A Reckoning in the Back Country

by Terry Shames

That’s what we do, her a plain hamburger, and me a chili cheeseburger, and we bring them back to the station so we can talk while we eat.

  “I’m trying not to jump to conclusions,” I say right off, “but it seems like an awfully big coincidence that dogs have been stolen and that dogs killed Lewis Wilkins. But I’m damned if I can make the connection.”

  “Maybe there’s no connection. Maybe it really is nothing more than coincidence.”

  “There’s something else, though. Remember what Margaret said about the two men who attacked her—that one had light hair and the other dark?”

  “You think they could be the ones who did it?”

  I hesitate. “I don’t have any real reason to think so, but that’s a second coincidence. One coincidence I can ignore, two not so much.”

  My phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize.

  “Uh, is this Craddock?” Whoever he is sounds furtive.

  “Yes, this is Chief Craddock.”

  “This is Randy Coyle.” He’s mumbling and I have to strain to hear him. “Dunn, down at the motorcycle place, asked me to give you a call. Said you had some questions?”

  “Mr. Coyle, I appreciate your getting in touch. When can we meet?”

  “You understand this is off the record. Dunn told me you were a man of your word, but I have to be careful.”

  “You have my word. I need to get a general idea. I don’t have to hear specifics.”

  Maria is watching me with curiosity. She’s not used to hearing me pussyfoot around.

  He tells me where I can meet him. “I don’t want to be seen with the law,” he says.

  When I hang up, I tell Maria where I’m going.

  “I hope he isn’t planning to ambush you,” she says.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t trust people who are into something so awful.”

  I haven’t spoken to Margaret since she got out of the hospital, although Maria called her earlier this morning. Margaret said that aside from a headache, she’s okay and that her son is taking good care of her. She also tells me that Connie called and is going to bring some food to her.

  I’ve got some time before I have to meet Randy Coyle, so I run out to Margaret’s place. It’s time I bring her up to date on the investigation, although I dread it.

  Daniel meets me at the door, and before I can say anything, he puts his finger to his lips and steps out onto the porch. He looks grim. “I want to talk to you before you go in with my mother. Do you have any clues about who attacked her?”

  “She wasn’t able to give a description. I’ve talked to the Department of Public Safety about getting more people on the case, but they said it could be a week or more. So until they take over, I’m pursuing a couple of ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not at liberty’? Don’t give me that small-town cop BS.”

  I blink, not having expected him to lash out. “You think you’d get more information out of a big-city cop? I sincerely doubt it. We’re not in the habit of discussing our suspects with civilians.”

  Now it’s his turn to blink, and he shakes his head as if to clear it. “I apologize. I’m on edge. I need to get back to work, but I don’t want to leave Mamma here by herself after what happened.”

  “I understand. What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m in commercial real estate. Just getting started. It’s a tough business to break into.”

  “You in San Antonio?”

  “Actually, I’ve just moved to Houston. The opportunities are better there. I got hired on by a big company.”

  The door opens and Margaret peers out. “Daniel, why don’t you invite Chief Craddock inside?”

  Margaret has a haunted look that I’ve seen before in people who have been assaulted, but as usual she has herself under control. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to check on you and update you on the case,” I say. I tell her the same thing I told Daniel, that until the DPS sends out a team, I’ll continue to investigate. We sit down in the living room. She sits in a chair that is surrounded by signs that she is cared for—a stack of books, a footstool, and a lap blanket—and Daniel sits where he can keep an eye on her.

  “Have you remembered anything else about the men who attacked you?”

  “It was so sudden.” She kneads her brow with her fingers. “I’ve gone over it again and again, and I don’t remember anything I didn’t already tell you. One of them did most of the talking, and he wasn’t brutal. He almost sounded apologetic.”

  “You said you were afraid they would kill you.”

  “Yes, I was. I didn’t know what they were going to do. And then when they left me tied up, I was afraid nobody would come to find me.”

