’s right, you know. There really isn’t any other way to do it. If there was, I’d be all over it. But since there isn’t, I need you boys to understand something: This is your job, so I’ll leave you to it. Just remember, when you’re in my yard, I’m the boss. You’ll do what I say, when I say it. Everybody got that?”

  They all nodded at him…even Reif. Ego aside, he thought, the old man was right. They couldn’t go in there and start throwing their weight around. Like it or not, they had to be regular workers for a while. Heads down, mouths shut, and all that.

  “We get it,” Reif said. “Let me know when your people are going to show up.”

  “Do that,” Weller said.

  They stood to leave. “Let me ask you something,” Reif said to the old man. “What brought you into this? What’s in it for you?”

  “Doubting me already, boy?”

  “Call me boy one more time and see what happens. When someone answers a question with one of their own it’s usually an indication that they’re stalling for time to think up a proper response. I’ve already given you plenty.”

  “I’m not stalling for nothing. Your people vouched for me, didn’t they?”

  They had, Reif thought, but he wanted to hear it for himself. “Yes they did. They told me you had some problems a ways back. Said you could be trusted.”

  “I did, and I can,” Weller said. He scratched the back of his head then shoved his hands into the pockets of his coveralls. “There’s a debt that needs paid. It’s big and it’s old…damned near as old as I am. At least that’s what it feels like anyway. The way I see it, this will get it squared.”

  Reif didn’t like that answer at all. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

  “Beats me,” Weller said. “Ask your people. They brokered the job, not me.”

  “Who comes calling if this debt doesn’t get paid?”

  “None of your business.”

  Reif was on him like a cat. The barrel of the Beretta was against the side of the old man’s head before he knew what was happening. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m making it my business.” He pressed the gun hard into the side of Weller’s head. “Now answer the fucking question. What happens if this debt doesn’t get paid?”

  Weller leaned into the pressure of the gun and turned until the barrel was pressed against his forehead. “Your gun don’t scare me. Neither do you. Pull the trigger and walk away. It’ll save me a mess of grief down the road. The debt is personal.”

  Reif looked straight at the old man and knew he wasn’t going to answer. He could see it in his eyes. He put the gun away. “Somebody who’s not afraid to die is a dangerous man to work with.”

  “You got it backwards. You assume the debt is mine to pay. I never said I wasn’t afraid to die. I’m afraid to keep living. Why do you think I took this job?”

  Reif shook his head, put his gun away and walked out the door, taking Stone and Chase with him.

  When they were gone the old man walked over and sat down on one of the chairs. He listened to the car doors shut, then heard the ping of gravel as the three men drove away. He waited ten minutes before he stood and put the chairs back with the others in the kitchen area of the trailer.

  He took a quick peek through the blinds to make sure he was alone. If they came back now they would pull the trigger. Maybe that’d be for the best, he thought. He let go of the window blind, took out his phone and made a call.

  The call was answered on the other end with a single word. “Yes?”

  The old man hesitated, but he didn’t know why. Or perhaps he did and simply didn’t want to admit it to himself.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re all set. I told them I’d let them know before you arrive. I hope that’s all right. When exactly are you going to get here?”

  “I’ll let you know,” the other man said. Then he was gone.

  11

  Gibson looked at Becky, then Virgil. “I want the two of you to understand something. I’m allowing you to hear this. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “No, I don’t,” Virgil said. “How about you dumb it down for us a little.”

  Cora jumped in. “He’s saying this is a federal matter, and DHS has the point. The state is using limited resources to back him up. I guess I should say states, because Kentucky is in on it too. Virgil, you know Jack Grady.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I do.” He looked at Becky. “Jack Grady is the lead detective of Kentucky’s Criminal Apprehension Bureau…part of their state police force. CAB is Kentucky’s version of our MCU.”

  “I know CAB,” Becky said. “I’ve got access to their—” She stopped herself and glanced at Gibson.

  There was a moment of silence, then Gibson said, “You’re in CAB’s database?” He had a muddled look on his face.

  Becky looked at Cora, who was pretending she hadn’t heard her last statement.

  “No…I was going to say I have access to their phone directory,” Becky said.

  Gibson visibly rolled his eyes. “Right. Anyway, Grady is working with us, and Murton will be handling things on this end for the State of Indiana. As I was saying before, I’m allowing you and Jonesy in on this meeting because federal regulations aside, I have no doubt whatsoever that you’d end up with the information anyway.”

  “In on what, exactly?” Virgil said.

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” Cora said. “Right now I want to make something clear to everyone in this room. As of this moment, assuming he agrees to it, under orders from the governor, Murton Wheeler is on temporary assignment to the federal government as an undercover agent. That means he no longer answers to me, or the governor.” She glanced at Virgil. “You either.”

  Virgil ignored her. “Murt, what’s going on? Last time you went under for the feds we didn’t see or speak with each other for twenty years.”

  “You think I don’t remember that?” Murton said. “Pate was a suspected pedophile. Why do you think I took the job?” He was looking at Gibson when he said it. Gibson was about to say something when his phone buzzed at him. He looked at the screen and tried to keep the expression off his face. He held up a finger to the others, a ‘just a moment’ gesture, and punched the answer button.

