Blood Silence (27 page)

As required, he sent a text updating Riley, affirming the fact that he continued to breathe air. Lich had finally texted several suitably snide comments in reference to the prostitute. Mac replied that he’d call him later with the full story, which actually got him to thinking about Amber for another reason.

In the meantime, he went about setting up his protection, a tool that his friend Jupiter Jones gave him from his newest tech business start-up. Twenty minutes later, he conducted a final check of the new program on his laptop. It was operating as Jupiter said it would.

Mac pushed himself off the bed and away from the laptop and went to the small refrigerator and grabbed a Miller Lite. He cracked open the beer and plopped down on the bed to relax for a few minutes, thinking about his next move.

He’d covered some good preliminary turf, checking in with the police chief, a man overwhelmed by a job he probably lacked the requisite skills to handle. Then the meeting with the Wheeler guy at Deep Core.

At some point, he needed to get more information on the Adam Murphy murder, and he had one idea percolating in his mind on how to accomplish that. He was going back to the sheriff in the morning. Perhaps if he had better luck there, the sheriff could grease the skids on access. If that didn’t work, he could always call Judge Dixon. The Judge would call someone in North Dakota, and he’d get a copy of the Murphy investigation file that way, but he hated having to play that card. On pride alone, he wanted access on his own terms.

He took another swig of his beer and flipped on the television, catching the local news, which included a number of stories involving the oil fields and the politics surrounding a needed pipeline. The last story before the break was about Deep Core and their North Station operation going online ahead of its lease deadline of January 1. The irony was their operation had to go at the same time that oil prices were going down, half the barrel price of a year ago.

It made him think again of Deep Core. The company was playing some role in this game, and he needed to figure out what that was. It got him to thinking about the Buller family, and he hoped the sheriff could help shed some light on those murders and whether he had any thoughts on who was
really
responsible. As Mac quickly flipped through the sheriff’s report, it was again all too clear Sam Rawlings didn’t buy the meth angle, despite what the black and white of the page provided. He would get into that tomorrow.

As for today, he still wanted the inside story on the Adam Murphy murder. That brought his mind back to the first person he’d met in town—Amber.

Mac dug the slip of paper out of his pocket and smiled. He dialed her up.

“Amber, this is Mike. You met me at the gas station this afternoon.”

“The good-looking guy just coming into town?” she asked, the surprise evident in her voice.

“That’s an accurate description, if I do say so myself.”

“I must say, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. I have some availability tonight. What did you have in mind?”

“Amber, I hate to disappoint you, but the reason I called is that I need some information, and should you make yourself available a little later, I’d be happy to pay you a little something for it.”

“Pay me for information?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a cop? Because I’m not a snitch.”

“I used to be a cop. Now, I guess I’m a private investigator, and I’m looking into a case and could use a little help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Where do the police go to drink in this town?”

“That’s all you need?”

“For now, yeah.”

“That’s easy. It’s a place I never go, for obvious reasons. It’s called the County Line.”

• • •

He tweezed open the blinds one more time, scanning the immediate area. The only people and vehicles he could see were ones he recognized and knew should be there—the vehicles of members of the crew operating the nearby well. With the sun now well down in the west and the dark moonless sky enveloping western North Dakota, Wheeler set the security system and locked the dead bolt on the double-wide office trailer and jumped into his Deep Core pickup truck.

On the off chance McRyan was following, he took a circuitous route to the farmhouse, taking several rights and lefts and driving through the residential neighborhoods of Williston. Other than tanker trucks, there was nothing in his rearview mirror as he turned off Highway 85 and made his way down the desolate dirt road to the farmhouse.

Inside, he found Royce and Clint waiting, sitting at the kitchen table, fresh coffee awaiting his arrival.

“You weren’t followed?” Royce asked, easing himself down to the table.

Speedy shook his head. “No. I took my time, did a couple of double backs, and nothing but oil and water trucks. I don’t think he’s that suspicious.”

“Yet,” Royce suggested.