  Daniel groans.

  “Give it some more thought. Either of them use an unusual phrase or mention the other one by name—you’d be surprised at the number of people who get caught because somebody forgot and used a name.”

  She bites her lip as she tries to recall the incident, and at one point she shivers.

  “You really think this is going to do any good?” Daniel says sharply.

  “Daniel, I don’t mind, if there’s any chance of catching these people.”

  “I want to know what they were after,” Daniel says.

  I’m startled. I look at Margaret, and she has her hand over her mouth. She drops her hands into her lap. “Go ahead and tell him.”

  I fill him in on the money I found in Wilkins’s SUV. “I don’t suppose you know what your daddy intended to do with that much money.”

  “Not a clue.” His eyes are blazing and he blurts out, “But whatever it was, he clearly didn’t intend to let my mother know he had it. From what you’ve been finding out about him, it was probably to pay off gambling debts.”

  “Daniel, we don’t know that. Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “The guys who attacked you weren’t kidding around,” he says to her. “They were thugs. Dad was associating with thugs.” He’s practically shouting. He gets up and shoves his hands in his pockets. “You have the money now?” he says to me.

  “It’s in a safe deposit box. At the moment, it’s evidence. Eventually it will go to your mamma, unless it’s stolen, and then it will be up to the state to figure out where it goes.”

  CHAPTER 24

  I follow Randy Coyle’s directions to a trailer park out between Jarrett Creek and Bryan. At his request, I’ve changed into civilian clothes and I’m driving my own truck, so people won’t recognize me as a lawman. All the way I work to tamp down my memory of that terrible fight my daddy took me to. It’s not like I haven’t gotten over it; I hadn’t thought about it in years. The events of the past week and a half have dredged it up.

  The “trailer park” is a collection of RVs and Airstreams in a clearing off the road that seem to have gotten together with no central idea. It reminds me of a haphazard wagon train in a western movie.

  Coyle’s trailer is not the worst of the lot. It’s reasonably clean on the outside but looks abandoned. The curtains are drawn and there’s no car around anywhere. But when I knock on the door, it opens and a man says, “Get inside.”

  I go in, alert, ready to pull my weapon if I have to. The light is dim, but when my eyes get accustomed to it everything looks fine. The man in front of me is slim, dressed in well-pressed khaki pants, a plain white T-shirt, and a jean jacket. His brown hair is cropped short, and he’s clean-shaven. He’s a nice-looking guy, and as Dunn mentioned, he looks like he is a regular citizen, and not someone into a horrible pastime.

  He doesn’t offer to shake hands, and neither do I. I’ve brought a six-pack of beer as he requested. He asks me if I want one, but I tell him no so he puts the whole pack into the refrigerator without taking one himself either.

  He motions for me to sit at a small dinette table next to the kitchen, and he sits opposite me. “What is it you wan
t to know?”

  I’ve figured that he’s not going to give me long, so on the way over I prioritized my questions. “I’ve heard that people who fight dogs use pets for bait dogs.”

  “Bullshit. That’s a stupid rumor. Why would a person who respects dogs do something so awful? I’ve heard that rumor before and it pisses me off.”

  Respects dogs. Right. “I assume that dog matches bring out heavy gambling.”

  “It’s like any other sport.”

  “Sport?”

  “Damn right, it’s a sport. How is it any different from getting someone in top form to box or wrestle? Or getting a horse in condition for a race? You think a racing horse has a say in the matter?”

  “They’re running a race, not trying to attack each other. And the man who’s boxing has a say-so in the matter. The dog doesn’t.”

  “Of course he does. If he doesn’t want to fight, he sits down.”

  “And gets torn to pieces?”

