by Ben Rehder
Armando said that he wasn’t, and Nicole proceeded to give him a description of various services that were available to him as an individual affected by a crime. The list was quite impressive—ranging from counseling to crisis intervention to guidance through the legal system. Armando had had no idea that that type of program even existed.
“Almost anything you need, you can ask me,” Nicole said. “I am here to help you in any way that I can.”
She was so sweet and genuine, Armando almost began to cry.
“Maybe it’s time to hit the road,” Dustin Bryant said as they waited for the waitress to bring the check. “Head on back home.” He said it quietly, casually, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. Trying to sound like the whole Blanco scene had grown boring and Dustin was ready to move on. Like he wasn’t pretty damn terrified that the sheriff would show up any minute and put them all in cuffs.
After Gilbert had joined them at the table, Dustin had noticed that just about every customer in the café was taking sideways glances at the three of them. Dustin and Dylan hadn’t been able to hear what Gilbert had said to the game warden, but it couldn’t have been good. Gilbert had told them he was “just saying howdy,” but Dustin wasn’t buying it. Gilbert had never just said howdy to any law-enforcement officer in his life. What he did instead was taunt and tease them, like he’d done with the sheriff and his deputy the day before.
“That might not be a bad idea,” Dylan said, backing Dustin up.
“Jesus Christ, y’all need to quit being pussies,” Gilbert said. “Cops around here are clueless and those voicemails are just bullshit. They’re trying to rattle you, ’cause they ain’t got nothin’. Get it?”
“I’m not even talking about all that shit,” Dustin said.
But those voicemails were exactly why he was ready to leave town. The sheriff had left a second one an hour after the first, saying he was trying to get arrest warrants for all three of them, so Dustin’s time for making a deal would run out soon. A couple of other times, the sheriff had called without leaving a message at all. Dustin had told Gilbert that the sheriff was calling and hassling him, and now he was wondering if he should have kept that between him and Dylan.
Did the sheriff really have video of the assault last night? On the way to the café, Gilbert had insisted on driving past the convenience store to see if there were any exterior surveillance cameras, but they hadn’t seen any. Didn’t mean there weren’t any, as far as Dustin was concerned. Maybe they were concealed.
Of course, Dustin hadn’t shared everything with Gilbert. He hadn’t revealed that the sheriff was offering a deal to Dustin and Dylan—if they would rat on Gilbert. When Gilbert had asked to hear the voicemails, Dustin said he’d deleted them already. He hadn’t.
“Then what are you talkin’ about?” Gilbert asked now.
“This pig hunt.”
“What about it?”
“Waste of time. I gotta get back to work in a couple days. Besides, what’re the odds we even have a chance at it?”
Gilbert grinned. “Getting better by the minute.”
Last night, he’d started a rumor. Everywhere they’d gone, he’d spread the word that the pig had been shot yesterday evening. “God’s honest truth,” he’d said to the doubters. See, he’d seen the dead pig with his own eyes. Saw the tattoo in the ear. He’d been standing right there when the TV news crew had come out and interviewed the man who’d shot it. The story hadn’t aired yet, but it would soon. So the contest was over. Ain’t that a bitch? Might as well pack it up and go on home. Gilbert was a great liar. Most everyone he’d talked to had believed him. And the traffic around town had seemed lighter this morning, like some hunters had already cleared out. Dustin would never have thought of a trick like that, but it came natural to Gilbert. Kind of funny that it was working.
The phone on Dustin’s hip vibrated again. He ignored it.
When they came outside, the man who had been having lunch with the game warden was sitting, boots dangling, on the opened tailgate of a truck parked with its nose toward Highway 281. The man hopped to the pavement and immediately headed their way, with a deliberacy to his stride that was unmistakable. Dustin didn’t know why, but just like last night at the convenience store, he had the distinct feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong. He was tired of having that feeling.
