Silent Approach Page 5

  The chief nodded. “Yes, and we didn’t train our first man properly. We didn’t think it was necessary. It was a foolish decision on our part. We have since learned better and have trained Mr. Harper here on how to protect himself. And he has full police authority on tribal lands. This may be a surprise to you, but there is an entire criminal subculture that digs in our sacred burial mounds and village sites at night, looting our heritage and selling it to collectors.”

  “Are these artifacts valuable?”

  The chief smiled. “We hear of handmade pots selling to Asian collectors for $10,000 each. Ceremonial spear points called turkey tails sell for one hundred dollars per inch, and they can be eight to ten inches long. A warrior might have a cache of twelve to fifteen buried with him.”

  “That adds up!” Agent Haden and Garner looked at each other. “We had no idea.”

  “All our sacred places have been pillaged while under the watchful eye of the park rangers—who are there to interpret and tell our story—by clever thieves who use the cover of night to extract what they want. Now they are destroying the sites on private land, stealing from owners who have no idea these criminals are out there.”

  “What can be done?”

  “There are stiff laws to protect these antiquities. But there is very little manpower to enforce those laws. It’s a shame,” the chief explained. “But let me assure you we would cooperate with your investigation and would offer Mr. Harper as our liaison to assist you. I think you will find he is quite capable, although still new to all this.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s exactly what we were hoping to hear.”

  “All I hope is that you permanently disrupt the group that’s selling these artifacts, and that you can determine what happened to our man so that we can bring some closure to his family.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”

  “And if any artifacts are found that may belong to the Choctaw Nation, that they are returned to us. The same goes for the Moundville collection.”

  “Of course,” the agents said at the same time.

  “I’ll leave you to work with Mr. Harper, and he’ll keep us informed of your progress. And I expect my security chief will ask around discreetly and determine why Mr. Walker is a frequent visitor.” The chief rose gracefully and shook each agent’s hand.

  “Thanks again,” Agent Haden said.

  John Allen Harper stood, out of respect for his boss. He was excited to be working with the FBI and to have a chance to find the missing man. He took a deep breath, privately hoping he would prove a worthy asset to the investigation. This was a big deal, but he was ready.

  Chapter 11

  After the chief and one of her advisers left, the agents shared a few more details with John Allen and the tribal head of security. The acronym for his title was “HOS,” and since he was a big guy, everybody just called him Hoss. He looked like a full-blooded Indian, and he always had a scowl on his face. Evidently security for the tribe was a worrisome job. John Allen realized he didn’t even know the guy’s actual name.

  Each little bit of information further energized John Allen. He wanted to catch this guy for so many reasons. He wanted closure for Wyatt Hub’s family, he wanted to see Winston Walker convicted for the murder of Jim Hudson, and he hoped to stop the illegal sale of Indian artifacts. With luck he might even find some that he could bring back to the tribe.

  Garner and Haden acted interested in John Allen’s retelling of the events surrounding Hub’s disappearance. John Allen told them everything he knew, much of it learned from reading reports, and Hoss filled in more details. Everyone seemed to think it worth investigating while they pursued Walker for the murder of Jim Hudson. John Allen also shared his recent experience at the gun show. All he knew was that the young man had a Meridian phone number, but he thought that might be significant. Maybe he had a lead into Walker’s criminal operation.

  Hoss silently studied the photo the FBI had provided of Winston Walker. While there was no way he could know everyone who visited the casino and the many businesses the Choctaws ran on their thirty-five thousand acres sprawled across ten counties, he suggested it was likely that Walker was a regular at the casino, which boasted the greatest flow of repeat customers. He promised he would meet with casino security to see whether anyone recognized Walker’s face or whether he’d signed up for any VIP programs. If he frequented the casino, someone would know.

  John Allen became aware that Agent Emma Haden was studying him. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she said, “how long have you been an agent for the Choctaw Nation?”

  He blushed a bit. To him, the phrase “agent for the Choctaw Nation” made him out to be something more than he was. He hoped she didn’t ask what he did every day. He suddenly didn’t want to admit he traveled around and bought arrowheads. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was hunting for them on eBay or hanging out in Internet chat rooms that discussed Indian artifacts. Some days he even spoke to elementary school classes around the state, when he couldn’t make contact with anyone else. He’d been issued a pistol, but he hadn’t been carrying it every day, and of course he’d never arrested anyone.

  “A little over a year,” he said, then took a sip of cold coffee.

  Agent Garner had also turned his attention to John Allen. “What kinda background do you have?”

  “I was an accountant and ran the Columbus branch office for a good-size accounting firm. We did some work for the tribe. They had a need, and I wanted a new career, so here I am.”

  Agent Haden seemed about to press him for more details, then appeared to think better of it, saying instead with a reassuring smile, “We actually have a lot of accountants on staff with the Bureau. They’re a huge help with white-collar crime.”

  John Allen sat up a bit straighter and tried to think of something to say, but his mind was a blank. Agent Emma Haden wasn’t just pretty, but flat-out beautiful, he decided.

  “So tell me,” she said, leaning forward, “if Walker was selling artifacts, what would be something that he couldn’t resist? Is there a Mona Lisa of Indian artifacts?”

