by Thomas Scott
By the time he finished the first beer, he knew Murton was gone. Becky walked down the stairs and slipped into the booth next to him. Delroy put his arm around her shoulders and when he did, she placed her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.
When Virgil left the bar he didn’t have a destination in mind, so he simply drove. He needed to cool off and try to wrap his head around something he knew little about. He wasn’t mad at Delroy for what he’d said. He wasn’t even mad at Murton. He was mad at the situation…mad that he didn’t have the information he needed to help his best friend. He drove out of the downtown traffic and approached 465, the loop that circled the city.
What was the message Delroy was trying to send? Virgil would do anything to help or protect Murton. Delroy knew that. Was he trying to push him out to protect him, or pull him closer to help Murton? He understood the similarities between his life and his father’s. Mason had taken Murton in when he had nowhere else to go. Virgil and Sandy had done the same for Jonas. Delroy said he felt something bad was coming their way…and now Murton was about to take an assignment with the feds. And even though Virgil knew the situation was different this time, he couldn’t help but wonder if Murton might be getting in over his head, or worse, be left to fend for himself if Gibson’s op went bad.
He’d get as much information as possible out of Gibson tomorrow at the meeting. But right now, it was time to put his own feelings aside and talk to Murton.
He turned the truck around and headed back to the bar.
He’d only been gone a half-hour, and when he walked in he found Robert behind the bar, something which rarely happened. Known far and wide for his authentic Jamaican cuisine, Robert was one of the most respected chefs in the city. He regularly received offers from restaurants all across the Midwest. As a Jamaican chef he had no equal.
His bartending skills were another matter altogether. In short, he knew how to make two different kinds of drinks: Rum in a shot glass, or draft beer in a mug.
“Hey Robert. Practicing for the mixology exam?”
“Yeah, mon. You a laugh a minute. Anyone ever tell you dat?”
“All the time. Have you seen Delroy? Actually, never mind. It’s Murton I really want to talk to.”
“Delroy upstairs with Becky. Maybe you should go up, but I tell you dis, mon: Delroy not too happy with you today, no.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve already managed to piece that together. Problem is, I’m not quite sure why.”
“That’s because he wants you to do someting you unwilling to do.”
“What’s that?”
Robert shrugged. “I don’t know, me. Dat man works out of his own zip code. Half the time I don’t know what he talking about and I grew up with him. I always listen though, me. Maybe you should too, mon.”
“I will. I am. You didn’t answer me though. I need to speak with Murt. Where is he?”
“Dat seem to be the question of the day, no?”
When Virgil entered the office he felt like his day was going in circles. Delroy and Becky were sitting on the sofa again and the conversation stopped when he walked in, as it had before. Becky’s eyes were red, and the table that fronted the sofa was covered with crumbled tissues.
Virgil pulled a chair over and sat down. He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. He chose his words carefully. “Becky, I don’t have all the facts yet but here’s what I know for sure: Whatever Murt is involved in, he’s not alone. I’m going to back him up all the way. I promise. Nothing is going to happen to him.”
Delroy dropped his head and stared at the floor. When Becky spoke, her voice sounded distant and dull, like she was speaking to him from the other side of a wall. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jonesy.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
Virgil took a breath. “What did Murt tell you? And where is he, by the way?”
“He wouldn’t tell me where he was going…not exactly. But he told me where he’d end up. When he’ll be back is anybody’s guess. Let me ask you something, Jonesy.” Becky’s voice suddenly didn’t sound distant anymore. “Did you know about what happened with him and Decker?”
“Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I can tell by the sound of your voice that you didn’t get the entire story. Don’t feel bad. I didn’t either until a little while ago.”
“What do you mean? What’s the rest of the story?”
“Why did you leave earlier?”
The question caught Virgil off guard. “Well, I needed to clear my head a little, which I did. I’m fine now.”
The sarcasm in Becky’s voice couldn’t have been any thicker. “Oh, thank God. You have no idea how worried we all were regarding your state of mind.”
“Hey, Becks, c’mon. I’m trying to help here.”
“If you were trying to help you wouldn’t have left because you’re probably the only person in the world that could have stopped him. But you didn’t and now he’s gone.”
Delroy placed his palm on Becky’s thigh. “Don’t be too hard on him. It my fault he leave. I was trying to help, but I only made tings worse.”
“Delroy, thank you. But I didn’t leave because of what you said. I left so I could think about it for a few minutes. Everything seems to be happening all at once.” Then, to Becky: “Tell me what I’m missing, Becks. What did Murt say to you? Tell me all of it.”
Becky took another tissue from the box and very unselfconsciously blew her nose. She tossed the used tissue on the table, looked Virgil in the eye and told him everything Murton had said to her before he left.
By the time she was done, Virgil was sick with fear, and outside of his family and the people in the room with him, wasn’t sure who he could trust.