Apparently, Gilbert saw the man coming, too, because he simply stopped and waited where he was, fifteen feet from the restaurant’s front door, squinting, with a toothpick nestled between his lips. It was a clear day and the sun was beating down with a surprising intensity for September.
The man stopped five feet away, locking eyes with Gilbert.
Gilbert spoke first, saying, “You need something, sport?”
“Just to be clear, since you don’t strike me as the most intelligent guy I’ve encountered this week, when I was talking about the shooter being a coward, I was referring to you. You were the shooter, so you’re also a coward. Am I wrong on either count?”
Jesus, Dustin thought. This guy doesn’t fool around. Comes on strong, right from the get-go.
Dustin glanced over at Gilbert, who had a smirk on his face, as usual. Like he was amused, but not worried in the least. Gilbert slowly pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and casually flicked it into the parking lot. “Who the hell are you again?”
“My name is Phil Colby.”
“You really this dumb, Phil Colby?”
“Who can tell? I’ve never had my IQ tested. You gonna answer my question?”
“You ready to take on three guys at once?”
Colby said, “What, you three? There won’t even be one to take on. I’m a good judge of people, and I’m pretty sure about that. Your two friends aren’t gonna back you up. They don’t think you’re worth the trouble. Anybody can see that, except you, I guess. That leaves you, by yourself, and you don’t really concern me.”
Gilbert gave a fake chuckle. “Why’s that?”
“Cowards aren’t much of a threat, except for shooting people in the back.”
Gilbert looked at Dustin and said, “You believe this guy?” Dustin didn’t say anything. He was so tired of Gilbert and all the trouble that seemed to follow him around.
“Of course, you’re welcome to prove me wrong,” Colby said.
“Yeah? How would I do that?” Gilbert was still smirking. “Just for conversation’s sake, tell me.”
“Kick my ass.”
The tension was ratcheting up so high, Dustin could hardly stand to watch. He could feel perspiration trickling from underneath his armpits. He was tempted to walk away, get in his truck, and drive home to East Texas without stopping. But he couldn’t move.
Gilbert said, “That’s all it would take? Kicking your ass?”
“You bet. A coward wouldn’t have the guts to even try.”
“You’re a feisty little booger, aren’t you?”
“A better question is: Why are you still talking when you should be kicking my ass?”
Dustin had never seen anyone deal with Gilbert this directly, and without the slightest detectable trace of fear.
“I guess because it don’t really matter to me whether you think I’m a coward or not,” Gilbert said. “You’re nobody. You’re some game warden’s jack-off buddy, that’s about it.”
“See, you’re still talking. Still mouthing off. That’s what cowards do. Easier to talk than to take action. By now, your friends are starting to understand what a coward you are. Their respect for you—if they ever had any—is gone now.”
“Fuck you.” Now the smirk was disappearing. This man had definitely gotten under Gilbert’s skin.
“More talking. Easier than proving you’re not a coward.”
Dustin had lost track how many times Colby had said the word “coward.” He was repeating it, Dustin knew, because there weren’t many worse things to call a man.
“Listen, asshole,” Gilbert said. “I don’t have to prove anything to
you. Besides, how do I know you aren’t setting me up? That game warden probably asked you to do this so he could arrest me for assault.”
“He doesn’t know I’m still here. And you and your buddies can say I started it, because it’s true. I did start it. That means you won’t get arrested.”
“I will be if I throw the first punch.”
“So that’s what’s holding you back? You want me to throw the first punch instead?”
The four men were standing in front of a plate-glass window that gave everyone inside the restaurant a clear view of the parking lot. Dustin glanced through the glass and saw that virtually every customer was watching the scene that was unfolding outside.
Gilbert hadn’t answered the question, and Dustin didn’t blame him. There was something about this man that was intimidating as hell. He reminded Dustin of some of the pit dogs he’d seen—the ones that would keep fighting, injured, bleeding, it didn’t matter—until they’d destroyed their opponent. Relentless determination. Once they started, it was almost impossible to make them stop.
