Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  “Which one?” Red was getting excited. As he’d suspected, being a detective wasn’t so hard after all.

  “That family with the TV show,” Sparrow said. “I can’t recall their names. They live on a ranch west of town.”

  “The Endicotts?” Red said, hardly able to contain himself at this point.

  “Creedence Clearwater!” Billy Don bellowed.

  13

  Liam Mooney and Jessi Winslow first met when they worked together for a brief time at an ill-fated venture called Vegi Burger. Whereas a meatless restaurant would have had a hard time succeeding in even the most vegetarian-friendly environment with a large customer base—Los Angeles, say—Vegi Burger was doomed from the start in Liam’s hometown of Grand Island, Nebraska. After all, this was beef country. Vegetables were side dishes—an afterthought. But an ambitious restaurateur who had moved from somewhere in California decided Grand Island needed an alternative to the handful of steak houses and barbecue joints in town.

  Vegi Burger welcomed a dozen curious media representatives and ninety-six customers at its official grand opening. The following day, they served forty-two. On the third day, nine. For the next thirty-three days, as the owner gamely kept the doors open, the average customer count was 2.7 per day. That gave the employees plenty of time to chat with each other.

  Liam, who was one of the cooks, had his eye on the cute, well-built cashier named Jessi, and he began to strike up conversations at every opportunity. He was thrilled to learn they had a lot in common. Vegetarianism, for starters, obviously. Clean living. Positive thinking. A disdain for peer pressure and restrictive social norms. A love for the full spectrum of hardcore, including thrash, crust, emo, screamo, powerviolence, metalcore, mathcore, grindcore, deathcore, and all of the other assorted cores. Environmentalism. Animal rights.

  “So you’re basically living the straight-edge lifestyle,” Liam informed her.

  “The what?” she said.

  “Straight edge.”

  She had never heard the term—which wasn’t a surprise for anyone living in Grand Island. So Liam told her all about it.

  “No sex?” she said at one point, with a feigned disappointment in her voice. Was she flirting?

  “Well, no promiscuous sex,” Liam said. “Basically that means no one-night stands. Honestly, I’m not so sure about that part myself.” He was reminded of the straight-edge stance on sex every time he saw Jessi in her green Vegi Burger polo shirt, which appeared to be one size too small. And the foreign-made material was very thin, which was why he always lurked nearby anytime Jessi had to retrieve anything from the walk-in freezer.

  As the weeks passed, they seemed to work a lot of the same shifts, possibly because Liam had discreetly asked the manager to arrange Liam’s schedule to coincide with Jessi’s. Their relationship grew. Liam had a major crush on Jessi, but it was obvious that he was destined for the friend zone, and nothing more.

  But that changed, oddly enough, when an impatient customer asked for a double-meat cheeseburger. Liam informed the man that they didn’t sell cheeseburgers or anything with meat or meat byproducts.

  “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” the man said, looking at the overhead menu board for the first time.

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “What kind of place is this?”

  “Vegi Burger, sir. The name kind of says it all.”

  Jessi, lingering nearby, tried to stifle a giggle.

  The man looked at Liam. “You being a smart-ass?”

  “No, sir. Not intentionally.”

  The man shook his head, totally disgusted with the situation, and finally ordered a soybean salad with extra imitation bacon bits.

  After he left, Liam turned to Jessi and whispered, “You see him pay with a fifty?”

  “Yeah?”

  He leaned closer. “I shorted him ten bucks.”

  Liam showed her a ten-dollar bill. The truth was, it was his own bill. He hadn’t shorted the man the money. He didn’t know why he was lying, but intuition told him Jessi would think it was hilarious. He was right.

  She moved closer. “Dude, no way!”

  “Douche bag deserved it.”

  She reached out and grasped his forearm, excited, and Liam loved the feeling of her hand on his skin. And that look in her eyes. She seemed to be seeing him in a new light.

