“Nick, what’s happening?” Kelly asked.
“I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
“You’re working on something, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re supposed to be resting. The only work you were going to do was on the ranch.”
Owen sat down beside Lori and put his arm around her. She stood abruptly, said one last thing, and stomped back inside the restaurant. Owen watched her go, then walked back to his pickup.
“Nick, are you still there?” Kelly asked.
“I gotta go,” I said and disconnected. I had to make a choice—confront Lori while she was reeling from a slap in the face, or squeeze the truth out of her boyfriend?
I chose Owen. Dealing with tearful females wasn’t my specialty. I followed him east out of town. The road paralleled the Pedernales River through prime farmland and dozens of new businesses. Everything from wineries, produce stands, antique shops, to an upscale brewery popped up here because it was the main road to Austin, where most of the weekend tourists came from. Owen’s family had property here and in a half dozen places around the county.
When he turned north on a gravel road, I fell back a few miles. His dust cloud was easy to follow, like chasing a tornado across Kansas.
I passed stock ponds and rocky pastures full of sheep, goats, and cattle before the column of dust began to settle. I looked at my watch. Five fifteen. If I turned around now, I could make it to the motel by six, in time to meet Kelly. I wouldn’t be showered or checked into the room, but I would be on time.
Life was full of choices. Meeting Kelly was going to have to wait. I pulled to the side of the road. Owen’s pickup turned off, went over a cattle guard, and disappeared into the brush. The terrain was steep, rocky, and covered with cedar and post oak trees. The temperature was October hot, which is to say you wouldn’t get sunstroke, but it felt better standing under a shade tree. I turned off the engine, unrolled the windows, and listened to the hot engine tick.
The stretch of road seemed familiar. The contour of the surrounding limestone hills lined with dense brush sparked a memory that danced on the edge of my consciousness. I watched two turkey vultures float in a leisurely circle, searching the road for their evening meal. Their black wings tipped just enough to keep them moving forward. Then I realized where I was.
This was the same remote area where my dad was murdered. He was serving a warrant on a drug operation that was set up in an old trailer house. The site was maybe a mile west of where I was sitting. The deputy who brought us the news had said not to visit the area because there was nothing to see but the burned remains of a trailer—some melted aluminum siding and a dozen or so blackened cedar trees. Naturally, I had to see it for myself.
Since the incident involved the county sheriff, the Texas Rangers had conducted an investigation. They said the fire was probably sparked by gunfire from one of the suspects and accelerated by volatile chemicals they were using to cook meth. It was before anybody really knew what the drug was and the cooks could still buy all the necessary ingredients at the local drug store.
The Rangers found the remains of five bodies. One was a fourteen-year-old girl, and one was my dad. The girl was the reason he had gotten a warrant to search the trailer.
The fire burned so hot that it melted his 1911 .45 pistol down to the ivory handles. The other weapon he carried was a Mossberg shotgun. There was nothing left of it but a twisted piece of the barrel. I kept the ivory handles on my fireplace mantel in my house in San Antonio as a reminder of his sacrifice.
My cell phone rang. I snapped out of my musing and glanced at the caller ID. Kelly. It was five forty-five.
“Are you ready to polka?” she asked.
“Who isn’t?” I said. She was bound and determined to get me on the dance floor.
“Where are you?”
“On a dirt road about ten miles out of town.” A flash of sunlight reflected off a piece of glass or metal about five hundred yards from the road. “Hold on one sec.” I dug my binoculars from the console, put the phone on speaker, and tossed it on the dash.
“What are you looking at?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I put the glasses on the brush-covered hillside. I saw the outline of a double-wide trailer. The flash of sunlight must have come from the front door swinging open. Most of the yard was invisible to the road unless you knew where to look. With the Bushnell ten-power binoculars, I could make out two figures standing by the door. They were only partially obscured by the surrounding brush. One was Owen, and the other was a big guy with a blond ponytail that hung down to the middle of his bare back. His muscles were well defined, like a body builder’s, and covered with tattoos. When he turned, I saw the head of a red-and-green dragon decorating his right breast. He was laughing at something Owen said. The butt of a pistol protruded from his tight jeans.
“You still there?” Kelly asked. “I’m on Main Street now. Wow, it’s like downtown Lubbock on game day. You weren’t kidding about Oktoberfest being popular.”
Ponytail stepped back into the trailer and shut the door. Owen had already stepped behind a tree. I could hear a pickup engine start.
“Keep going through town. The motel’s on the east side. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said and disconnected.
If I waited by the side of the road, Owen would pass right by me. I didn’t want to lose the element of surprise, so I started my pickup and made a U-turn in the gravel and headed back to town. If Maya was hiding out in the trailer house, I wanted to stop by unannounced and get her side of the story.
Chapter Eight
There was a bevy of German-themed motels in Fredericksburg complete with Bavarian murals on the outside walls and cuckoo clocks in the rooms, as well as dozens of bed and breakfast rentals catering to Oktoberfest visitors, but they were all booked several months in advance. I’d put my name on a waiting list and been lucky that the Best Western had a cancelation. The franchise owner had tastefully added an edelweiss flower painting to the lobby along with the usual western kitsch to give the place a local flavor.