“I’ll do it,” Colby said, leaning closer, his voice low. “Just say you want me to. That’s all you gotta do. Just say it. But you should know that I won’t stop with the first punch. That man you shot at? The game warden? He’s my best friend. Known him since I was six years old. I love him like a brother. So if you tell me to throw the first punch, you better believe I will, and I’ll try to do as much damage to you as I possibly can. One or both of us will be leaving here in an ambulance. So go ahead. Say it.”
Dustin realized he was holding his breath—and trying to decide what he’d do if the shit hit the fan. Cover Gilbert’s back? Not a chance. No, the only question was: Stay and watch or get the hell out of Dodge?
Gilbert looked like he was just about to act. A punch, a headbutt, something. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The moment passed.
“Well, I guess that answers my question,” Colby said.
He turned and walked to his truck without a backward glance.
Another day, another shopping excursion. Apparently. This time, Leigh Anne Beech went south on Highway 281 out of Johnson City, as she’d done the day before, but she bypassed the turnoff on Highway 290 to Austin.
Going to Blanco?
Nope. She passed through and kept going.
Forty minutes later, she entered the northernmost outskirts of San Antonio. Turned right—west—on Loop 1604. Exited at Blanco Road and took the turnaround over the highway, which put her going east on the access road. Turned into a shopping center called Ventura Plaza and parked in front of a restaurant called Silo.
Roy Ballard parked several rows away and watched Leigh Anne Beech enter the restaurant by herself. He had binoculars, and he was lucky that the restaurant was fronted with a wall of windows. He watched from seventy yards as she was shown to a table where two women—attractive, of course, and about the same age as Leigh Anne—were already seated. They rose to greet her and air kisses were exchanged all around.
Roy grabbed one of his cameras—one with a superzoom lens—and took several shots of the women. Chances were good he would never need the photos for anything, but taking photos didn’t cost anything.
While the threesome had lunch, so did he: a turkey-and-avocado sandwich he pulled from a small ice chest, plus a bag of chips and a can of root beer. He was done in about ten minutes, whereas the ladies stretched their lunch to an hour and a half. Then they appeared to request that the waiter provide separate tickets for each of them.
Finally, out they came for some animated chat on the sidewalk, followed by more air kisses, and then Leigh Anne Beech got back into her BMW and went west once again on Loop 1604. Not going home just yet. She exited a few minutes later and pulled into a shopping center called the Shops at La Cantera.
It was only when a Lexus parked next to the BMW that Roy realized one of the other ladies from lunch had followed Leigh Anne Beech over to the shopping center. She had to have been behind Roy on the way over, and that made him feel sloppy. He could have been spotted. Fortunately, these women weren’t trained surveillance experts, and Roy’s aging beige minivan was all but invisible to anyone in these ladies’ tax bracket.
They shopped for about two hours, which resulted in Leigh Anne Beech carrying one small bag from a place called bebe. All lowercase letters. Marketing geniuses. Roy noticed that the women lingered in front of Victoria’s Secret, looking into the windows, but they didn’t go inside. Darn the luck.
Just before rush hour, the ladies went their separate ways. Leigh Anne Beech drove her BMW straight home.
“This asshole is really starting to piss me off,” Nicole said.
She and Marlin were sitting on the porch swing, beer bottles in hand, an hour before dark. Geist was lying in the yard, twenty feet away, enjoying a patch of weak sunlight. Marlin had just finished recounting his experience at the café that afternoon, including Weems’s veiled threats.
“I don’t think I’ve ever come closer to losing my cool,” Marlin said.
“That’s what he wanted you to do.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m proud that you didn’t.”
“Thanks. Both of us need to be careful. Keep our eyes and ears open.”
“We will.”
“I have to admit, I’m feeling a little, I don’t know—like I should’ve...”
“Broken his nose? Kicked him in the teeth? Ruptured his kidney?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I know you know better than that. That would’ve been a disaster.”