  “Yes?” He listened for a few seconds, frowned, then said, “Hello?” After a few moments: “I’ll let you know.”

  “Who was that?” Murton asked.

  Gibson looked at Murton for a moment, as if he was considering how to answer the question. He let it go and so did Murton. Then to everyone, “There’s a company in Kentucky called Radiology, Inc. They manufacture—”

  Virgil was losing patience. “Yes, yes. They manufacture nuclear pharmaceuticals. Everyone in the room knows this, Agent Gibson. In case you’ve forgotten, I wasted almost an entire month chasing a paper trail across the state that turned out to be a clerical error on Radiology’s end.”

  “Was it?” Gibson asked.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Gibson seemed to consider his answer carefully before he spoke. “We have logical, credible intelligence that suggests the clerical error on Radiology’s end wasn’t actually an error.”

  Virgil shook his head. “Yes, it was. I documented everything in my report. Your department was copied.”

  “I know. I read your report. And you’re right. There was a clerical error.”

  “Yet you just said there wasn’t. So which is it?”

  “It was an error on paper. An error we believe they placed there on purpose.”

  “To what end?”

  “We think it was a test.”

  “A test? What kind of test?” Virgil asked.

  “One that would allow them to observe our response,” Gibson said. “The whole thing was a set-up. They inserted an error into their logs to see what would happen if any of their product turned up missing.”

  Virgil was confused. “Why?”

  “
Listen, I don’t want to get into all the details here. No disrespect, but this isn’t exactly a secure environment.”

  Cora stood and looked at Murton. “Mac needs an answer, Murt. You’re in or you’re out.”

  “How about we can the skit, Cora. He knows I’m in.” Murton looked at Gibson. “Just like he does. They’ve known for months.”

  “Then we’ll get everyone briefed on their duties and specific assignments first thing tomorrow morning down at the MCU,” Cora said. “That’s all for now.”

  Gibson stood and moved to the door, but Virgil wasn’t having it.

  “Cora?”

  Cora was positioned next to and slightly in front of Gibson, which meant he couldn’t see the look on her face or the direction of her eyes when she spoke. “I said we’ll get up to speed tomorrow morning. Is that clear, Detective?” A little gravel in her voice.

  Virgil saw her move her eyes back and forth between himself and Gibson. Message received.

  “Yeah, I guess so. See you tomorrow.”

  Virgil stood near the window and looked out over the bar until he saw Cora and Gibson walk out the front door. He turned around. “Murt?”

  Becky walked over and put her hand on Virgil’s arm. “I love you, Virgil. You know I do. But I need a few minutes with my man.”

  “Wait for me downstairs?” Murton said to him.

  Virgil walked out the door and wondered if maybe Delroy was right. Had the ground beneath his feet been shifting and he hadn’t noticed? And why did an agent for Homeland Security look like he’d just stepped off a factory floor? Virgil didn’t know the answer to the first question. That one would take some thought. But the answer to the second one was obvious: Gibson was working an undercover op, and he was about to pull Murton in with him.

  Virgil sat at one of the four-tops, his eyes glued to the office window above the stage. He couldn’t see anything other than his own reflection because the glass was mirrored. It was also angled outward at the top which gave Virgil a perfectly good view of himself staring at himself. He wondered what Murton might be telling Becky. Would he tell her the truth? Or would he tell her what she wanted to hear? Maybe it would be some reasonably balanced combination of both, if such a thing were possible.

  Delroy came to the table with two cups of Jamaican Blue and sat down beside him. “What is it, mon?”

  “I wish I knew, Delroy.”

  “You smarter than dat. You know someting.”

  Virgil looked away from the window and at his friend. “I really don’t know much more than you do. Gibson wants Murt to work an undercover op for the feds, but neither he nor Murt have said what it’s really about. Cora said they’d brief us tomorrow morning.”

  Delroy took a sip of his coffee then puffed out his cheeks and sat back in his chair. “He been runnin’ back and forth to dat address in Kentucky almost everyday. Sometimes he stay all night. When he get home, Becky say he showers, then go right back. What he looking for, him?”

  “You’ll have to ask Murton that question, Delroy.”

  “I have. He won’t say. So now I’m asking you.”

  “I think he’s looking for his father.”

  Delroy shook his head. “We buried his father. His name was Mason Jones.”

  “His real father, Delroy. The biological one.”

  “What I say still true.”

  Delroy was right, of course. Mason had raised Murton as his own son. From that night over forty years ago, until the day he died, Mason had loved Murton with his whole heart.

  “I don’t tink he looking for his father, me. I tink he’s looking for something he thought he’d never get.”

  “What’s that,” Virgil said.

  “Retribution.” Delroy stood and slid his chair back in place. “But what he end up with is regret. Or maybe someting worse. You wait, you see. It on you to make tings right, Virgil Jones.”

  “Why?” Virgil felt himself getting irritated. “When exactly did I become the arbiter of another man’s life?”

