Johnson was skepticaclass="underline" “You think any of these people would talk, knowing their neighbors are assholes with M15s? Respectable is okay, long as it doesn’t buy you a bullet in the back.”
At the far end of the valley, the road went to a stretch of gravel, then to dirt, which ended at a fence. At the side of the road, the spring appeared, a fifty-foot-long pool, maybe thirty feet wide, and deep, flowing out over six-foot chunks of broken limestone, and on down the valley.
Virgil stopped the truck, and they got out to look at the spring. “That’s a piece of water I wouldn’t mind owning,” Johnson said.
Virgil knelt, put his hand in the water: cool, probably seventy degrees. In a shallow spot, he could see a school of minnows probing through underwater grass.
Johnson muttered, “Uh-oh. Look at this. On your left.”
Virgil stood up and saw a kid walking toward them. He looked like he might be twelve; he wore blue-striped bib overalls over a T-shirt, and a Marine Corps utility cap over shoulder-length brown hair. He was thin, and watched them with his head cocked to one side.
He was carrying a scoped .22 rifle.
“What are y’all doing?” he asked. He was standing on the far side of the fence, which was overgrown with black-raspberry canes.
“Scoutin’ out the valley,” Virgil said. “You know who owns this spring?”
The kid shrugged. “Nobody, I guess. When it gets really hot, people come up here and fool around in it, after work.”
“Pretty cool for swimming,” Virgil said.
“That’s the truth,” the kid said. “I seen women here with goose bumps the size of thumbs.”
Johnson asked, “You out huntin’?”
“Just shooting around,” the kid said. “What are you scouting for?”
Virgil said, “Dogs, mostly. We heard some folks up here might have some dogs that don’t belong to them.”
“You cops?”
“I am,” Virgil said. “You seen any extra dogs around?”
“Hardly seen nothing like that,” the kid said. He lifted the rifle and aimed it at a tree thirty yards away. Johnson and Virgil remained still, and the kid squeezed off a shot. A crab apple exploded off one of the tree’s lower branches.
The kid turned and grinned at them, and worked the bolt on the rifle, chambering a new round. Virgil said, “Nice shot. That’s a Magnum?”
“Yup. My dad got it to shoot groundhogs. Goddamn things are hard to get at, though.”
“They are,” Virgil agreed. He sniffed, and looked at Johnson, who nodded. “Well, I guess we’ll head on out, if you haven’t seen any dogs.”
The kid said, “If you’re a cop, where’s your gun?”
“Don’t carry a gun all the time,” Virgil said.
The kid shook his head. “You come back in here, looking for dogs, you best carry a gun.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Virgil said.
They moved back to Virgil’s truck. Inside, Johnson said, “That didn’t sound so much like a tip, as maybe a threat.”
“But nicely put,” Virgil said. He was watching the kid in the rearview mirror. The kid was standing with the rifle across his chest, in the port arms position. “The kid’s no dummy.”
“And a really good shot. That apple couldn’t have been much bigger than a quarter,” Johnson said. “You think he knows about the dogs?”
“You noticed how he went sort of shifty, there. ‘Hardly seen nothin’ like that.’ He doesn’t lie well.”
After another moment, Johnson asked, “You smell that shit?”
“The acetone, yeah,” Virgil said. “Not right away — I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Wasn’t close.”
“Well, it’s cool down here and hotter up above. Cold air flows down… so probably up on the valley wall, somewhere.”
“The sheriff heard that Zorn might be cooking some meth. We’re quite a way from Zorn’s.”
“Nothing to keep him from hiding his cooker up the hill, like an old-timey still,” Johnson said. He looked around at the overgrown valley walls hanging over them. “Virgie? Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
They got the fuck out of there.
“Now what do we do?” Johnson asked, when they bounced back on Highway 26.
“I want to look at some aerial photography of the place. See if there’s any other way in or out.”
Johnson nodded and said, “You know who’s got the best pictures? The ag service.” He looked at his watch. “Gonna be too late today, though. I’d recommend a run up the river, instead. We can look at the pictures first thing tomorrow.”
On the way back to Johnson’s cabin, Davenport returned Virgil’s call from that morning. Virgil saw his name flash on the phone screen, and said to Johnson, “Keep your mouth shut. This is the boss. I’ll put him on the speaker.”
“What’s up?” Davenport asked, when Virgil answered.
“Man, I hate to ask this, with Shaffer dead and you working the Black Hole. But you know my friend Johnson Johnson?”
“Yeah, I know him,” Davenport said. “There’s a goddamn accident waiting to happen.”
“Actually, it’s happened several times already. Anyway, Johnson needs some help on, mmm… a non-priority mission,” Flowers said. “I’m not doing anything heavy, and nobody’s called me for the Black Hole group, so I’d like to run over to Trippton. It’s down south of La Crescent.”
“You’re not telling me what it’s about,” Davenport said.
“No, but if Johnson is telling the truth, and I make a couple of busts, it’ll bring great credit upon the BCA.”
Johnson nodded sagely, from the passenger seat.
“We don’t need credit,” Davenport said. “The legislature’s already adjourned. But, go ahead, on your best judgment. From the way you’re talking, I don’t want to know what it is. If it blows up in your face, it’s your problem.”
“Got it. I just wanted you to know where I was,” Virgil said.
“You taking your boat?” Lucas asked.
Long pause, while Virgil sorted out the possibilities. He decided to go with the semi-truth. “Maybe.”
“Let me know if you get in trouble,” Davenport said. “But otherwise…”
“You don’t want to know.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re good,” Johnson said, when Virgil had rung off. “Got the backing of the big guy himself. Let’s get out on the river.”
“I’m not going catfishing,” Virgil said.
“Nah. Get your fly rod out. I know where there’s a whole bunch of smallmouth, and they do like their Wooly Buggers.”
So they did that.
On his first night in Buchanan County, Virgil went to sleep in Johnson’s cabin with the feeling he hadn’t gotten much done.
But he’d gotten some heavy vibes — and the vibes were bad.
3
About the time that night that Virgil hooked into a two-pound smally, the Buchanan County Consolidated School Board finished the public portion of the monthly meeting. The last speaker had demanded to know what the board was going to do about buying better helmets for the football team.
“I been reading about how blows to the head turn the boys into a bunch of dummies when they grow up. Murph Roetting’s kid’s still not right after he got took out last season.… I don’t want to think we’re paying a million and a half dollars for a sports complex so we can raise a bunch of brain-damaged dummies.”
The board talked about that in an orderly fashion, each in his or her turn: the five board members, the superintendent, the financial officer. Because school was not in session, they were all dressed in Minnesota informaclass="underline" button-up short-sleeved shirts and blouses, Dockers slacks for both men and women, loafers and low heels. All their haircuts, ranging from maple-blond to butternut-brown, were gender-appropriately short. They were neat, ironed, and certainly not assertive.