  A few days later, during one particularly long and boring Tuesday afternoon shift, Jessi said, “What’re you gonna do when this place shuts down?”

  Liam was thrown for a moment. “You think it’s gonna shut down?”

  “Well, duh. No customers.”

  “I guess you’re right.” He was more panicked by the idea of no longer seeing Jessi than he was of not having this tedious minimum-wage job.

  “So what’re you gonna do?” Jessi asked again.

  He could tell that it wasn’t idle talk. She was honestly interested. He had no answer at that moment. But he did later. Three days later, to be exact, after he’d had some time to think about it. He’d come up with a clever idea: Why not act on my strongly held straight-edge convictions, while at the same time pursuing a relationship with Jessi, whom I may never see again when Vegi Burger closes its doors?

  But what would that involve exactly?

  “Let me ask you a question,” Liam said.

  They were back on Interstate 35 again, fifteen minutes south of the Dallas city limits, which meant they were maybe four hours max from the town of Kendalia. And they still didn’t have a plan. He still didn’t know how they were going to send a message as powerful as the one Daniel Andreas San Diego had sent. No biggie. Liam would come up with something. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how to broach the subject with Jessi, but it was time that he did, and he wanted to do it without coming across as a total psycho. Now he could feel her looking at him from the passenger’s seat, waiting for his question.

  It had been Jessi’s idea to stop in Dallas, because she’d been goofing around online and found a cool band playing at a club on the east side of town. They’d rented a cheap motel room, gone to the club, partied until five in the morning, then gone back to the motel and slept for nearly ten hours. Separate beds. He’d been hoping something more would happen, but she had lain down, fully clothed, and was out almost instantly.

  He, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to sleep so easily. He’d had an ache in his groin that wouldn’t go away, the result of dancing so close to her for hours, their bodies brushing together on occasion. He’d had to go into the bathroom and take care of business. Didn’t take long.

  Some straight edgers were so militant that they even shunned masturbation, but come on. Liam wasn’t willing to take it that far, because he didn’t want to end up with some type of physical damage. Also, if he didn’t whack it now and then, he’d never be able to concentrate on anything else. He was only being practical. And it paid off, because now, in the car, his mind was clear enough to focus on the task at hand—despite the fact that Jessi was wearing another tight T-shirt, along with shorts that showed off about a mile of leg. Her thighs were about as smooth as—

  Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.

  He steered back into his own lane and resolved to pay more attention to the road.

  “How committed are you,” he said, speaking slowly, because he wanted to word things right, “to defending the rights of animals?”

  She sat up a little straighter. “Totally,” she said.

  “Cool,” he said. “Good to hear.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t know how humans became so presumptuous, you know?” she said. She reached over and placed a hand on his bicep. She had that habit—touching—but especially when she wanted to make a point. “I mean, why do we just assume we can use animals however we want? Like animals were put here just so we can eat them, or make belts, or squirt chemicals in their eyes to see how quickly they go blind.”

  “It’s crazy,” Liam said.

  “
I just don’t get it,” Jessi said. “Humans are animals. We’re all animals. ‘A rat is a pig is a dog is a boy.’”

  She was quoting a well-known line from a woman who was one of the founders of PETA. Liam liked that line. A lot. It made so much sense. Well, most of the time. Okay, yeah, there were occasions when Liam wasn’t sure he completely understood the point of the quote. Did the woman mean it literally? If Liam followed the transitive property he had learned in math class, didn’t it mean a rat was a boy? That was an odd claim to make, since rats plainly were not boys.

  Liam had concluded that the quote was merely a rhetorical device. Right? Liam figured the woman couldn’t possibly have meant it literally, not when he learned that the PETA shelter in Norfolk, Virginia, routinely euthanized stray animals at an alarming rate. Liam had read an article stating that the shelter killed more than two thousand dogs and cats on average every year. But what about adoptions? They must have countless adoptions, right? Nope. Turned out those numbered maybe a couple dozen annually. So weird.