  Delroy was irritated now as well, something Virgil rarely witnessed. “Yeah, mon. You keep asking yourself dat. It all right with me.” He turned to walk away, then stopped and placed his hands on the back of the chair. “Delroy would never accuse you of being small-minded. But sometimes you a little short sighted.”

  “What would you have me do, Delroy?”

  “Maybe you go ask Jonas. It practically staring you in the face, mon.”

  “Jonas? What in the world does he—”

  Delroy didn’t let him finish. He still had his hands on the back of the chair. He picked it up and slammed it down on the floor, effectively silencing Virgil in the process. But when he spoke his voice was sincere, his question almost sad. “You ever heard of the Lethe? It from a river in Hades whose water when drunk make the souls of the dead forget their life on earth.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It mean dat boy given to you…he not only a gift. He’s a reminder of who you are, whose you are, and what you’re supposed to do. The question is, are you man enough to do it?”

  Man enough? Virgil was so angry and confused by the words his friend spoke he stood and walked out of the bar. Had he known what was going to happen he would have stayed.

  An entire month would pass before he saw or spoke with Murton again. And when that day finally came, Virgil, gun in hand, wouldn’t drink from a river where Greek mythology promised forgetfulness, though he would, in many ways, feel as though he’d lost a part of his soul.

  12

  After his conversation with Becky, Murton went downstairs to speak with Virgil, but discovered he’d already left. When he asked Delroy about it, the answer he received wasn’t exactly what he expected.

  “How should I know dat, me?”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  Delroy pointed to a booth. When Murton looked that way he saw it was empty. “There’s no one over there, Delroy.”

  “Yeah, mon. But not for long. Follow me.” There was no mistaking his tone.

  They walked over and took a seat. Murton had been friends with Delroy for a few years now and knew better than to try to steer the conversation. He simply waited for him to speak.

  “It not where Virgil go that concern me. It where you about to.”

  “Why are you so worried about this?” When Murton saw the look on Delroy’s face he instantly regretted the question.

  “Now maybe I understand where Virgil gets it. Da both of you run around sometimes like what you do have no effect on the other people in your lives.”

  Murton looked at his friend for a moment, then stood up.

  “Where you going, you?”

  When Murton spoke he discovered it wasn’t nearly as easy to deceive his Jamaican friend as he thought it might be. “It’s work, Delroy. I can’t talk about it. I’m under orders not to.” They both waited a beat, neither willing to acknowledge what they knew was about to happen.

  Murton took the lead, mostly because he knew Delroy wouldn’t. “Besides, I’m kind of hungry. I think I’ll step into the kitchen and see what Robert’s got cooking. You want anything?”

  “What I want can’t be found in dat kitchen. I tink you know dat.”

  “Look, Delroy, I…”

  Delroy waved him off, the fear and frustration riding like a carrier wave embedded on the back of his words. “What about Becky? Dat woman love you with her whole self. You two remind me of Virgil and Sandy. You on your way. You going to tell me I’m wrong?”

  Murton shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

  He pointed a finger at him. It shook when he spoke. “Then you tell Delroy this: Who going to look after her when you go through dat door over there because we both know you’re not hungry and there’s a good chance you won’t be back, don’t we?”

  Murton laughed, but there was little joy in the sound that came from his mouth. “Delroy, I think that Jamaican imagination is getting the better of you. How about you grab us
a couple of Red Stripes and I’ll get some of that shrimp Robert’s cooking. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “We going to start lying to each other now, mon?”

  “Delroy—”

  “You one of the best friends I ever had, me. The tings we done together for each other, for Virgil and Sandy, they some of the best parts of my whole life. I know it feel like you maybe only have one way to go, but dat just not true, mon.”

  Murton laughed again, but it was forced and sounded false. He started to say something, except Delroy wasn’t done. “How do you expect me to do it, mon? Huh? You tell me how.”

  “Tell you what, Delroy? I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  Delroy stood so fast he knocked his chair over. He got right in Murton’s face. Murton let him. “Dat boyish grin you always flashing around don’t fool me, no. You tell me how I supposed to let you go. You tell me how to say goodbye to one of the best men I’ve ever known because I don’t know how to do dat. Neither do Virgil, or he’d still be here. You can pretend all you want, but you can’t run away from your past, Murton Wheeler. It faster than you.”

  Murton placed his hands on Delroy’s shoulders. “You’re the best, Delroy. Relax. I’ll get some grub and be right back.”

  Delroy nodded at him, a small tear slipping out of the corner of one eye. “Yeah, mon. We do it your way then. Two beers coming right up.”

  Murton walked over to the kitchen entrance and looked back over his shoulder. He wanted to burn the image of Delroy, the bar, everything into his mind because he knew, on some level his friend was right. He might never see any of it again. But Delroy was wrong about one thing: Murton wasn’t running away from his past. He was running toward it. He pushed through the swinging door, went through the kitchen and out the back.

  Delroy pulled two Red Stripes from the cooler, popped their tops and carried them back to the booth. He took a sip of his beer and stared at the kitchen entrance, willing the door to swing back open, hoping to see Murton’s smiling face, his hands full with a plate of food.