  John Allen hesitated. He knew the answer and knew Hoss did, too. Hoss always preferred to listen rather than to speak, but that wasn’t the reason John Allen knew Hoss would be reluctant to provide the answer. Like any Choctaw, he would have trouble speaking about the artifacts Emma Haden was asking about.

  John Allen sighed and leaned forward. “Skulls. The guys that are really into selling the artifacts value skulls.”

  “Oh, my. Are they still around? I would have thought they would have deteriorated by now.”

  “Most have, but as I understand it, every now and then the conditions are just right to preserve one, and they’re considered a trophy. They’re pretty rare.”

  “Are they legal to possess?” Agent Garner asked.

  “It’s complicated,” John Allen hedged.

  “Very complicated,” Hoss added, his disgust at the idea coming through clearly in his tone. “Most folks don’t want anything to do with them, but there are those who do want them, for whatever reason.”

  “Do y’all have any here?” she asked.

  “No, we bury all the bones we come across at a sacred site,” Hoss said. “They are never stored like a souvenir.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m just trying to think of a way to get Walker’s attention.”

  “You should think of another way,” Hoss replied. “That’s not a good idea.”

  Agent Haden nodded, then looked at John Allen. Clearly she hadn’t meant to offend anyone.

  John Allen went on to say that the remains of anyone, particularly Indians, were treated with the utmost respect. The Indians believed that the artifacts, especially the bones of buried Indians, held great spiritual value for them as a people. He knew his reply was long-winded, but he felt she needed to hear their stance with respect to a tribal member’s remains—and Hoss needed to hear it delivered to her.

  “Look,” Joh
n Allen said to her, “we’ll be working together on this, I hope, and I can explain further if you have more questions.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I will have more. For now, though, let’s return to Jackson and discuss how we want to proceed, then get back to you. In the meantime, if you have any ideas, let us know. You have our numbers.”

  Hoss stood and shook their hands. He didn’t speak to John Allen as he left the room, and that made John Allen curious. Had he managed to offend the man with his explanation? Then, when Agent Haden shook his hand, he thought she held his gaze a bit longer than normal. He didn’t have any idea what to think about that, so he just pushed it aside. He genuinely looked forward to working with them.

  Chapter 12

  It had been almost two years since Sadie’s accident. John Allen had settled into a routine during the day that was comforting to him, but nights could still be tough, dredging up memories of his past life. He was alone, and the television was the only thing keeping him company. Lately he’d been binge-watching Game of Thrones on HBO and some fishing shows on Pursuit Channel. Some nights he listened to Pandora and sang to himself if the songs weren’t too sad. He tried to remember Sadie’s regimen of healthy suppers but wasn’t doing a very good job at that. Tonight he’d prepared a tuna sandwich, though at least he went light on the mayonnaise—something else he’d learned from Sadie. He chased it with a cold Corona. He’d noticed that his pants were fitting a bit tighter and realized he wasn’t getting any younger and that his metabolism was probably slowing down. He’d seen an ad for Anytime Fitness. Maybe he would join, he thought as he enjoyed the beer.

  After he turned off the TV, the barn was quiet. It was May in Mississippi, and the air conditioner seemed to always run except late at night. The daytime temps were inching into the nineties, and every afternoon there was a small shower that popped up on the radar. But everything was dry—the crops, gardens, grass, and even blooming daylilies needed the moisture. While he considered whether this would be a good month to get back into bass fishing, his mind drifted back to Winston Walker.

  He had read everything the FBI agents had given him. After that he’d Googled the man and found a very basic website for Winston Walker Publishing. There were several pictures of him in a coat and tie, looking like a wiz at business. His site praised the quality of his magazines and their readers and touted the rewards of advertising with them. None of the magazine titles interested John Allen in the least, and he’d never heard of them. John Allen knew there were a lot of costs to publishing magazines. There were graphic artists, editors, and writers to be paid, plus printing costs, postage, and just general overhead. Magazines that couldn’t adjust to the new digital age were folding every month across the country, but John Allen also knew a well-run magazine with a solid ad base and lots of subscribers could still be very profitable. Accountants always admired magazines because subscribers gave their money up front on the promise you would later deliver magazines to them. But it was a setup ripe for a con artist to exploit. Winston’s favorite angle appeared to be to mail letters to potential subscribers announcing a new magazine he thought they’d be interested in, then keep their cash and never publish the magazine.

  Google also turned up an article in the Meridian Star newspaper that briefly mentioned the hunting accident, and a fund-raiser that had been held to solicit money for the victim’s children’s college fund. He found himself wondering whether Winston Walker still went on hunting trips. Had he gone out again that season, and did he intend to hunt this coming fall? A traumatic event like that could really have an impact on a man, he thought, then remembered that Walker had most likely committed murder. The hunt had only been the means to cover it up.

