by Thomas Scott
Reif stopped him. “Not that one.”
Murton let out a sigh and allowed his shoulders to slump like he was weary of the whole thing. “Why the hell not?”
Reif got down in his face. “Because I said so.”
His gamble paid off. Murton stared at him for a moment, shrugged his shoulders, then sliced off the actual explosive part of the other brick. He had all the other materials he needed and an hour later had a crude miniature bomb. Reif, who knew nothing of explosives watched him every step of the way. They took it far out in the hills where Murton inserted the detonator then set a digital timer for three minutes.
“What now?” Reif asked.
Murton gave him a blank stare, then pressed the button on the timer. “I suggest we get back in the car and get the hell out of here.”
“I want to see it go off,” Reif said.
“Then give me the keys. I’ll drive. But the clock is ticking and I’m going. If you don’t do the same and do it now, you’ll have a front row ticket on the express train to hell.” To emphasize his point, Murton turned and ran to Reif’s SUV.
Reif followed. He actually beat him back to the vehicle. He tossed the keys to Murton, climbed in the back seat and watched out the rear window as they drove away. “Hey, slow down a little,” Reif said. “And don’t get too far away. I want to be able to—”
They were less than a quarter-mile away when the bomb went off. Not only did Reif see it, both men felt the pressure of the blast as it rocked the SUV. Murton accelerated hard to put as much distance as possible between them and the blast site.
Reif turned and stared at Murton. “Holy shit. I saw how much of that brick you sliced off. It was just a sliver.”
“Are you satisfied now?” Murton asked, his voice calm.
Reif clapped him on the shoulder. “I am. Nice job. You know, when we’re done with all this, I could use someone like you.”
Murton caught Reif’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I work for myself. And take your hand off my shoulder.”
28
Virgil caught up with Becky at the bar and she filled him in on the latest reports Lawless had sent over. They’d slipped him inside Radiology, Inc. as planned without a hitch where he worked as a shipping clerk. He had access to every record and bill of lading for all scheduled shipments of nuclear material both in the past, and more importantly, the ones scheduled to go out over the next twelve months. The only problem was, he’d found exactly nothing out of the ordinary. The upcoming shipment had been manufactured and was going through the complex packaging system prior to transport. Everything was right on schedule, and the manufacturing and inventory management logs matched, right down to the fraction of an ounce. Short of weighing the material himself, which wasn’t even remotely possible, there wasn’t anything else he could see or do.
“What about the thumb drive?”
“Program’s still running.”
“Any idea how much longer?”
“Nope. And no, I can’t make it go any faster, so don’t ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Uh huh.”
“Clearly, we’re missing something,” Virgil said. “That shipment goes out tomorrow.”
“What about security?” Becky asked.
“I’ve thought about that, and it’s an extremely tough call, Becks. I could get Mok and his SWAT crew on the train, but what if I do and it somehow screws up Murt’s operation? Gibson has a plan of some sort. The problem is, we don’t know what. If Mok and his men are on board, it could ruin an operation that has so far cost Murt almost a full month of his life.”
Becky gave him a hard stare. “And what about the rest of his life, Jonesy? I wasn’t kidding. I think somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks…he knows that you’re going to be there for him when he needs you the most. Lawless is watching things on Radiology’s end. He says everything looks exactly right. I say we get the word federal out of our vocabulary and do what we do best.”
Virgil thought about it. “I’ll run it by Mok and see what he thinks. In the meantime we need to figure out what’s going on.” He stood from his seat and walked behind the bar. He filled both their cups with fresh coffee and turned to put the pot back in the brewer.
The brewer triggered a memory of his father behind the bar in the exact spot where Virgil now stood. The front door opening…Amanda Pate walking in…his father yelling the word ‘gun’…Sandy pulling him to the ground as she fired her weapon…Mason bleeding out in their arms. It all happened so fast, so…unexpected. They never saw it coming.
And then…
He was back. Becky was next to him, behind the bar, one hand on his shoulder, the other around his waist. “Hey, Jonesy? You okay?” She took the pot from his hand and placed it back in the brewer.
Virgil turned and looked at her. “Yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about something.”
She punched him in the shoulder. “Well, quit it. Jeez, I thought you were having a stroke or something.”
They moved around to the other side of the bar, back to their seats, then Becky said, “What were you thinking about?”
“Ah, nothing. It doesn’t matter.”
She put her hand on his arm and held it there until he looked at her. “I think it does. The last thing you said was, ‘clearly we’re missing something’ and then you went away for a minute. Now tell me.”
He smiled at her. “You’re the best, Becks. You know that don’t you? You sound like Sandy.” Then, “Although she doesn’t punch me nearly as often.”
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll punch you again. Let’s have it.”
“I had a little flashback, is all. I was thinking about the day my dad died. Something about that coffee brewer triggered the memory. He was standing right next to it when he got shot.”
Becky thought about it for a minute. “So we are missing something.”
“Yeah, I think I already said that.”