Marlin took a long drink from the bottle of beer in his hand. “Sure would’ve felt good.”
“Besides,” she said, “if it comes to that, I get first crack.”
He looked at her. “You’re really worked up, huh?”
“What he did to Armando Salazar should put him in prison for years. That poor guy absolutely did not deserve what happened to him. Gilbert Weems is an animal and he should be locked up.”
“Agreed—if it was him.” She whirled toward him with her mouth open and her eyes wide, and he said, “Hold on, take it easy. I’m not saying it wasn’t him, but we still need to prove it.”
CHAPTER 28
The next morning, Marlin met Bobby Garza and chief deputy Bill Tatum in the conference room at the sheriff’s office. Garza had texted them both the evening before to arrange the meeting. The sheriff arrived a few minutes late, but he was carrying a box of glazed donuts, which he set in the center of the table.
“Breakfast of champions,” Tatum said.
“Only the best,” Garza said.
Marlin took one and set it on a napkin. He already had a mug of hot coffee.
“Okay,” Garza said. “I wanted to sit down and talk for a minute about both the Sammy Beech case and the walking crime wave known as Gilbert Weems. Both of these cases are going nowhere, and frankly, it’s starting to piss me off. So let’s do some brainstorming and see if that gets us anywhere.”
“Can’t hurt,” Tatum said.
“John,” Garza said. “Tell Bill about your run-in yesterday with Weems.”
Marlin had called the sheriff the previous afternoon and given him the highlights of his encounter at the café, but now he described it in detail for the chief deputy, including the veiled threat about paying Nicole a visit while Marlin was on patrol.
“Kudos for keeping your cool,” Tatum said. “I bet you wanted to knock him cold.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“He just loves to provoke, doesn’t he?” Tatum said.
“Nice of Phil Colby to say some of the things you couldn’t,” Garza said. “You talk to him since then?”
“Phil?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Apparently, he had a few words with Weems in the parking lot,” Garza said.
“Huh. I hadn’t heard about that.” Marlin remembered now that Phil had seemed to linger in his truck after lunch. Obviously, he
wanted Marlin to leave so he could confront Weems by himself.
Garza said, “At this point, I gotta be honest—unless something shakes lose, Weems is gonna skate on two felony charges.”
“Still putting pressure on Dustin Bryant?” Marlin asked.
“Yeah. He hasn’t gone for it yet. I’ll keep after him, but I really thought he’d break by now. I said we had video of the assault, but in hindsight that might’ve been a mistake. Easy enough for him to go back to the store and see if there are surveillance cameras, at which point he’d know I was lying.”
Marlin said, “Did you say the video was from a surveillance camera?”
Garza paused, thinking, then smiled. “No, I said it was all on video, that’s all. So it could be video from someone’s phone. That’s where you were going, right?”
“Exactly.”
“So maybe I give him one more push, saying not only is it on video, but we have a witness to boot. I mean, we’d have to have a witness, if someone shot it on their phone.”
“The only flaw with that,” Tatum said, “is why would someone be shooting video of Weems or Salazar prior to the assault? We know from Sharon Greene that the assault was sudden. There wasn’t an argument or confrontation beforehand. So why would someone be recording the scene? Just random coincidence? That seems like a stretch. And if we did have video, why wouldn’t we have already arrested Weems?”
“Yeah,” Garza said, deflating. “Those are good points.”
“On the other hand,” Marlin said, “if Bryant thinks you lied to him about having video, what’s the harm in pushing it further? You come right out and say it’s a cell-phone video, but it’s not that great, so we’re working on getting it cleaned up. That means now’s the time for Bryant to come forth as a witness himself, while he still has a chance. Maybe that will push him over the edge. With luck, he won’t even wonder why anyone was shooting video. Or maybe he’ll think you’re stretching the facts—that you do have video, but it’s of the moments right after the assault. He’d have to call your bluff to find out.”