Dark of the Moon Read Free

scheme, leveraged through the commodities markets. Farmers would grow seed tubers and sell them to other farmers, who’d grow seed tubers and sell them to more farmers, and eventually somebody, somewhere, would make them into fuel.
    They ran out of farmers before they got to the fuel makers; and it turned out that oil would have to cost more than $50 a barrel for fuel makers to break even, and in the early eighties, oil was running at half that. The people who’d staked their futures on the Jerusalem artichoke lost their futures.
    Judd was more prosperous than ever.
     
    B UT HATED.
    Hated enough, even, to be murdered. Nobody knew where the Jerusalem artichoke money had gone—Judd said it all went for lobbying, for getting bills passed in St. Paul and Washington, for preliminary planning and architectural work on an ethanol plant, and loan service—but most people thought that it went into speculative stocks, and then a bank account somewhere, probably with a number on it, rather than a name.
    The Stark County sheriff at the time, a man named Russell Copes, had been elected on a ticket of putting Judd in jail. He hadn’t gotten the job done, and had shortly thereafter moved to Montana. The state attorney general took a halfhearted run at Judd, on the evidence developed by Copes, and there’d been a trial in St. Paul. Judd had been acquitted by a confused jury, and had moved back to his house on Buffalo Ridge.
    That was a greater mystery than even the Jerusalem artichoke business: why did he stay?
    Stark County was a raw, windy corner of the Great Plains that had been losing population for half a century, bitterly cold in winter, hot and dry in the summer, with nothing much in the way of diversion for a rich man.
    Now his mansion was burning down.
    Everybody in town would know about the fire; even with the thunderstorm coming through, a half-hundred souls had come out to take a look at it.
    When Buffalo Ridge became a state park, Judd had donated two hundred acres of prairie, which had been expansively appraised and provided a nice tax deduction. As part of the deal, the state built an approach road to the top of the hill, where an observation platform was built, so tourists could look at the park’s buffalo herd. Judd’s driveway came off the road. The way the locals figured it, he not only got a tax deduction for donating two hundred acres of unfarmable rock, he also got the state to maintain his driveway, and plow it in the winter.
    Virgil had been to the park a dozen times, and knew his way in, threading past a line of cars and trucks pulled to the edge of County Road 8. A sheriff’s squad car blocked the park road up the hill, and a crowd of gawkers stood just below it. Even from a half mile away, the fire looked enormous. He eased the truck past the rubberneckers and up to the squad. A cop in a slicker walked up and Virgil rolled down the window and said, “Virgil Flowers, BCA. Is Stryker up there?”
    “Hey, heard you were coming,” the cop said. “I’m Little Curly. Yeah, he’s up there. Let me get my car out of the way.”
    “What about Judd?”
    Little Curly shook his head: “From what I hear, they can’t find him. His housekeeper says he was up there this afternoon. He’s senile and don’t drive himself anymore…so he might still be in there.”
    “Burning pretty good,” Virgil observed.
    “It’s a fuckin’ tornado,” Little Curly said. He walked back to his car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and pulled it through the fence. A woman with a beer can in her hand flipped back her rain-suit hood and peered through the driver’s-side window at Virgil. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and good-looking, and she grinned at him and twiddled the fingers on her beer-free hand. Virgil grinned back, gave her a thumbs-up, and went on by Little Curly’s car and followed the blacktop up the hill.
    At the house, the first thing he noticed was that the firefighters weren’t fighting the fire. No point.