“That’s right, yet,” Speedy agreed. He pulled out his cell phone. “The old man wants to talk about this.”

“O’Herlihy?” Clint asked with a hint of nervousness.

Speedy nodded. “I don’t have to tell you what’s at stake here for all of us and for him.”

Two minutes later, Deep Core President and CEO Selwyn O’Herlihy was on the line with his deep Texas drawl. “No pun intended, boys, but y’all just can’t seem to cap this well, can ya?”

“No, sir,” Wheeler answered while Royce and Clint both nodded.

“These people are like cockroaches,” O’Herlihy complained. “You kill one, and two more appear.”

“In this case, one, but he’s not like the others,” Royce answered. “This one fights back.”

“Any chance this McRyan fella could recognize you two gunslingers?”

“I don’t see how,” Royce answered, shaking his head. “The only time he would have even seen us was when we tried for Hilary. He saw the truck and fired at us, but it was dark—he couldn’t see us. If he had our faces, they would be out there for the world to see. They’re not.”

“Y’all failed on Hilary,” O’Herlihy drawled.

“We did,” Royce answered.

“But we didn’t the other nine times,” Clint answered tartly, his back up a little. Wheeler and Royce both waved for him to be cool.

“I will tell you one thing,” a new voice added. “McRyan won’t quit. He’s going to keep coming—looking, pressing, digging—you name it, he’ll do it. There’s no backing down in that boy. Not a lick. Do you have a plan for that?”

“And you are?” Speedy asked, wondering who the new voice was.

“He’s with me, boys,” O’Herlihy replied easily.

“Listen,” Royce replied. “We know the score here, boss. We know what the stakes are. You’ve made that clear with the actions you’ve had us take.”

“And the money we’ve paid,” the new voice tweaked, “to all of you.”

“And we’ve earned it,” Clint snapped again, but this time Speedy and Royce didn’t respond. They didn’t like the tone from the phone either. Who was this guy?

“Look, Mr. O’Herlihy, I don’t know who the other man on the line is, but we’ve been handling the problem,” Royce stated. “My issue with McRyan is if we do him, with his profile …”

“The result will be that even more will come, because that will send up red flags telling people there is something to hide up here,” Wheeler added, finishing the line of logic. “He has friends in places you have no control over. You’ll have the FBI up here digging around, and unlike McRyan, they’ll have government power behind them you can’t control.”

“I disagree,” the voice countered. “We can fend off the EPA. We can control the North Dakota Industrial Commission. That just takes money, and once these wells get humming along, even at the lower barrel price, we’ll have plenty to spread around if we need to.”

“And,” O’Herlihy added, “if McRyan stays alive, he might bring those federal resources to bear with a couple of phone calls to his friends in Washington. From what I’ve learned of the man, he’s far more capable than the people from the FBI satellite office in Minot.”

“Either way, you’re going to have to deal with him,” the other voice added.

“Do we?” Royce asked. “I’m not afraid of doing it. I question if we need to. We recovered everything. There are no other documents out there.”

“Can you be sure of that?” the voice asked. “He has clearly found something—otherwise he wouldn’t be up there. He knows about the Bullers, or at least he has their name now. Now, you boys recovered everything that Murphy, the Bullers, Sterling, Gentry, and this Weatherly had, but those were the people we knew of. However, McRyan has clearly made some sort of link between all of these bodies. What if there is another player out there? Was Gentry the end of it? What if there are other copies floating around, hidden, just waiting to be found? If there is, I believe, in time, McRyan will find it.”

“What are you saying?” Royce asked.

“What I’m saying,” O’Herlihy replied, “is that if he keeps digging, if he finds anything or it looks like he finds anything, then …” His voice trailed off.

“We understand, sir,” Wheeler answered.

The discussion lasted another minute and then ended.

“Who was that other guy on the call?” Clint inquired.

“I’m not comfortable with another player in the game here,” Royce added.

