The Moon Pool (16 page)

“Here you go, then,” Scott said, holding the bag out as though it was a box of long-stemmed roses. “Can I walk you to your car?”

Colleen searched for Shay, but she had disappeared. The only people on either side of the glass doors were men dressed in work clothes.

“Oh, thanks but I... have to pick up a couple things in the other side,” Colleen said.

“All right, then. Uh, I'll be looking forward to hearing from you. Have a good presentation.”

“Thanks for the wine.” Colleen headed out into the cold and walked toward the other set of doors without looking back. Inside, she ducked to the right, to the darkened Subway counter, where she was hidden from view. She waited, her heartbeat slowly settling down.

Her phone rang. Shay.

“Hello?”

“What are you up to, girl?”

“I'll explain. Uh... can you pick me up by the main entrance?”

“Yeah, I just watched you walk back in there. After I watched you with that guy long enough to figure out you didn't need me horning in. Give me two minutes.”

“
WHITE NORRIS
,”
SHAY
said thoughtfully. “How many rigs do they run in Ramsey County?”

“I didn't ask,” Colleen said, sounding exasperated. “Maybe you could've gotten him to just turn over his industry secrets on the spot, but I'm not used to talking to strange men in liquor stores.”

Shay resisted rolling her eyes, and after a moment Colleen apologized. “I'm sorry. I'm just a little tense, and... well, thanks for coming to pick me up.”

“It's no problem.”

Shay concentrated on her driving. It had started snowing hard while they were in the Walmart; now the flakes made a blur in the taillights of the truck in front of her.

The directions Roland texted her led to a duplex on a street not much different from Brenda's, visibly run-down even under the cover of snow. There were already three vehicles in the driveway, so they parked on the street. As they stepped into a plowed pile of snow on the sidewalk, Shay guessed Colleen was glad to be wearing her new boots.

They trudged up the steps. The door on the right side of the duplex opened before they had a chance to knock. Roland was waiting, dressed in a Steelers jersey and a pair of sweats.

“Come on in, don't let the cold in,” he said, ushering the women inside, where they stamped snow onto the towel-covered mat in front of the door. They added their boots to a pile that filled a huge Rubbermaid tote next to the doormat. The house smelled of microwave popcorn. As they were shucking off their coats, a woman with oversize glasses and a ponytail sprouting from the top of her head came into the room with a tray of mugs.

“Hi,” she said. “I'm Nora. My daughter's asleep in the back of the house, so I hope you don't mind talking in the front room. I made y'all some coffee.”

“Thank you,” Shay said.

“I'm really sorry to show up like this,” Colleen said. “You and Roland—we appreciate it so much.”

“No, listen. If something happened to my daughter... I don't know what I'd do. Okay. Y'all need anything, just holler. I'm going to go work on papers in the den.” Roland took the tray from her, and she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. A look passed between them.

“She teaches at the high school,” Roland said gruffly. “She's got to grade papers. Here, go ahead and sit.”

He set the tray on a worn oak coffee table, and the women sat down on the couch. He pulled an armchair closer to the table.

“You know anything about the Fort Mercer reservation?” he asked without preamble.

“You mean the Indian reservation?” Shay asked.

“Yeah. Upward of five hundred thousand acres an hour east of here, mostly Oyate. Got a casino, a couple of one-stop-sign towns, and a lot of unhappy folks living in trailers. Oh, and a fair amount of oil just sitting there under their alfalfa fields and grazing land.”

“Why aren't they selling it?”

“Well, that's the big question, right? Turns out that through a series of incredible screwups, some of them their own fault, they've managed to sell the rights at a fraction of what they're worth. Like in some cases, less than one-one-hundredth of their value when you figure in the bonus and royalties.”

“How does that even happen?” Shay asked.

“Well, the tribal council is supposed to negotiate on behalf of its members and distribute the profits from the tribal leases. But that ain't been happening, and things are getting out of control.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand,” Colleen said. “What are the tribal leases? And bonuses and royalties?”

“The mineral rights? You know how that works, right?”

“No, I...” Colleen reddened.

Shay tried to curb her impatience. After all, most of what she knew about this stuff came from Taylor; it didn't sound like Paul had told his parents the first thing about the job. Still, she was surprised Colleen hadn't been curious enough to learn on her own. North Dakota oil was showing up in the national news more and more often, and a single Google search brought up thousands of results.

But maybe Colleen had tried to ignore it, hoping that would make it all go away. Maybe she figured that if she refused to acknowledge the oil boom that had lured Paul far from home, from the tidy little life she and her husband had planned for him, he'd eventually give up and come home.

But it hadn't exactly worked out that way, had it?

“Okay, well, just because you own surface rights to a piece of land, you don't necessarily own the mineral rights,” Roland explained. “Like if you own your house, right, you're in charge of your yard and the water and electric lines that come into it and all. But you don't necessarily own what's beneath it, including the oil. People who own land out here, they lease out the mineral rights so companies can come in and drill, and they can make a lot of money that way. The big companies almost never own the land, just the rights, and then they pay royalties back to whoever holds the lease and a bonus when the well goes into production. A well might have an active life of twenty, twenty-five years, so it adds up. And since most people don't have the ten million dollars it takes to drill their own well, they have to go that route and let the companies do it.