The alternative would have been for Kelly to stay at the ranch, but I didn’t want her and Helen under the same roof. I’d learned at an early age that sound travels well in a stone house with wood floors. I could never sneak out, talk on the phone, or do anything private that escaped my dad’s or later my grandparents’ attention.
I spotted Kelly’s Dodge Ram pickup parked in the shade near the motel entrance and pulled up next to her. She wore her short blond hair loose and had on a red Texas Tech T-shirt and khaki shorts. As always, she looked like she could ace the Marine obstacle course.
I wasn’t sure of the current status of our relationship. We first met in the Marine Corps when we were both stationed in Afghanistan. We were attracted to each other then, but she was an officer and I was enlisted, so there was really nothing we could do about it. Four years later, we met for beer at the VFW along the San Antonio River Walk. At the time I had just started dating my law school classmate. Kelly was just mustering out of the Marine Corps and moving back to her hometown of Lubbock, where she got a job working for the campus police. Fast forward two years, and I called her to help me with a murder case. She ran a test on her sophisticated Rapid DNA equipment that helped me track down the killer. Oktoberfest weekend was going to be our first reunion since she had left to return to work the day after my release from the hospital.
I looked at my dirty T-shirt and sweat-stained baseball cap in the rearview mirror. I hadn’t showered or put on clean clothes. So much for getting off on the right foot.
“You look amazing,” I said, trying to sound suave and debonair. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me hard on the lips. My dirty shirt and sweaty cap didn’t faze her at all. “Sorry about the T-shirt. I—” Thankfully, she didn’t let me finish.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured.
We were barely able to get the key from the slightly embarrassed desk c
lerk and make it to our second-story room before we had our clothes off and our arms and legs wrapped around each other like two high school kids on prom night.
By eight p.m. she informed me it was time to polka. She modeled the dress she’d found for the occasion. It was a modern version of the traditional dirndl that fit her like a glove.
“I can’t believe you don’t have any lederhosen. You’re all into your German heritage.”
She seemed a little disappointed.
I confessed that I did have a pair but that I’d grown out of them in high school. I’d never bothered to update my wardrobe.
“We’ll have to fix that.” She went into the bathroom to put the finishing touches on her outfit. “I’m going to buy you a pair for next year,” she called from the open door. “Will you wear them?”
I didn’t commit one way or another. Kelly put on some country music while she worked on her hair and makeup. I figured I had a year to form an acceptable negative response.
Next year. I liked the way she said that, like us being together until next year was a given.
Chapter Nine
I parked on a side street near the town square, and Kelly and I followed a line of people to the ticket booth. Every year on the first weekend in October, the Marktplatz across the street from the county courthouse was fenced off for the weekend festivities. The night was usually warm. Fall weather comes late to Central Texas, something I’m sure it took the first German immigrants a while to get used to. Most of the attendees wore shorts and T-shirts. There were dozens of men wearing lederhosen, and double that many women wearing dirndls. Some of the costumes fit well. Others were new and stiff and obviously purchased for the weekend occasion. Everybody was in a festive mood.
As we stood in line, I admired Kelly’s blue-and-white dirndl that extended to her mid-thighs and showed off her tan athletic legs. She caught me looking.
“You’d look good in leather shorts,” she said. “I’ll bet they sell them here.”
“I heard they were sold out. We’ll have to wait for next year.”
Her laughter made me glad she was here. The stars were visible above the glow from the tents and food booths in the square and added to the friendly small-town feel. The family in front of us included four generations who had probably never missed a festival.
“Are any of the parties involved in your missing persons case going to be here tonight?” Kelly asked.
“Everybody shows up at the Oktoberfest,” I said.
She looked a little disappointed. “Does that mean you’re working?”
“Maybe I can solve the case during the polka dance.”
“You’re not getting out of dancing.”
I slipped my hand in hers and smiled. “We can always go back to the motel room.”
Her smile reappeared. “Don’t expect special treatment every night.”
“If it’s because of the bullet wound, I’ll get shot more often.”
“Don’t even say things like that,” she said, and spit between her fingers.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“You just spit through your fingers.”
“To ward off bad luck.” She smiled mischievously.
I paid for a couple of tickets, and we shuffled through the crowd to the beat of tuba and accordion music. We passed the octagon-shaped Vereins Kirche Museum—a replica of the original community church—and a giant-sized beer stein that served as a welcome sign and photo opp. I led the way to the food court, where I bought a German sausage sampler plate for us to share, then we moved on to the biergarten for a couple of souvenir cups filled with German beer. I pulled my baseball cap down low over my eyes, hoping not to have to talk to too many hometown people I knew. So far it was working. I’d passed a dozen people I grew up with who didn’t seem to recognize me. It helped that Kelly was with me. Most of the looks we got were focused on her. When we reached the main tent, my hope of anonymity ended. Every table was full, and every table held someone who knew me and wanted to shake my hand. They weren’t fooled by the baseball cap.