“That’s not what I mean. When you had your little flashback, what was the main part of it?”
Virgil thought about it for a minute. “I don’t know. The whole scene just replayed in my head. It happens every once in a while.”
Becky nodded. “I understand what happened.” She paused for a moment, then tried again. “Remember that day when you asked me to come and work for you and Murt? We were sitting right where we are now. You told me you don’t miss much and then you proved it. That always impressed me.”
“Thank you,” Virgil said. “But I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“I’m asking you to think about what was behind the thoughts you had.”
Virgil tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was quiet for almost a full minute and when he spoke his voice was distant, his speech rutted and slow. “We thought it was over. Samuel Pate and both the Wells were dead. We thought everyone who mattered was out of the picture. But we were wrong. I tried to tell Elliott that something felt wrong, but he wasn’t listening. He wanted my paperwork turned in so the case could be cleared and everyone could move on. But after my dad was killed, I remember thinking when it was all over that it was a failure of imagination on my part. I was already feeling the effects of the pills. My thinking wasn’t what it should have been. No one bothered to look at Samuel’s wife, Amanda. We just…missed it. I missed it.” He opened his eyes and looked at Becky. “That’s what was behind the thought. It was there all along and I missed it.”
“So what, or who, are we missing now?” Becky asked. The question was full of urgency. “Murt’s career, hell, his life is on the line here, Jonesy.”
Virgil’s phone buzzed at him before he could answer the question. When he saw who it was he let out a little groan. Cal Lipkins.
He gave Becky a ‘just a second’ look, picked up the phone and pressed the answer button. “Hey Cal. What’s up?”
Virgil listened for a few moments, then said, “I thought we did that already. Isn’t that what all those forms were fo
r?” He listened again, then said, “No, I don’t have time to come and sign another. I’ve got a job to do.”
Becky stared at Virgil until she had his attention, then pointed at the upstairs office and mouthed ‘be right back.’ Virgil nodded at her and went back to his conversation with Lipkins. “Look, Cal, I’m not trying to be difficult, but I’m too busy. If you lost one of the forms, you’re either going to have to find it, or fax another one to me.”
“I guess that’d be okay,” Lipkins said. “But we need it as soon as possible.”
Virgil gave him the fax number at his house, waited until Lipkins read it back to him to make sure he had it right, then asked a question. “Listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I sort of thought any back and forth would be between me and Carl Johnson. The way the deal is set up…”
Lipkins cut him off, his voice layered with exasperation. “Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re getting at. But I run the Co-op, which means I’m responsible for making sure everyone has everything they need. Johnson farms the land, is all. But in order to do that, we need fuel, seed, fertilizer and the like, and that all comes through the Co-op. You’re the land owner, so we need your signature on the requisitions for your acreage.”
“Okay, whatever.” Virgil didn’t really know all the ins and outs of the operations and didn’t care. “Send it over and I’ll get it back to you.”
“Today?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Today would be best. Land’s being tilled as we speak. Gotta be ready.”
Virgil pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment and rubbed his face with his free hand. When he spoke, he had to make a conscious effort to keep his teeth from coming together. “I’ll have my wife sign it and send it right back.”
Lipkins wasn’t having it. “I’ve been doing this a long time, city-boy. Has to be the land owner.”
“Would you please stop calling me that? I live in the country. The land is held in a trust, Cal. The trust is in both our names.” When Lipkins didn’t respond, Virgil thought the call had been dropped, or that Lipkins had hung up on him. “Cal?”
“I really wish you hadn’t told me that, though for your sake, I guess it’s a good thing you did.”
“What are you talking about?”
“All those papers you signed last month? If your wife is an owner of the land, she’s going to have to sign them too.”
Virgil squeezed his phone so hard he thought he heard a little crack. “When?”
Lipkins must have heard the frustration in his voice. “Look, if you can get me the form back by the end of today with both your signatures, we should be okay. We’ll get to all the other ones that need your wife’s signature later. Next few days or something. How’s that sound?”
Lipkins was trying, or at the very least, sounded like he was trying. Virgil wasn’t sure which. By then he didn’t care. “Alright, I’ll make it happen.” Virgil told him to fax the document to the bar instead of his house. He’d sign it, send it over to Sandy then she could sign it and shoot it back to Cal. “How’s that sound?”
“That’s fine.” Then Lipkins softened even more and said something that made Virgil feel like an ass for being so frustrated with him. “Listen, let me know when you’re coming. Bring Jonas with you, Sandy can sign the other paperwork, and we’ll give them a tour. You can drive your boy around on a tractor. He’d probably get a kick out of it. What do you say?” Cal Lipkins suddenly didn’t sound like a crusty old farmer…he sounded like somebody’s grandfather.
Virgil said he’d do that. When he finished the call though, something was tickling the back part of his brain. Something Cal had said. He replayed the conversation a few times trying to figure it out, but it wouldn’t come.
He signed the form without really looking at it then sent it off to his house. He called Sandy. “How’s it going, baby?”
