I glanced over my shoulder to where Patrick and Tyler were running around with Randall’s twin girls in the dirt. The four of them were chasing Harold and May—now each weighing close to sixty pounds—who were squealing in delight.
The remaining adults were Bree and her boyfriend, Billy.
After stalking him for nearly nine months, true to Bree’s plan, Billy and his girlfriend had broken up, and she had slid right in.
But that wasn’t all that Bree had been up to over the course of the past month. She’d also been busy uploading the recording she’d taken at Simon Beach and posting it to a website called Reddit. She’d cut and spliced the recording so that it was only Chief Eccleston, Mayor Van Dixon, Greg Mallory, and David Ramsey talking about the cover-up. She eliminated anything said by Wheeler or me, as well as anything related to the Save-More murders. Then she anonymously uploaded the file with pictures of the four and titled it “Lunhill rBGH Cover-up.”
The post quickly gained traction and within a few days, the mainstream media jumped on the story. By week’s end, downtown Tarrin was teeming with news vans from all over the country. It wasn’t long after that when the FBI took notice.
The story dominated the news cycle for the next few weeks and so began the fallout:
Both Chief Eccleston and Mayor Van Dixon resigned from their posts and were under investigation for a slew of different charges, including government fraud, kickbacks, and of course, public corruption.
Greg Mallory was also under investigation, but having not held a position in government, he would probably receive the most leniency of the bunch.
As for David Ramsey, after Lunhill stock plummeted 45 percent, the board of directors voted him out as president and CEO. His stock options were worth $670 million, which would come in handy when hiring a team of lawyers to fight the onslaught of lawsuits that awaited him.
As for Lunhill, there were rumors swirling that pharma giant Bayer would buy them out by year’s end.
But the person facing the most serious charges was Victoria Page. An FBI forensic accountant had sifted through twenty years of her work as Tarrin comptroller. He uncovered that she had not only laundered nearly $20 million in payoffs from Lunhill, but she’d also siphoned off another $13 million from Tarrin taxpayers.
She’d been indicted on seven different charges and, if convicted, would most likely spend the next twenty years behind bars.
Jerry’s involvement in the embezzlement scheme, setting up bank accounts and trusts, and moving money all over the globe, had yet to surface. But it was only a matter of time. At some point in Victoria’s trial, or should she plea, the story would come out.
But hopefully, in the wake of Jerry’s tragic hot air balloon accident and that he would need help wiping his ass for the remainder of his life, they would let him slide.
After we ate, I grabbed two beers from the fridge and made my way toward Randall. He was sitting between his wife and Wheeler.
I handed him one of the beers and said, “Take a walk with me.”
He glanced at me suspiciously, shrugged, then took the beer.
Wheeler tried to fight back a smile.
Randall stood up and the two of us started toward the charred remains of the barn. I never did find out who burned it down. It could have been Chief Eccleston. Or it could have been Matt Miller. There’s even a chance it could have been started by a wayward firework from one of the neighbors.
I would never know.
“What’s going on?” Randall asked.
I ignored him and just kept walking.
A few feet later, there was a soft pitter-pattering and I turned around.
It was Harold and May.
I crouched down on my haunches and let the two attack me with kisses. “Hi, guys,” I said. I gave them each a long rub, then a kiss on the snout.
“The looney bin, I tell you,” Randall said with a laugh.
I stood and wiped away a bit of moisture on my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Are you crying?” Randall asked.
Again, I ignored him.
I continued walking, Randall following next to me in silence. We pushed through the now earless stalks of corn, walked for a good ten minutes, until we came to the fence that signaled the far edge of the Humphries Farm.
I took a sip of beer, then pointed with the bottle at the farm next door.
“What do you see?” I asked.
Randall cocked his head at me and said, “I guess I see a four-hundred-acre farm.”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. I handed it to him.
He set his beer on the fence post and unfolded the paper.
I said, “No, that’s your four-hundred-acre farm.”
He blinked, his head shaking from side to side, then exclaimed, “What? How?”
“Let’s just call it reparations,” I said, then added, “from our friends at Lunhill.”
The $2 million that David Ramsey had given me in exchange for my silence—and true to my word, I had destroyed everything that Darcy Felding had given me—had covered the cost of the farm, a remodel of the farmhouse, and two brand new tractors.
Randall leaned forward and pulled me into a giant hug, then he lifted me off the ground.
“Be careful,” I wheezed, “I’m not as big as I used to be.”
After nearly four months, I was finally back to my original weight.
Randall set me down, wiped his eyes, and said, “I can’t believe this.”
I smiled, then said, “And you’re gonna have to rip down this fence.”
He looked confused.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“What?”
“This isn’t me. I’m not a farmer.”
I’d come to Missouri a broken man. But the Humphries Farm, Randall, Wheeler, Bree, Harold, and May…
They’d healed me.
“What about Wheeler?” Randall asked.
“She knows.”
I’d told her a couple weeks earlier. She made no plea to come with me and I made no plea for her to join. I think we both understood what the relationship had been. A treasured summer.