13
After his last case, when Decker had almost killed his wife and unborn son, Virgil and Sandy made a promise to each other. There’d be no secrets or withholding of information between them, no matter the circumstances. It was Sandy’s idea, one that Virgil readily agreed to. And why not? Other than his venture into the arena of mind-altering chemicals a couple of years ago, he’d never kept anything of substance from her. So the promise was an easy one. Except…
They’d agreed that anything that could be even remotely dangerous to them or their children would be talked about immediately, and if possible, in person. After what Becky had told him, Virgil didn’t feel like he had the time, much less the patience to drive all the way home and have a sit-down with Sandy.
But then he thought back to a few months ago and the image of his dying wife, the blood on the floor, her lips turning blue, the backdoor thrown open by the powerful beat of the helicopter’s rotor blades, Bell cutting into her abdomen, the blood pouring out of her, how he’d almost lost her and what that would have done to him. It all came flooding in at once…a flashback that made him sweat with fear and anxiety every time it happened.
He kissed Becky on the forehead, then told her and Delroy good-bye.
When he got in his truck, he said to hell with the rules, hit his lights and siren, and headed for home. He was running hard.
So was Murton.
Virgil tried to call Murton and got a robotic sounding voice telling him the number he’d dialed was no longer in service. He drove on, the siren wailing away, becoming more frustrated with each passing mile. The frustration came from a sense of paralysis. In the moment, there was nothing he could do.
He killed the siren a half-mile out and turned the flashers off as he entered his drive. By the time he arrived he’d managed to take all the disparate worlds of thought—what he’d been told by Becky, what he knew about Murton, Delroy’s intuition—and piece them together in a way that he hoped would make him sound almost like he’d not quite lost his mind.
After Decker tried to kill Sandy, he’d gone on the run. Virgil stayed by his wife’s side throughout the entire ordeal, which left Murton the task of finding Decker and bringing
him in. Or so most everyone thought.
Except Murton didn’t plan to bring him in. He planned to do what he considered the only logical thing when it came to guys like Decker. He planned to take him off the board. What he didn’t know at the time was Agent Paul Gibson of Homeland Security had also been tracking the case, working it from a different angle and with an entirely different agenda. So when Murton caught up with Decker and killed him, Gibson was ready and waiting with a cleaning crew to dispose of the body, and more importantly, a long-term plan. Since Murton and Gibson had worked together in the FBI, Murton hardly gave it a second thought.
But Gibson had been two steps ahead of the entire operation the whole way. He could have prevented Decker’s death, but he hadn’t, for reasons no one really wanted to scrutinize. Everyone knew—though no one said it out loud—if they started asking those types of questions Murton could be in more than a bit of trouble. So everyone kept their mouths shut, a killer was off the streets, and Sandy, Wyatt, and Decker’s biological son, Jonas were all safe.
They sat on the back deck, looking out at the pond. “I know all of that, Virgil,” Sandy said. “What I don’t understand is why Murton agreed to take the assignment.”
The assignment was to go undercover for the DHS and work his way into the Russian operation that had backed the fracking play in Shelby County. He’d start with a month in lock up at a federal holding facility in Oregon.
“When he was undercover with the FBI and inside Pate’s organization, they made him look attractive by creating a false record of conviction. Murt’s got a rap sheet that’s longer than my—”
She held up her hands. “Please don’t say it. I get it. A couple of minor offenses.”
“This is serious,” Virgil said, though he couldn’t help smiling. “The story is, he’s being sent to Oregon to await trial on charges of racketeering, extortion, bribery, murder, and money laundering. Gibson says there are a few guards inside the facility who’ll take the occasional envelope if it’s fat enough. They’re hoping the guards will notice his record and make contact with the people they work for.”
“Who’s that?”
Virgil looked out at the pond and didn’t answer right away.
“Virgil?”
He turned and faced his wife. “You know I have to help him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. He’s your brother. I’d be worried if you said you wouldn’t. What does worry me is the fact that you’re not answering my question.”
“Delroy thinks I have to choose.”
Sandy let a question form on her face. “Choose? Choose what?”
“Between Murton and my family. He didn’t come right out and say it but the message was clear. He feels like something bad is coming down the line…that it might already be here. I’m starting to believe him.”
“There is no choice, Virgil. Murton is your family.”
“I know that.” He snapped it at her. Then immediately, “I’m sorry. He meant I’d have to choose between helping Murton and being here for you guys. You and the kids.”
Sandy didn’t get it. “Why? Where do you have to go?”
“I don’t know. Wherever it leads.”
“You didn’t tell me who the guards are working for.”
It’s the same people who backed the deal in Shelby County. The same people Decker ultimately worked for. The Russians.”
Sandy was completely recovered from her injuries. She was strong and didn’t suffer any lingering aftereffects, no PTSD, no emotional issues. It happened, she survived, and she was past it. She slapped him on the thigh. “Good. I say go get ‘em, cowboy.”
“You might not think that in about two seconds.”
“Why?”
“Because the Russians are fronting the money to an ISIS splinter group. Murt told all this to Becky. That’s how I found out about it. Their plan is to set off a dirty bomb in the U.S.”