“But what happened on the reservation got all fucked-up—excuse me. The tribe still holds the rights on a lot of the land out there, and they've got a tribal council that's supposed to negotiate for the best interests of all the members, and then the profits go back to the people. But so far no one's seen a dime. The council leased the land a few years back to a number of individual speculators at incredibly unfavorable terms, and then it turned out they were all acting on behalf of Hunter-Cole, which turned around and bought the leases from them, and now Hunter-Cole holds the leases for like a quarter of the drillable land up there. There's a guy on the council who made a shitload of money on the deal, and if you ask me, that's the real crime in all this, since he was the one that green-lighted the deals in the first place. Hunter-Cole bought and paid for him. But tribal lands are still held in trust by the US government, so the thinking goes that the government should have stepped in to stop this all from going down. Save them from themselves, so to speak. And now they've got three or four lawsuits challenging the leases.”

“But I still don't understand how this could affect our boys. Or anyone working on Hunter-Cole rigs. I mean, none of them had anything to do with these deals.”

“Yeah, but get this... these leases? They were nearly all for three years, which is the standard term. And they're going to start expiring soon. The way it works is that as soon as a well starts producing, the company has the right to work it as long as they're still bringing oil up and paying the royalties. But if Hunter-Cole hasn't put wells into production, the tribe has the right to let the lease expire and resell it.”

“Shit,” Shay said, as it all suddenly came together. “And let me guess what could get in the way of Hunter-Cole drilling.”

“Safety violations?” Colleen guessed, her face going pale.

“OSHA investigations?” Shay said. “Rig fires in the news, footage of bad accidents?”

“OSHA... hah,” Roland said bitterly. “Most people don't know this, but OSHA can only level fines. They can't actually shut down a rig. Hell, there was a Nabors rig out here, they had three guys die over eleven months, and the thing's
still
running.”

“So it has to be... individual lawsuits?” Shay guessed.

“Yeah. And so far they've controlled things pretty well, but all it's gonna take is one guy—or his family—willing to tell Hunter-Cole's lawyers to jam their tiny settlements up their ass and go public. I doubt they could shut down existing operations, but you get a big enough lawsuit, with enough exposure—throw in allegations of a cover-up—it could halt new drilling. So, the Indians' wet dream is someone gets hurt and has the balls to raise a stink.”

“My husband is a lawyer,” Colleen said. “What if he threatened to start looking into the violations unless they cooperate with us to find the boys?”

“I don't know,” Roland said doubtfully. “As long as your sons are missing, there's no threat to them. It has to be someone who can actually prove they've been hurt.”

“And who doesn't need the money for hospital bills,” Colleen said, her voice barely a whisper.

“Look, this is all speculation,” Roland said. “I have no way to back any of it up.”

“What's your angle, anyway?” Shay asked him. “How do you know so much?”

“Know what I used to do, back in Ohio?”

“No,” Shay said. She had a feeling that the answer wasn't going to be a pretty one.

“I taught high school civics. When my daughter was born, she had a rare skeletal condition that's going to require a dozen surgeries as she grows up. We thought, at least we've got great health insurance. And then the school district started cutting costs and my wife and daughter didn't qualify for their insurance anymore. We were on the hook for almost fifty thousand dollars in bills by her first birthday.” He scowled. “We were divorced by her second birthday. By the time she turned three, I was up here trying to make a dent in what I owe. I come home covered with drilling mud, but somewhere under there I guess I'm still kind of a news junkie.”

Roland took a sip of his coffee. Colleen gripped her mug tightly but didn't drink. Shay thought through everything he'd said.

“Back at Walmart, you didn't want to talk about any of this.”

“Well, think about it. I got debt back home, and my girlfriend moved up here to teach. What happens if I lose my job? I'm fucked. And if anything happens to me, everyone I care about is fucked too.”

“What do you mean? What would happen to you?”

“I knew this guy, derrick hand on my first job. Friend of his died when the hand brake on a geronimo failed. So he started making a fuss about the routine safety checks not being performed. A few weeks later, he died in a snowmobile accident on the reservation.”

“Are you saying... was there something suspicious about his death?”

“I can only tell you what I heard, because they kept the whole thing hushed. But supposedly he was found at the bottom of a hill with the snowmobile turned over a few feet away. But what killed him was getting hit on the
back
of the head. They say his brains were leaking out of it. And you don't get hit like that running into a tree. Also, what was he doing on the reservation? It's not like people go up there recreationally. Unless they were trying to send a message...”

“Didn't the police investigate?”

“The
Lawton
police?” Roland snorted. “Gimme a break. They blame everything on budget and staffing issues, but whenever anything happens on the worksite, they're nowhere to be found.”

“But what about their own police? Don't they have their own law enforcement?”

“Oh, now that's a whole other can of worms. Reservation law enforcement's a joke. They can't do much more than hand-slap their own. And if any outsiders are involved? It's out of their jurisdiction and you have to get the staties or the Feds in. So what happens is they hardly ever prosecute anything. I'm no fan of the tribe, but what you hear about them raping women up there, taking guys out of their cars and beating the shit out of them—it's mostly the opposite that's true, because if a white guy commits the offense, then the tribal officer's hands are tied.”

“So you're telling me no one's even looking into this whole angle?” Shay demanded.

“What if we contacted other agencies ourselves?” Colleen said, mostly to Shay. “Cut out the Lawton cops and see if we can find someone else to pick up the case, since it potentially involves the Indians. I mean, maybe we could even get FBI, right?”