by Ben Rehder
Warning shots. The only warning the man would get from here on out.
31
Hybristophilia.
It was eight-thirty in the morning, and Liam had just found a clinical name for Jessi’s condition. She was still sleeping, snuggled up against him, so he lay quiet, even though he had to piss like a racehorse. But he was using his free hand to surf on his phone.
Hybristophilia. That’s what she had. Definitely. At least a mild case of it. Hybristophilia was when a person liked to have sex with a person who commits crimes or other outrageous behavior, such as lying and cheating. The condition was nicknamed “Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome,” for obvious reasons, and it was more common in women than men. That explained why serial killers often received fan mail in prison from adoring women. It was the ultimate case of bad-boy attraction. The bottom line was, Jessi’s aggressive sexual appetite had nothing to do with Liam. It was the danger and risk that got her libido going, and he simply happened to be her partner in crime.
Bizarre.
On the plus side, hybristophilia had just given him another amazing night—the kind he would remember when he was old and gray.
If he was back home and he told his friends what had taken place in this room, they wouldn’t believe him. They’d say he was lying or, at a minimum, greatly embellishing. Just not possible, they’d say. Jessi wouldn’t do those things. Besides, a loser like you couldn’t keep up with her.
If they only knew.
He realized he was smiling, but that smile vanished when he thought about the mission. Damn. The mission. There was absolutely no way to bow out now, not unless he was willing to kiss Jessi goodbye forever. Which he wasn’t. It was tempting, though. Just tell her the truth. Tell her that he didn’t want to risk losing her by getting caught. Maybe—just maybe—she would find that sweet and flattering, and she’d would be willing to forgive him for cancelling the mission.
Doubtful. Once she realized he wasn’t truly a bad boy, her attraction would be gone in an instant. She might be Bonnie, but he was no Clyde.
Maybe she’d be better off without him. After all, what sort of scumbag uses a girl’s unusual sexual predilections to manipulate her? That’s what he’d been doing. Using the mission as an aphrodisiac, to get her in the mood. Not very honest of him.
Maybe he owed it to her to be a man of his word.
Marlin had slept much better than he had expected to. Then again, perhaps he should have known it would work out that way. Ruminating on a big decision always stressed him out, but once he’d made the decision, he tended to put it behind him.
In the weeks before he had proposed to Nicole, he had been plagued by insomnia. But once he’d popped the question—and she’d accepted—he slept much better. Ironically, once they were engaged, she was the one who became sleepless for awhile.
So she was going to donate a kidney. There was risk, but he could deal with it. Time to stop worrying. It was going to be a good day.
Then Phil Colby called.
“I think that mental defective came out to the ranch last night,” he said.
“Aaron Endicott?”
“Someone wearing some big-ass boots. Someone willing to sneak onto my porch in the middle of the night. Can’t think of anyone else who would do that.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure somebody was here. Can’t prove it was Endicott. By the way, he tried to run me off Miller Creek Loop yesterday afternoon. That was definitely him, or someone driving his truck. No question.”
“Did you call the sheriff’s office about either of these things?” Marlin asked, but he knew the answer.
“Don’t see the point,” Colby said.
“So what’s the point in telling me?” Marlin said, sounding harsher than he intended.
Colby laughed. “Hey, I love you, too.”
“No, seriously,” Marlin said. “What is it you want me to do? If you aren’t willing to report this stuff, there’s not much—”
“I’m not expecting you to do anything,” Colby said, “except, you know, not be a jerk.”
Marlin took a breath and let a few seconds pass. Then he said, “Did you know your odds of dying by unintentional poisoning are about one in 120?”
“What, today?”
“No, over the course of your lifetime.”
“Uh...okay. And why do you bring this up?”
“Just making conversation.”
“Thanks for sharing.”
Marlin grunted.
Colby said, “Look, they couldn’t do anything when he threatened me at my house two days ago, so I figured they couldn’t do anything now—not without more evidence. Are you telling me they can?”
“Are you trying to get my approval for doing something stupid?”
“Hell, no. I can do something stupid without your approval. But I would like a straight answer. Based on what I told you, can Garza do any more than he’s already done?”
“Probably not,” Marlin said, “but at least there’d be a record.”
“Okay, I’m not trying to sound like an ass,” Colby said, “but what is the value in creating a record—things I can’t prove for sure—if this psychopath decides to shoot me with a deer rifle from a hundred yards away?”