The old-timers reiterated their condolences for Grandpa’s passing. His funeral was less than a month ago, so it was fresh on everybody’s mind. What I dreaded most was having to retell the stories of Grandpa’s murder and my shootout with Marcus Lopez, the corrupt San Antonio attorney who was running for governor without regard to ethics or legality.
Telling that last story was easier because Kelly had been there. She wasn’t shy about filling in the details. She was a police officer and had been a Marine MP, so she was very good at giving the facts. At the end of the story, most of the listeners would shake their heads and say something like, “It’s a wonder y’all ’re still alive.” I wondered that too but tried not to think about it for too long.
Thankfully, the band was loud enough under the tent to restrict conversations to short periods when they were on a break. Kelly was serious about dancing, and we did our best imitation of a polka dance along with the throngs of college kids, locals, and tourists from all over.
When they started the “chicken dance,” I was happy to take a breather and step outside the tent. The warm October night had us both sweating. I was about to suggest that we call it a night and sneak back to the Best Western when I heard a familiar voice.
“Fischer, you ol’ scallywag!”
I knew that high-pitched, nasal voice anywhere and immediately felt like I was back in high school stepping out of the locker room.
“Rocky V,” I said and raised my beer. “Prost. You remember Kelly.” Everyone had met Kelly during Grandpa’s funeral.
He wore the red cap with the Battlin’ Billies logo, red polyester shorts that stretched over his beer belly, and a white polo shirt with Coach V stitched above the breast pocket. He also had two prominent front teeth that gave him a permanent smile.
“Sure do.” His eyes were glassy even in the dim light. “You look prettier than a Munich barmaid.”
Kelly held out her hand, but he went in for the hug. It was awkward. He planted a wet one on her cheek. When he untangled from Kelly, he grabbed my free hand and shook it like a workout rope in the gym.
“Easy,” I said. “I’m still in recovery.” I knew I would be sore in more places than one when the sun came up.
“Sorry. Keep forgettin’ you’re Wyatt Earp.”
His wife followed a few steps behind him. She hadn’t been to the funeral because she was the head volleyball coach and was with the team at the time on an out-of-town game. This was wife number four for Rocky. I was best man at this first wedding because it had come the week after high school graduation. The bride, his high school flame, was three months pregnant.
Wife number four was younger than Rocky by ten years, which would put her in her early twenties. Rocky had met her when she transferred from Round Rock as a senior in high school. She had a matching polo shirt that was a size too small.
“This is my wife, Gwen,” Rocky said. “She just got her boobs done.”
Gwen stuck out her chest for us to admire. “Nice, huh?”
“Nice to finally meet you.” I held out my hand, trying to avoid eye contact with her implants.
Gwen skipped the hand and went in for the hug. I gritted my teeth. She pushed her enhanced boobs into my chest.
Kelly rolled her eyes.
Gwen turned to her. “I just love your outfit, honey,” Gwen said. She tugged at a handful of Kelly’s dress like she was examining a mannequin at Walmart. “Aren’t you a tiny little thing?”
“What’d ya think of our little celebration?” Rocky asked her.
Gwen didn’t wait for her to answer. “I saw you two cuttin’ a rug out there. Are y’all takin’ lessons?”
They fired questions from both sides, but neither was sober enough to care about the answers.
Kelly smiled and took my hand. “This is our first dance.”
“Aren’t you two just t
he cutest couple?”
Kelly’s smile got a little bigger.
“Have you seen Jimmy or Castro? They’re around somewhere. Allison’s here too. Three sheets to the wind. She’s lettin’ it all hang out, if you know what I mean.” Rocky winked at me.
Gwen slapped him on the shoulder. “You stop that, now.”
“It’s true,” he said.
A group of high school kids passed us, giggling a little too loudly. “Hey, Coach V,” they said in unison.
Rocky and Gwen both turned to them and waved. Owen Bauer was in the group. He had his head down, trying to go unnoticed. Lori wasn’t with him, neither was Maya.
“Saw you in the parking lot after practice,” Rocky said. “Why didn’t you stop by the locker room?”
Gwen grabbed Kelly’s arm and pulled her away. “Let the men catch up for a minute. Follow me to the little girl’s room,” she said to Kelly.
Kelly’s eyes pleaded with me to intervene, but I wanted to quiz Rocky about Owen, so I just smiled.
“Here’s some tickets. Bring us a round of beer when you come back,” Rocky yelled over the crowd noise. He thrust a roll of concession tickets at his young wife.
“I heard about your little interrogation,” Rocky said. He sounded a little irritated. “Why ’re you pickin’ on my star quarterback?”
“I just asked him a few questions about—”
He cut me off. “Maya Chavez. I know. Word gets around fast, or did you forget? Owen didn’t know she was old man Geisler’s granddaughter.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Just sayin’. Did you talk to Zeller? He was around asking the same questions a few weeks ago.”
Les Zeller was a Battlin’ Billy a couple of years ahead of us in school.
“I followed the Bauer kid after I talked to him. He went to see Lori Kostoch. They argued, and he belted her in the face.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. You know how these kids are. It’s high school. Tomorrow they’ll be partying at Lori’s mom’s house.”
Second Chances Page 4