“How about the keys?”
“Wiped—or the killer was wearing gloves, or used a hankie or something.”
Virgil sighed: “Why can’t this be easier?”
They were still talking when his cell phone rang. The BCA duty officer. “A kid name Muddy just called, and said you should call right back. He said you have the number.”
21
VIRGIL FOUND the Ruff phone number on his cell phone’s “recents” list, punched it up, and Muddy picked up on the first ring. “Dad’s over in La Crosse with Dog Butt, and I was sort of out walking around, and guess what? D. Wayne Sharf is back.”
“Where?” Virgil asked.
“I don’t know exactly what’s going on, because I was inside practicing when he got back, but now he and somebody else, a woman, are sneaking in and out of his house. I think they’re taking stuff out.”
The house had been sealed by the DEA, but “sealed by the DEA” meant that there was some tape on the doors. Everything Sharf owned, aside from a few pounds of methamphetamine, was still inside.
Virgil said, “Okay—Muddy, you stay there at your house. Don’t go fooling around with this guy. We’ve been looking for him, federal agents are looking for him. He could be seriously dangerous.”
“I’ll tell you, he doesn’t seem to have a car with him. He’s either sneaking over the hills, or somebody’s going to come pick him up. If you go crashing in there, he’ll take off in the night, and you won’t see him again.”
“Right. Tell you what, we’ll come up to your house and walk down. It’s an old car, not a truck. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
—
JENKINS: “WHAT HAPPENED?”
“We gotta get back to your car. You guys are gonna need to get out of those suits, and we gotta do it in a hurry.”
They made a flying stop at Johnson’s cabin. On the way, Virgil explained the dog situation and the DEA interest in the case, and Sharf’s fugitive status. After a quick change of clothes, Virgil got two flashlights from his truck, including the jacklight, and Jenkins got his six-cell Maglite, and then Jenkins drove far too fast north up Highway 26, slowing only when they were a mile south of Orly’s Creek. At that point, Virgil and Shrake slumped over in their seats, so only Jenkins was visible at the wheel, and they took the turn on Orly’s Creek Road.
“Rough road,” Jenkins said, as they bounced past the first trailer, the one Johnson had called the lookout. “Good thing we took a well-sprung car.”
“Good thing we’re driving a piece of shit, so we don’t have to worry about breaking it,” Virgil said from the backseat.
As they came to the end of the road, Jenkins said, “I haven’t seen a single soul. Hope the guy didn’t split.”
They made the Ruffs’ house in a little over twenty minutes, rather than the fifteen that Virgil had promised. Muddy was sitting on the porch, in the dark; the only light was from the back of the house, through a window onto the porch.
“Virgil,” Muddy said.
Virgil introduced everybody and asked, “You see any cars?”
“Nothing. D. Wayne is about as lazy as a man can get, so there’s no way that he’s going to walk if he can ride. He’s still there.”
Shrake looked back down the valley and said, “Dark out there. I’m more of a snatch-him-off-the-barstool type.”