Marlin didn’t say anything, because he didn’t have a reassuring answer. Sometimes maladjusted people were able to get away with some pretty despicable acts, and law enforcement couldn’t do anything about it.
“What’re you going to do?” Marlin asked.
“Don’t know yet. I’ve come up with about a dozen different plans, some better than others.”
“Any of them legal?” Marlin asked.
“No comment,” Colby said.
“Great.”
“Hey, how would I go about making a citizen’s arrest? I could do that, right?”
“You’re serious?”
“Hell, yeah,” Colby said.
“I have no idea how that works, but obviously you’ll need to have some sort of evidence, or catch him doing something illegal. Call the county attorney and ask her.”
Marlin knew Colby wouldn’t make the call.
“One thing I’ve been meaning to do for a long time is install a security system,” Colby said. “Video cameras, motion-detector lights, and the whole thing.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Marlin said.
“So if he shoots me, at least there will be evidence,” Colby said. “Then you can go mow that sumbitch down for me.”
Nicole normally started her day early, but this morning she was still at home, sitting in a padded chair in the living room, with her phone in hand. She took a deep breath.
Geist was curled on the floor eight feet away, but her eyes were open, watching Nicole, as if she knew this was a big moment.
There were a lot of hurdles ahead. An extensive physical screening to see if she could be a donor. Then a battery of tests to see if she was a good match for Heather, or whether the donation might need to be a paired exchange, or even part of a multi-donation chain. There would be a psychological evaluation. Then the surgery itself. And the recovery period.
What if the donation fails?
What if something goes wrong during the surgery?
It wasn’t just the mortality rate that was a little scary. What about long-term complications? What if something happened to her one remaining kidney? What if her insurance company tried to drop her? What if they tried to raise her rates? And what about her life insurance? If, god forbid, something happened to her as a result of the kidney donation, would John have trouble collecting? What if she ended up disabled and was a burden on him for the rest of his life?
This was crazy. Why was she suddenly so overcome with anxiety?
Good grief. She’d had to keep it together when John had concerns, but now that he’d gotten past that, she was allowing herself to worry. Perfectly understandable. In a sense, his objections had prevented her from getting stressed out, because as long
as he wasn’t on board, the donation was still just a discussion—something notional that may or may not happen.
Now it was real.
Well, it would be real, if she’d stop letting her imagination run wild with doomsday scenarios.
What if lightning struck her on the way to the transplant?
What if she choked on hospital food?
What if John fell in love with a nurse? Hey, it was possible. He’d dated a nurse before!
She laughed out loud. How ridiculous could she get?
Screw it.
She picked up her phone and dialed the number for the transplant coordinator at the hospital in Austin.
“I have some information about that murder,” a male voice said. “That old guy, Harley something?”
“Yes, sir, please go ahead.”
“I wanna remain anonymous. Is this call being recorded?”
“No, sir, it is not.”
“You swear on your mama’s grave?”
Darrell Bridges almost laughed. And he almost said, “Fortunately, my mother is still alive.” Instead he said, “I can assure you that we do not record these calls, sir. What information would you like to share?”
“Then how would I collect the ree-ward if you don’t know who I am?”
“I’ll give you a unique tip code number at the end of the call, sir.”
Bridges got the sense that the man wasn’t using his normal speaking voice, which wasn’t particularly unusual when callers were wanting to maintain anonymity.
“Okay, here’s what I seen,” the man said. “Same day that old man died, I was going west on 290, coming up on Towhead Valley Road, when this black F350 come pulling out in front of me. I had to stomp the brakes or I woulda hit ’im.”
“The truck was entering the highway from Towhead Valley Road,” Bridges said.
“Exactly.”
“Which way did it go?”
“East. Toward town.”
“What time of day?”
“Near as I can recall, about five or ten minutes after four.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you able to describe the driver?”
“Wish I could, but it all happened too fast.”
“Did you see any other passengers in the vehicle, sir?”
“Nope.”
“Any damage to the vehicle?”
“Not that I saw. Truck looked pretty new.”
“Did you notice any toolboxes, bumper stickers—anything like that?”
“Nope.”
“It was a black Ford F350?”
“That’s it. My brother has one just like it, ’cept it’s blue. I didn’t think too much about what this idiot did until I heard on the radio about y’all needing tips. Now, I ain’t no detective, but the way that ol’ boy pulled out like that, it sure seemed like he was running from somethin’.”
