Reyland sat up.

“That’s the most important thing of all,” he said. “Containing and burying the inside of that plane. A video getting out is beyond comprehension.”

“I know,” said Emerson.

“So bear down,” Reyland said.

“What do you think I’ve been doing, boss? He’s digging in. The little prick is actually tougher than I first thought.”

“Short and spunky. Terrific,” Ruiz said, taking a quarter out of his pocket.

“So you’re thinking he might have made a personal copy of the video or something?” Reyland said.

“Maybe,” Emerson said with a nod.

“Do you have his phone?” Ruiz said.

“Yes. It’s an iPhone, but he won’t give me the passcode,” Emerson said. “Little Porky Pig was adamant about that. Told me to go f-f-f-screw myself.”

Reyland blew out a breath. Here he was thinking they’d have some smooth sailing and now this. He looked over at Ruiz, who nodded. They’d already been going over worst-case scenario contingents concerning the diver.

The B plan was drastic and had its own downsides and risks. But this whole situation was about as desperate as it got.

“Okay, Emerson. Good job,” Reyland said. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

“What? You don’t want me to try some more?”

“No. Don’t worry about it. You’ve done your part. We’ll leave him to Ruiz and his men.”

Emerson had a disappointed look on his face as he picked up his soda and left.

“So if the diver doesn’t know where the money is, where is it?” Reyland said.

Ruiz brought his right fist up onto the table, walking the quarter back and forth over his knuckles. He spun the quarter on the tabletop and then slapped it flat and peeked at it.

“A local must have taken it,” he said. “Saw the wreckage, grabbed a bobbing suitcase before the coast guard found it. A fisherman or a sailboater.”

“A local civvie,” Reyland ruminated, taking out his phone as he watched Ruiz spin the coin again.

They really would have to do it the hard way, he thought.

22

Sergeant Jeremy made a funny humming sound as he bumped along the uneven field with his grandkids at his farm in Greencastle.

There were six of them altogether stuffed into the tiny cab of the old blue Ford tractor. The two older boys were hanging out the open left side and the two girls out the right. The littlest one, three-year-old George Junior, sat in his lap laughing as Sergeant Jeremy hummed and let him steer.

As usual on his day off, Sergeant Jeremy was “tilling the earth,” as his wife sarcastically called his on-again, off-again interest in working their ramshackle farm. He had exchanged his uniform for a T-shirt and jeans and a Miami Marlins baseball cap, and he and the grandkids were coming back from spreading compost at the top field. Now after helping Pawpy, they were taking the long way back before Granmama’s Bible class.

He saw the man as they arrived at the end of the field. He was standing in a patch of sunlight a hundred feet down the old cow path. The man was white and tall and was wearing a dark polo shirt and business khakis.