“It’s going well. I’m in the middle of feeding our little guy.”
“How’s he doing today?”
“He’s doing great. I, on the other hand, feel like a milk machine.”
Virgil knew better than to address the latter part of her comment. “You’re the best, baby. I love you, and the kids do too.”
“Whoops, hold on, I’ve got to switch to the other side or I’ll be lopsided for the rest of the day.” Virgil heard her set the phone down, then a series of ruffling noises. A few seconds later she was back. “So, what’s up?”
When you get a chance, would you grab a fax from the machine? I just sent it over. It’s from the Co-op. It needs your signature. Once you sign it, fax it back to Cal.”
“Sure. Why does it need my signature?”
Virgil sighed. No time like the present, he thought. “As it turns out, that isn’t the only form you have to sign…”
He told her what Lipkins had said about all the forms and how they required both their signatures.
“That’s no problem, Virgil. I can sign a few documents.”
“You might think otherwise once you see the stack. There’s only about a billion of them.”
She laughed and said, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it worked out.” Then the tenor of her voice changed and there was no mistaking the level of concern set within in her question. “Where are you guys with Murton?”
“Doing everything we can, which, unfortunately unless he makes contact with us, isn’t much. We’re stuck between trying to help and staying out of the way of an ongoing federal operation.”
“I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about all this, Virgil. It’s time for you to do what you do best. I say screw the feds. Find your brother and bring him home.” Then, “Ouch. Hey, I’ve got to go. Wyatt’s done eating. Now he’s biting.”
Virgil told Sandy he loved her, set his phone down on the bar and tried once again to figure out what it was Lipkins had said that bothered him. He didn’t get very far because his morning suddenly went a little further south and the thought, whatever it was, left him.
29
Delroy came in through the back and when Virgil saw the look on his face he knew something wasn’t quite right. Jamaicans move with a rhythm all their own, one that exemplifies the heritage and cultural conditions of their small island nation. In other words, they move at a pace that is often slower than most people are accustomed to. But when Delroy came through the swinging doors he was moving faster than Virgil had ever seen, like maybe the kitchen might be on fire. In addition he looked a little…disheveled. He straightened his shirt and glanced at Virgil, then tipped his head back toward the kitchen. Just as he did, two men followed him through. Delroy hadn’t hurried through the door on his own. He’d been pushed through.
Virgil recognized them immediately for what they were, or more accurately, who they represented.
Feds.
They both wore dark suits, white starched shirts, and plain, dark neckties. Their haircuts were high and tight, their faces clean shaven and they both wore mirrored sunglasses even though they were inside. One of the men had a clear coiled wire poking out of the collar of his shirt that led to an ear bud tucked into his right ear. But it was the other man who caught the bulk of Virgil’s attention. Both his hands, his neck, and a portion of his jaw were spotted white, all the pigmentation gone from the affected areas of his skin. The colorless blotches were irregular in size and configuration. Some looked like misshapen bleeding hearts of white, others more like rivulets that seemed to flow upward toward his neck and face, as though gravity had no role on his person. The white areas were much more prominent than his regular skin tone.
Virgil winked at Delroy, then turned his attention back to the two men who were now standing next to him on the patron side of the bar. “It’s a little early guys. Bar’s not open yet. But I’d be happy to make an exception for federal agents as soon as you tell me why you’ve been man-handling my bar manager.”
The suit with the ear bud spoke first. “We’re not here to place an order, or to explain
ourselves.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his ID. “I’m agent Robert Thorpe, Department of Homeland Security, Portland, Oregon field office.” He tipped his head to the right. “This is Agent Chris Dobson with ICE.”
“That stands for Immigrations and Customs Enforcement,” Dobson said.
“I know what ICE is,” Virgil said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Seems like you’re quite a ways from home.”
“One of us is,” Dobson said.
“What’s this about?”
“Are you Virgil Jones?”
“I am. I’m also an officer with the state police, currently assigned to the MCU. That stands for Major Crimes Unit. Now how about you stand down and answer the question. What’s this about?”
Before either of them could answer, Delroy moved just enough to catch Virgil’s eye. He looked quickly at the kitchen doors, then right back to Virgil.
Thorpe opened his mouth to answer, but Virgil beat him to it. “Excuse me for a moment. I need to have a word with my man behind the bar here.” He stood from his stool but Dobson moved to block his exit. When Virgil tried to step around him, Agent Dobson grabbed Virgil by the wrist.
“We need to speak with you now, Detective.”
Virgil looked at his wrist, then turned his face up to Dobson. “Take your hand off my person immediately. It’s not a request and I won’t say it twice.”
Dobson’s eyes narrowed as he squeezed Virgil’s wrist tighter in an effort to show who was in control of the situation.
Virgil almost laughed at him. “Did you know that grabbing someone’s wrist without cause or permission is considered a form of battery in the state of Indiana? Pretty much everywhere else too, if I’m not mistaken, which I’m not. As a federal officer, you should know that. It’s also the least effective means of restraint available. Here’s why.”