  A rat is a pig is a dog is a boy.

  Liam had to wonder: If PETA thought there were times when it was okay to put a dog to sleep, would they be willing to put boys to sleep, too, in those same circumstances? He had to assume the founder would say yes, because a dog is a boy. A dog is a boy. Okay, well, clearly she couldn’t mean that. She couldn’t possibly mean that. So maybe PETA should go on record and loudly state that a dog is not a boy, not even in a metaphorical sense. Not in any sense. Maybe PETA should—

  “Liam?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where were you? You totally spaced out.”

  “Sorry. Road hypnosis.”

  They drove for several miles without speaking. The stereo was playing low.

  “I don’t recognize this song,” Jessi said.

  “‘Dead Babies’ by Deep Wound,” Liam said. “Early eighties.”

  “Love it.”

  “You can really hear the way they were influenced by Discharge,” Liam said.

  Jessi was moving her head with the music but didn’t reply, so Liam let the conversation lag. He had never been particularly confident with girls, and as a result, he had always been slow to make a move, romantically speaking. Sometimes, even when the girl was sending clear signals, he was too bashful to put his arm around her, or to give her a kiss, or, even after they’d finally made out, to let his hand come to rest on anything except the side of her hip or the small of her back. His palm would practically yearn for more adventurous portions of her anatomy, but he just couldn’t summon up the courage to follow through.

  Now he was feeling the same way about the reason for their trip to Texas. He was all but certain that Jessi was every bit as gung-ho as he was, and that she’d be willing to take aggressive steps to send a message to the Endicott family. After all, she was driving halfway across the country with him, right? She wouldn’t do that if she wasn’t super serious about the situation. This wasn’t some joy ride. They were on a mission. But he didn’t have the guts to speak first and talk about the specific tactics they might take.

  Maybe, if he waited, she’d send a signal.

  14

  “Well, I guess that went okay,” Walter “Big Daddy” Endicott said, while they all waited for Ron Rosen to come back into the room. The manager had escorted the sheriff and the game warden to the front door.

  Dirk Endicott was tempted to point out that it hadn’t gone well at all. It had almost gone well, except for the one major slip-up on Mama’s part. Total train wreck. Was it possible that nobody else had noticed? It appeared the two cops had keyed in on it, asking Mama whether she was in that Monday meeting, but Dirk had changed the subject and shut those questions down. If the family members hadn’t picked up on it, Dirk didn’t see anything to gain by bringing it up. That would just lead to a lot of worried discussion, and Mama would get upset, and Dirk would have to wait that much longer for a big glass of bourbon and Coke. He could really use one right now.

  “You and Sissy done good,” Daddy said to Dirk.

  “This is just awful,” Mama said. “If I ever thought—”

  Ron Rosen walked back into the room. “Okay. They’re gone.” He took a seat in the chair he’d occupied earlier. “If we’re lucky, that will be the end of it.”

  Dirk was positive it would not be.

  “That was strange,” Bobby Garza said. “Don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Marlin replied. “How did Donna know how old Harley was?”

  They were in the sheriff’s vehicle, navigating the long and winding driveway that led to the highway.

  “This lawyer Ted will come up with some ‘explanation’ for that,” Garza said. “Donna must have seen something on the news, right? And she forgot until later. That’s what he’ll say.”

  “I got the sense that some or all of them had prepared for this meeting—like they were acting out a script,” Marlin said. “Pretend to want to be helpful, and then act disappointed when Ted says they shouldn’t answer questions.”

  “Yeah, I got that, too,” Garza said. “Especially with Ron and Sissy.”

  The driveway was cutting through a large, flat pasture, with just a sprinkling of oak trees here and there. Marlin spotted a small herd of whitetails in the distance, nervously watching the vehicle pass. The ranch was prime real estate, no doubt about it. Gorgeous. It appeared most of the cedars had been cleared, opening the land for more desirable hardwoods. The Endicotts had obviously spent a lot of money improving the habitat for flora and fauna.