  He slams his hand down on the table. He may look innocuous, but he has a short temper. “You see, that’s why I don’t like to talk to outsiders. You don’t get it. People who have a dog they’ve raised and trained don’t want to get them killed, or hurt too bad. A dog is no good to you dead. If they get too badly injured, they’d have to be put down. So if they’re getting the worst end of the deal, you pull them. With a fighting dog in top shape, you patch him up and in a few weeks he’s good to go.”

  He sounds reasonable, but I have trouble with the concept. “I assume most of the dogs you fight are pit bulls?”

  “A good number.” He looks at his watch.

  “Ever heard of a cane corso being fought?”

  He holds his hands up like I’m holding a gun on him. “Every now and then you’ll hear of it, but that’s a dog you don’t want to mess with. They’re trouble.”

  “More than a pit bull?”

  “Your pit is loyal. Your corso has the reputation of being unpredictable. Not that I know from personal experience, and I don’t intend to.”

  “Would anybody ever put a cane corso into a fight if it wasn’t trained?”

  “Oh, hell no. Fighting dogs have to be trained right from a pup. You can’t just go out and find a dog and say, ‘get in there and fight.’” He glances at his watch again.

  “A couple more questions. I understand that people who set up dogfights move around. Have there been any in the area recently?”

  “I can’t answer that.” He gets up. “I’m going to have to call this quits.”

  I get up, too. “I appreciate your information. One quick thing. If somebody bets on the fights, how deep in debt can they get before they’re in big trouble?”

  He squints his eyes, thinking. “That’s hard to say. Depends on who you’re in debt to and how much they think you can get your hands on.”

  “As much as two hundred thousand dollars?”

  He blows out a breath. “That’s some serious debt. I was thinking more in the fifty-thousand range. Two hundred thousand? I never heard of anybody getting close to that, and I think I would have heard. People would talk.”

  I’m getting into my truck when my phone rings. It’s Wendy, and for once I don’t feel excited to talk to her. It’s hard to shift gears after what I’ve just heard.

  “Wendy? Where are you?”

  “I’m leaving for the airport and wanted to say good-bye. That’s all.”

  “Which airport are you leaving from?” I want to feel some connection because she’s leaving, but I’m numb.

  “I’m driving to Houston. The best flights leave from there.”

  “I wish I could have driven you there.”

  “It’s best this way. I’m glad I didn’t get your voicemail, though. At least I get to say good-bye for real.”

  “I hope you have a good time,” I say, but it still feels wooden. How can someone like Randy Coyle exist in the same world with Wendy?

  I’m out of sorts when I get back to the station, but I feel marginally better when I walk in and find Maria playing with Dusty. She’s tied a knot in a length of rope, and he’s worrying it and yipping at it.

  “Glad you made it out alive,” she says. “Did you get any useful information?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. He said he didn’t know anybody who would fight cane corsos, so those dogs that killed Wilkins were probably not fighting dogs.”

  “Then why did they attack Wilkins?”

  “He told me the reason people don’t fight them is that they’re too unpredictable. They’re dangerous.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “There’s more. It seems unlikely that Wilkins was in debt for dogfighting.” I tell her my informant’s opinion that the amount of money in question was too rich for the dogfighting world. “At least around here. He said in rural counties, fifty thousand is a lot.”

  “Good to know. Looks like we’ve been . . .”

  “Don’t say it.”

  She can’t help herself. “. . . barking up the wrong you-know-what.”

  “Dusty, she’s asking to get nipped.” He’s gotten tired of the rope game, so I pick him up and set him in my lap. “What did you find out about the property where the dogs were being kept?”

  “It took some digging. I found the owner’s name and address out in Burton. I went out there, and the house was all closed up. But a neighbor told me the old man who owned it has gone into a nursing home and his family hasn’t decided what to do with the house. They gave me the phone number of the man’s son.”

  “I wonder if the man who had those two boys stow the stolen dogs there knew the property was vacant?”