The color drained from Sandy’s face. “Where, exactly, in the U.S.?”
“Here. In Indiana. They want to hit us right in the heartland.”
It took Sandy a minute to absorb everything. Her next question got right to the core of the matter. “Why Murt?”
“He’s being leveraged. It’s how the feds operate. I think Gibson saw an opportunity with Murt and took it. His history of undercover work with the FBI, his ready-made rap sheet, his connection to Decker…it all fit his model of the perfect operative.”
“I can see that,” Sandy said. “But you and I both know that there must be dozens of undercover operatives, maybe even hundreds who could handle this type of thing who are already working for either DHS or the FBI. The only thing that sets Murt apart is his connection to Decker. And if that’s true, then it sounds like he’s being used, or set up, or whatever.”
“That’s all true, except Decker isn’t the only connection.”
Sandy cocked her head. “What?”
“Murt isn’t the only Wheeler with a rap sheet. According to Gibson, Murt’s father, Ralph did some time too. He was released years ago, but the people who were protecting him on the inside aren’t the types who forget much. They’re looking for payback, and Murt’s father is involved.”
“And you think Murt has his own agenda, one where he not only takes care of Gibson’s problems, but his own?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Why else would he take the assignment?”
Sandy thought about it. “It’s been a long time, Virgil. He was just a kid. I can’t believe that Murton is the kind of man who would hold a grudge for forty years then go to such extreme measures to…” She let her statement hang.
Virgil finished her thought. “Kill his own father?”
She nodded at him. “Is that possible? Is he capable of that?”
“I don’t know. If you’d have asked me a month or two ago…before he started looking for him, I’d have said no. Now? I’m not sure.”
“What are you going to do?” Sandy said.
Virgil looked down at the pond in their backyard. “Same answer. I’m not sure.”
14
They spent some time talking about the idea of Sandy, Huma, and the kids all going to Jamaica for a while. They lived close enough to the city that if a dirty bomb went off they could be in real danger…not from the explosion, but the subsequent fallout. Sandy dismissed the idea right away.
“That won’t work, Virgil, and you know it. Suppose the worst happens, and these terrorists manage to set off the bomb. I can’t be out of the country with the kids. Who knows how long it’d be before we could make it back? And what would we come back to? A place we could no longer live?”
“That’s my point,” Virgil said. “If the bomb goes off, I don’t want you and the kids anywhere near here.”
They went back and forth with it for a while the way married couples do when discussing the ramifications of a possible nuclear attack, which is to say they got absolutely nowhere. In the end, Sandy said, “Besides, you promised me a honeymoon in Jamaica and until you make good on that, I’m staying right here. You’ll just have to do your job and catch these people.”
Huma stuck her head out the door and said, “Hey guys, Jonas is getting hungry. Jonesy, are you going to fire up the grill and burn some chicken beyond recognition like you usually do, or should I nuke something for him?” Then, “What? What’d I say?”
Virgil decided to let the women handle dinner. He took a lawn chair and a bottle of Red Stripe down to the pond and sat next to his father’s cross. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Things aren’t always as complicated as you seem to make them, Virg,” Mason said. He picked up a small stone and skipped it across the pond. The water was still and smooth and when the stone bounced across the surface, the water remained undisturbed, as if the rock hadn’t touched it. Mason clapped his hands together. “Bet you can’t do that.”
Virgil’s father, Mason Jones, had died during a shootout at their bar a few years ago. The bullet was meant for Virgil, but
hit Mason instead. After he died, Sandy, Murton, and Delroy brought his bloodied shirt and a young willow tree out to his house. They put the shirt in the hole and planted the tree over it. A small tornado later destroyed the tree so Virgil cut what was left of its trunk into a small cross as a memorial to his father. Mason picked up another stone and bounced it in his hand. “Want to give it a go?”
He stood next to the cross, shirtless as always, the scars of the gunshot wound in his chest still visible. When he looked at his dad’s skin, it reminded him of his newborn son’s…pink and fresh.
Virgil heard some sort of racket behind him up at the house. When he turned in his chair he saw Huma lugging the grill into place on the deck. She smiled and waved at him. He waved back.
“I’m not keeping you, am I?” Mason asked.
Virgil squinted one eye at his father. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m not sure I take your meaning.”
“I think you do,” Virgil said. “Is my grief keeping you here?”
“Where, exactly, is ‘here,’ Virg?”
Virgil threw his hands up in the air and let them fall in his lap. “Here we go again.”
The conversations Virgil had with his dead father were at once confusing and heartwarming. It sometimes reminded him of the ones he had with Delroy.
“I think you and Delroy need to take a communications class or something. Have you ever noticed that neither of you ever actually say what’s on your mind? You sort of circle around it and expect me to fill in the gaps.”
Mason put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the cross, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s usually what happens when two people are talking about different things at the same time. Do you remember the night we moved back into the house, after the fire?”
It was the second question of the day that caught Virgil off guard, forcing him to change direction and alter his thought process. After a moment he said, “Of course I do. I was scared to death.”