  “Gonna get their phone records?” Marlin asked.

  “Absolutely,” Garza said. “If we can show—”

  “Check it out,” Marlin said, pointing.

  Roughly fifty yards ahead, a man was walking along the left side of the driveway, going in the same direction as Marlin and Garza. He was wearing camouflage from head to toe and appeared to be carrying a rifle. Garza eased off the gas a bit.

  “Didn’t Sissy say they don’t hunt deer on this ranch?” Garza said.

  “Yep,” Marlin said.

  As they got closer, Garza said, “That’s one big dude.”

  He wasn’t just big, he was enormous.

  “Maybe he’s hunting pigs,” Marlin said. “Whoever he is.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Garza braked gently and coasted alongside the man.

  “Afternoon,” Garza said. “How you doing today?”

  The man glanced over, but did not reply. Just kept walking. He was carrying a lever-action rifle, probably a .30-30, cradled in his left arm, the barrel pointing away from the road.

  “I’m Sheriff Bobby Garza.”

  Nothing. No response. The man was still walking. A Kenny Rogers lyric came to mind. The man was as big as a mountain. Broad and thick all over. His scuffed hunting boots looked like they’d be too large for Shaquille O’Neal.

  “Sir,” Garza said, “you doing all right?”

  The man stopped and turned toward the vehicle. “What’s the problem?” He had a mean face. An ugly face, by anyone’s standards. Several days’ worth of stubble couldn’t hide the pock marks. His eyes were small, deep-set, and feral. He couldn’t have been older than 24 or 25. The hair on his head was sheared to about half an inch.

  “There’s no problem,” Garza said. “You work for the Endicotts?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you a friend?”

  “Nope.”

  No elaboration. No explanation.

  “They know you’re out here?” Garza said.

  “Yep.”

  “Mind if I see your ID?”

  “What for?”

  The man was standing ten or twelve feet from the vehicle.

  “Curiosity, more than anything else,” Garza said. He opened his door and stepped out, so Marlin followed suit, coming around the front of the unit.

  “I’ll pass,” the man said.

  “You won’t let me see your ID?” Garza said. He and Marlin had walked
to within five feet of the man.

  “Not without reasonable suspicion, which you don’t have,” the man said.

  Great. He was one of those guys.

  “That’s true,” Garza said. “Can I get your name?”

  “The only name you need to know is Brown.”

  “That’s your last name?” Garza said. Marlin was beginning to lose his patience.

  “Nope. It’s the name of the defendant in Brown versus Texas.”

  The man knew his Fourth Amendment rights. He was citing a Supreme Court ruling that an individual was not required to identify himself if law enforcement officers had no reason to believe he was engaged in criminal conduct. Cops couldn’t just go around demanding to see ID. Marlin agreed with the ruling, even though it could sometimes be a pain in the butt. Most people would gladly show an ID when asked, but occasionally you ran into somebody who refused, like this guy. Then again, that was his right.

  “Well,” Garza said, “Could be that you’re trespassing, and I’d like to know that you’re not.”

  “Bullshit,” the man said. “You have no reason to believe I’m trespassing.” The expression on the man’s face had not changed at all since they’d first began talking. His face was blank. No emotion.

  Marlin had had enough. “Sir, I’m a state game warden and I need to see your hunting license.”

  “I’m not hunting.”

  Marlin was edging closer. “You’re in camo and carrying a rifle. That’s more than enough reason for me to believe you’re hunting. You know the law in this situation, or do you want me to explain it to you?”

  The man said nothing.

  “A game warden can ask to see a hunting license, regardless if the hunter is suspected of committing a violation,” Marlin said.

  “I know the law. I’m not hunting.”

  This type of scenario—a hunter refusing to show his license—didn’t come up often. But it had happened frequently enough that Marlin was prepared for it, and his training kicked in. He knew that Garza would be equally prepared.