  John Allen had grown up hunting with his father and had really enjoyed it. His father had been a member of a duck club in the Mississippi Delta, and they’d spent many weekends chasing ducks. He knew how to handle a shotgun and had never, ever felt uneasy or unsafe around any of the other hunters. It would take a cold-blooded person to aim at a man’s head and pull the trigger. Taking another life would be a terrible burden, John Allen figured, but maybe not for someone like Winston Walker. John Allen studied the man’s eyes in his photo and wondered what he was really like. He hoped for the chance to meet him and form his own opinion.

  The idea Agent Emma Haden had suggested about using a skull as bait was a good one. The Choctaw Nation would never allow any bones they had in their possession to be used in that manner, but maybe they wouldn’t even need an actual skull. If Walker was knowledgeable about Indian skulls, he would be well aware of their rarity, as well as their value to a certain kind of collector. Most diggers and mound looters were scared to death of bones and wouldn’t have anything to do with them. Everyone in that world had heard stories of people taking bones home and having Indians visit them in their sleep, or of suddenly growing deathly ill or having some unusual calamity befall them. A few stories even ended in the death of the person possessing the bones. John Allen had no idea whether the stories were true, but they were plentiful.

  On the other hand, he knew there were collectors who craved that sort of thing, and if they were interested, middlemen like Walker would be more than willing to turn a fast buck. John Allen was highly motivated to learn more about Winston Walker. He just might help solve a murder, possibly two. Right now he knew there were more questions than answers and that there were families hurting. John Allen understood hurt, and he wanted to help ease their pain. Tomorrow he would call Agent Emma Haden to discuss his idea of using a counterfeit skull.

  That same night, Winston Walker sat in his den and checked the text messages on his iPhone for word from his team that was out night-digging on a farm two counties south of him. When he found no messages waiting, he composed a text asking whether they were finding anything. The team reported they weren’t, and that pissed him off. It also made him wonder whether they were telling the truth. The team leader’s name was Runt. Winston trusted him, but only so far, as Runt was addicted to meth. Runt assured him there wasn’t much more he could do. The topo map he’d studied had indicated the location had promise, though.

  Winston ran his fingers through his hair and swallowed a big swig of scotch. He needed some money. Not a huge sum, but not a small one, either. After doing some calculations, he figured he needed about seventy grand to keep everything afloat. He was badly overextended on his home mortgage, and his ex-wife was threatening to sue if he didn’t catch up on her alimony payments. He was two months behind on his Suburban payments and on every other monthly bill except the electricity. The power company was one of the few he couldn’t bullshit for a little more time.

  His publishing business was tanking, and the last of the advertising-sales guys, the lifeblood of the company, were about to leave. This was hardly surprising, as he hadn’t given them a full paycheck in a long time. With great effort he’d successfully talked them into staying on, hoping they could sell more than they cost him, but it had been a break-even strategy at best. However, with them gone he’d have no hope of generating any revenue at all through the magazine.

  He had already stiffed the printer for the last two issues of the gardening magazine, and he couldn’t use that print shop again until he paid up, which he had no intention of doing. For the next issue, he planned to print only enough of to send one copy to each advertiser, to make them think he’d printed a full run. That would buy him some time, if the advertisers would pay their bills promptly.

  He plopped down on the couch and stared at a rerun of The Big Bang Theory while he considered his alternatives. Maybe I should get into television production or make a movie. That’s where the real money is.

  After only a few minutes, he snapped off the TV. He needed to do something. He thought about any assets he had that he could sell to raise some capital, but none came to mind. His best hope was discouraging as hell to contemplate: a group of drug-addicted diggers who worked days in a chicken-processing plant and spent several nights a wee
k digging artifacts for him. He needed them to find some good stuff. Something he could sell fast.

  He lit a cigarette and thought about where they could dig next. It was time to take some chances and go back to the place he knew had what he needed. It was a risky plan, and in order to pull it off, he’d have to make Runt some big promises.

  Also that same night, Agent Emma Haden was working late.

  She’d been an FBI agent for ten years now. She’d grown up in Lakeland, Florida, and attended the University of Florida, where she’d studied criminology. She’d always been interested in law enforcement, and the events of September 11 had sealed the deal for her. She wanted to catch criminals and do her part to make America safer. Her time at Quantico had been the most difficult experience she’d ever been through, but she’d managed to pass. Emma hadn’t been at the top of the class, but she hadn’t been at the bottom, either.

  The Bureau had moved her several times, but no move had yet allowed her to be close to her home state of Florida. She’d done a stint in Seattle, then Bozeman, Montana, then Salt Lake City, and now Jackson, Mississippi—a step in the right direction, anyway. She was glad to be back in the South for a variety of reasons. While in Seattle she’d met a Boeing engineer who’d found her sassy and tart while they were dating. But once they were married, he’d claimed she’d developed an attitude. She hadn’t felt she’d changed, but he obviously had—or maybe he’d never really understood the concept of monogamy. The end of their marriage after only two years had been an embarrassment for her, as it turned out he’d been having an affair with her best friend, who also happened to be his personal trainer. Fortunately, the Bureau had offered her a chance to move, and she hadn’t had to remain in the same zip code as her ex-husband and ex–best friend. Since they’d had no kids, the split had been pretty simple, except that he’d kept begging her to take him back. Emma hadn’t been even remotely interested and had poured herself into her work and wine.