“I don’t know who he is,” Speedy answered. “But the money for our little operation here is not coming out of the company bucket. O’Herlihy is getting the money from somewhere, and not just for this—he had to get outside money to keep this ship afloat, to get these wells online in time. Otherwise, the company goes tits up. I suspect that voice was the somewhere. I mean, think about it—if you were the one supplying this kind of money, wouldn’t you want to know what was going on?” Wheeler poured himself another cup of coffee. “Rich people stay rich because they know where every last dime is.”

“If I were him, I’m not sure I’d want to,” Royce suggested. “Because while he might look at me as a loose end at some point, I can assure you I might view him the same way.”

Wheeler stared Royce down for a moment. They were friends going way back from the ranch lands of western Texas. They’d have each other’s backs, but talking about loose ends with two professional killers gave him pause. Friend or not, Speedy knew he could be one of those loose ends at some point. That was an issue for later. “Let’s focus on the here and now and the problem directly in front of us. We can deal with the ‘voice’ later if we need to, because I agree with you—he’s a possible loose end we don’t know like we know O’Herlihy. That man has always had our back, he’s proven himself. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asked Royce.

“I would.”

“Then you’ve got your marching orders. Eyes on McRyan, and when the chance presents itself, you do what you do best.”

T
he County Line was located on the eastern end of Williston, in a long, two-story, tube-like building. While there was a small parking lot to the east of the bar, Mac parallel parked along the south side of the street.

Inside the bar, the lighting was dim and the mood subdued, the perhaps twenty or so patrons mostly spread out in groups of two to four occupying the booths and the small tables. Kenny Chesney’s
American Kids
played quietly from the jukebox while an early-season college basketball game was displayed on the four big screens hanging above the long bar that ran along most of the right side.

He immediately knew Amber was right about the County Line. Of the twenty or so patrons inside, at least half were cops, based on the inspective looks he received. The cops sized him up as he unzipped his jacket and stuffed his leather work gloves in the pockets. The glances and glares were of assessment—professionals determining whether Mac was a friend or potential problem.

Mac took no offense.

It was just what cops did. It was instinctual.

Mac was thirsty, and sitting at the far end of the bar having a beer by herself was who he’d come hoping to find—Detective Leah Brock, wearing a black leather jacket, black hoodie, and jeans. Her shoulder-length brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. As Mac approached, he saw Brock was close to being finished with her bottle of Miller Lite.

“You look like you’re nearly empty. Could I buy you another?” Mac asked.

Brock nodded slowly, and Mac ordered her another beer and a whiskey for himself as he took a seat on the barstool next to her.

“I looked you up,” Brock stated, looking straight ahead, not wanting to seem too friendly.

“I thought you might.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” Mac replied. “Call it my insightful ex-cop instinct.”

“Hmpf,” Brock snorted and took a pull from her beer. “You went from St. Paul homicide to Washington, DC, and the president’s investigator—or at least that’s how the
Washington Post
described you after that Reaper case last summer. That’s pretty heady stuff.”

Mac nodded.

“Why did you leave St. Paul to begin with?”

“I followed a girl.”

“Ahh, your fiancée. I read about her, too,” Brock replied with a little smile. “You might have outkicked your coverage there. She is really pretty. I saw her on that television over the bar not a half hour ago.”

“Yeah, she’s doing more and more of that these days,” Mac answered. “I guess that’s what White House Deputy Directors of Communication do.”

“I see. So while she’s in DC for the whole world to see, what are you doing up here at the end of the earth, and what is your interest in Adam Murphy? It all seems kind of random for you.”

“I assure you, it is not random—not random at all. A point I tried to make to your chief this afternoon,” Mac answered. “He’s kind of a tool, by the way.”

Brock slowly nodded. “He’s not the greatest cop or chief, but in his defense, he’s overwhelmed. Heck, we all are. Every cop in this bar—there’s eight of them and a couple of sheriff’s deputies. We literally have so many fires burning, there’s something new every day. If you’re a business owner in this town, you’re killing it because of the oil. So many people have money they’d never dreamed of, but the rest of us?” She shook her head. “Not so much.”