They came down off the hump and walked through the neck-high sumac, into the oak forest, following a thin game trail that led them below the emerging bluff line, toward the sound of the dogs. They’d gone three hundred yards when the sound of the dogs grew sharper, with some canine shrieks, and suddenly the barking began to diminish. “They’re moving them,” Johnson said. “We’ve got to run.”
They began to jog toward the sound of the dogs, which suddenly stopped altogether, cut off as cleanly as the flick of a switch on an amplifier. Virgil said, “Faster,” and they broke into a full run. A minute later, they could see the pen they’d found during the first search. The pen was empty. Johnson was running behind Virgil, but he suddenly sped up, reached out and caught Virgil’s shirt, yanked him to a stop. He said, “Shhh!”
Virgil went quiet, and then he heard it: other people running, at least one downslope, and far away, the other closer, and upslope. Virgil said, “They spotted us coming. You watch the pen. Don’t shoot anyone. I’m going.”
Johnson jogged on toward the pen, as Virgil cut uphill, running hard, now. He couldn’t hear the other runner when he was actually running, so he had to stop, and listen, and then follow on. He’d run four or five hundred yards, tough going all the way, when he came out at the edge of a bean field that stretched away to the west, on the narrow valley crest.
He stopped to listen, and a moment later saw a man break out of the trees, run along the fence for a few yards, then dodge back into the trees, probably three or four hundred yards ahead. Virgil doubted that he could catch him, but ran on as hard as he could, trying to follow game trails as best he was able, but much of the time, busting through the underbrush. When he reached the corner of the bean field, where he’d seen the other man, he understood why the man had broken into the open: there was a notch in the valley wall right there, and the man had run around it.
And had vanished.
Virgil listened, but didn’t hear anything. He went on another hundred feet, and then saw a more-used path, leading toward the edge of the bluffs. There, he saw a pathway down, with recently scuffed yellow dirt.
Good place for an ambush. He took his pistol out and slid cautiously down the trail, through the bluff line, down probably fifty feet, where he found another trail that followed the line of the bottom of the bluffs. That trail went in both directions; he was thinking about which one to take when he heard the other man again, running down to his right, then the sound of a truck, and as he ran that way, a truck door slamming, and then the sound of the truck accelerating away on the road below.
He thought about continuing down the hill, but there was no hope: the truck would be long gone before he got there, and then he’d have to re-climb the valley wall to get back to Johnson.
He thought about the choices, then jogged back along the bluffs to the pen. Johnson was waiting there, inside the pen.
“Nothing here,” Johnson said, scuffing around inside the wire. “The feeding tubs, that’s all. But I can smell dogs.”
Virgil sniffed: “So can I. They must have them hooked together, somehow, and must’ve taken them off somewhere.”
“Why did they stop barking?”
“I don’t have a dog, so I couldn’t tell you… maybe they’re all hooked into choke chains or something? Would that do it?”
“Maybe,” Johnson said.
Virgil walked around the pen, and it looked as though a lot of dogs had been in residence for a long time. The bluff had some overhanging places, with hollows beneath the ledges, where it looked like dogs had lain when the sun got hot. One little dirt run followed the fence line then actually went up the bluff a few feet, but then hit a dead-end wall.
“All right,” Virgil said finally. “Let’s go. Tonight you can drop me, and I’m going to sneak all the way back up here to the pen.”
“They might be planning to do the same thing,” Johnson said. “Sneak up here early, before you do.”
“I’ll think of something,” Virgil said.
“The boys have already thought of something,” Johnson said. “They thought about catching Zorn out somewhere, and beating it out of him.”
“But not shooting him.”
“No — I mean, what good would that do? You couldn’t find your dogs if you killed him.”
“Good point,” Virgil said.
“So maybe they’ll catch Mrs. Zorn, and beat it out of her,” Johnson said. And, “Mrs. Zorn. Wonder what her first name is.”
“Bunny,” Virgil said.
Though he was feeling sleepy, Virgil drove back through town to Buster Gedney’s house. Gedney wasn’t home, but there was a coffee shop a couple blocks back toward the downtown area, and he stopped, thinking he might get a bagel or a scone. He took his laptop with him, and when he got his scone and a Diet Coke, saw some umbrellas on a back deck and went that way. Where he found Gedney sitting at a café table.
Gedney looked shocked when Virgil came over with a bag and bottle: “You’re following me?”
“Not exactly, but we are… mmm… aware of where you’re at,” Virgil said. He glanced quickly up at the sky, then brought his gaze back down.
Gedney caught it and asked, “You’ve got a drone?”
“Oh… of course not,” Virgil said. He dragged a chair from a nearby table to where Gedney was sitting, and made himself comfortable. “Why would you be important enough for us to… to task a drone with keeping track of you?”
“I’m not,” Gedney said. “I’m not.”
Virgil said to the air, “You hear that, Spike? He says he’s not important enough.”
Gedney: “You’re making fun of me — that’s not right.”
Virgil unscrewed the cap on the Diet Coke, keeping his eyes on Gedney as he did it, took a sip, and said, “Tell you something, Buster. You heard what happened to Roy Zorn?”
“Everybody’s heard,” Gedney said. “He got shot.”
“He got shot by the same guy who shot Conley, and he did it with your burst kit.” Gedney opened his mouth to object, but Virgil cut him off: “I know you made those kits. You’re a terrible liar, Buster, and I could see it in your face. Sooner or later, I’ll prove it, and then you’ll go to Stillwater prison for thirty years, no parole. That’s the penalty in Minnesota for murder-one.”
He took a bite of the scone.
“I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did,” Virgil said. “Buster, maybe you need to talk to a criminal lawyer about this. Or maybe you should just take my word: you are part and parcel of a vicious pair of crimes. In most other states, you’d qualify for the needle. Here, we just pack you away forever. You’re what, in your forties? You’d be in your middle seventies before you get out. At the earliest. You’ve got exactly one chance: Turn. Talk to me.”
“But I… but I…”
“We think the shooter is killing people to cover up another set of crimes. I even kind of think you might know what those crimes are, which gets you even deeper in the shit. It also gives this guy a solid reason to kill you. In fact, that’s why we’re keeping track of you — in case you get shot. Sooner or later, he’ll know that we’ll be looking for those burst kits, and where they came from, and when that happens, Buster… he’s gonna kill you, man.”
“I… I gotta think,” Buster said, running his hands through his sparse brown hair.
Virgil leaned forward: “See, Buster, right there you told me that you’ve got something to think about. We need to talk to the county attorney, and right quick — so I can close this case out and lock up the killer. Right now, if you help us, you might even qualify for a free ride. Can’t promise you anything, but I think there’s a good chance, unless you’re the one who actually pulled the trigger.”