  “I wondered the same thing, so I phoned the man’s son. He said he didn’t know how anybody would be aware that his daddy wasn’t living there. He said his daddy pretty much kept to himself. But he also said that if somebody was keeping dogs back there, his daddy wouldn’t have heard them barking because he’s almost deaf. I phoned the neighbor back, and he said nobody had asked him about the shed. I asked if he had ever heard dogs barking, and he said yes, but people keep dogs and he never thought much about it.”

  “Good work.”

  She frowns. “This whole thing doesn’t add up. You’ve got dogs stolen for who knows what reason. You’ve got the two dead dogs, which by all accounts were vicious enough to be killers. You’ve got one man dead, mauled by dogs.”

  “And there’s the money Wilkins had on him—money that somebody wanted bad enough to attack Margaret Wilkins to get.”

  “And you’ve got the puppies from Dusty’s litter that never showed up.” She nods toward Dusty. He’s nestled onto my lap but seems to sense that he’s drawn attention. He raises his head, sighs, and flops back down and closes his eyes.

  “That reminds me. I haven’t tried to contact the man Cal and Pete were supposed to call when they had enough dogs. I’ll do that first thing tomorrow.” I get up and set Dusty on the floor. “I’ve been thinking about something. Suppose those dogs that were stolen had nothing to do with this business with Wilkins. Maybe it was just those boys wanting to make some money. What would we have then?”

  She ponders it, her dark eyes brooding. “It’s entirely possible that they’re unrelated. I don’t really see any connection.”

  I yawn, and she gets ups and grabs her purse. “By the way, there were a bunch of messages on the phone that didn’t get erased. I left one for you that was interesting.”

  I punch the message machine. A man’s voice, muffled, says, “Go check on Margaret Wilkins.”

  I frown. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all there was. But notice what time it was.”

  I punch it again and look at the screen on the phone. It says the message came in at 1:45 on Monday.

  “What time did we find Margaret Wilkins?” I ask.

  “I looked it up in my notebook. It was a little past two o’clock.”

  “That means we left right before this call came in.”

  Maria gives me a t
humbs-up. “Whoever attacked her called to have us check on her so she wouldn’t lie there without being found.”

  “Well, well, well,” I say. “A thoughtful attacker.”

  “Whoever wants that money didn’t want to go far enough to seriously hurt or kill Margaret. But I still don’t see where it all fits together.”

  I sigh. “It’s getting dark. Go on home and we’ll tackle this in the morning.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Even though it’s dark, it’s immediately clear what Dooley called me about right after Maria left. A group of men are standing around, looking at a boat that has apparently run into the dock. When I get up close, I see that it’s the fancy boat that Wilkins won in the poker game. Nearby, on the boat ramp, half-submerged in the water, sits a boat trailer with no vehicle attached to it.

  “What happened?”

  “As you might figure,” Dooley says, “it’s complicated. Arlo here,” he inclines his head toward a skinny fifty-year-old man in jeans and a ratty jacket, “was coming in from fishing and he sees this trailer backing up and hears a big boat motor. I’ll let him tell you.”

  I shake hands with Arlo, whom I recognize from somewhere around town. A yeasty smell of beer rises off him. “Like Dooley says, I was just coming in when I saw a pickup with that trailer backing up into the water.” He points to the abandoned boat trailer. “I didn’t think too much about it. Boats come and go, and I figured it was somebody hauling their rig out of the water. None of my business.” He clears his throat and spits. “But I look up and see this boat headed toward the ramp. Seemed like it was going a little fast, so I start hollering and waving my arms. And I can see that the person behind the wheel is a young man. So I’m thinking, ‘who would let a kid drive a fine-looking boat like that?’” He starts laughing.

  “Goddammit,” Dooley snarls.

  Arlo laughs harder and slaps the side of leg.

  “What’s so all-fired funny, Arlo?” Dooley asks.

  “I’m sorry, Dooley. I know it’s not funny. You’ve got a mess here. But you had to see it.” He gets out a handkerchief and wipes his eyes.

  “Go on, tell me the rest,” I say.