32
Harley Frizzell had simply frowned and shook his head when he’d heard Ron Rosen’s first offer. One hundred thousand dollars. Rosen was authorized to negotiate for the Endicott family—not just for the show, but for potential new products—but Walter Endicott would have to give it his blessing before it was done deal.
“Son, that ain’t even close,” Frizzell said. “Add another zero and we might have something to talk about.”
Frizzell obviously wasn’t stupid. He knew what his product was worth. Rosen and Jasper had seen its power with their own eyes. When they had first approached Frizzell’s cabin in Rosen’s BMW, there were at least thirty or forty bucks in the vicinity—with half a dozen sparring matches going on, as each mature buck tried to establish dominance over the herd.
In-frigging-credible. That was the only way describe it.
“I can probably double that offer,” Rosen said.
Frizzell snorted. “We gonna play games? I ain’t got time for that.”
They were standing on his covered front porch. He had not invited them in. Maybe he was worried they’d grab his formula and run. Or maybe this was a tactic to show that he wasn’t intending for this to be a long conversation.
“I might be able to triple it,” Rosen said. “Three hundred thousand. But that would be pushing it, and I’d have to check with Walter.”
“Don’t bother.”
Rosen had done some research and knew that Frizzell was 102 years old. But even though his face was as creased and weathered as the animal hides tacked to his wall, his mind was still as sharp as a skinning knife. He was a shrewd negotiator. Rosen wasn’t surprised. This was a man who had lived through the Great Depression and had seen active combat in World War II.
“Mr. Frizzell,” Rosen said, “with all due respect—and so we won’t waste any more of your time—why don’t you just tell me your best price?”
“Million bucks,” Frizzell said without a moment’s hesitation. “Just like I said.”
Rosen nodded agreeably. “I can understand that, but to be honest, we just can’t go that high.”
“But we really want your scent,” Jasper said with way too much urgency in his voice.
Rosen shot him a quick look that said, Shut the fuck up.
“Why don’t we talk about an initial sum—say, the three hundred thousand—followed by royalties based on—”
But Frizzell was already waving his hands dismissively. “Did you read my goddamn letter or not? I said a flat fee and that’s it. None of that royalty bullshit. Now why don’t you—”
“I’m sorry,” Rosen said.
“—stop jerking me off and make a real offer?”
“I’m sorry,” Rosen said again. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be open to that or not, and you obviously aren’t, so I apologize. I didn’t mean any offense. Let me just come right out and make our absolute best offer, and if we can do business, I can get the contract drawn up by tomorrow. The Endicott family is prepared to offer six hundred thousand dollars for outright ownership of the deer scent you’ve developed. That would be payable in one lump sum, and it could be electronically transferred into your bank account within 24 hours after signing. That’s the absolute top dollar.”
It wasn’t. Rosen felt confident that Walter Endicott would be willing to pay at least three-quarters of a million.
The old man didn’t say anything right away. He was contemplating it.
“We would need a yes today, now, before we leave,” Rosen said. “Surely you can understand that. We either shake hands and get it done, or we’ll move on and let you field other offers.”
Frizzell was starting to shake his head slowly. Tough old bastard. Holding out for one million dollars. At his age, what did that extra cash matter?
Before Frizzell could turn him down again, Rosen said, “Okay, I can throw in one other perk. We would name you as the inventor on the packaging and in all marketing materials. You would get full credit, and your name would be linked forever with the scent. You created it, Mr. Frizzell, and you deserve recognition for that. I can guarantee if you sell to one of the big manufacturers, they will never offer you that. They’ll make up a big story about how the scent was concocted in some high-tech lab with a team of scientists who also like to hunt on the weekends. Do you want that to happen?”
It was obvious that Frizzell was intrigued by the offer, but he didn’t say anything right away. So Rosen kept silent and waited. The old man was struggling with his decision. Weighing the pros and cons. It was authentic, too, not posturing. Finally Frizzell said, “I been callin’ it Stag Party.”
“Stag Party?”
“That’s right.”
“That is a really great name,” Rosen said, and he meant it. “We could call it ‘Harley Frizzell’s Stag Party.’”
“Just ‘Stag Party’ would be fine,” Frizzell said. “You could put my name somewhere on the back.”
Yes! The old man was ready to sell.
Rosen said, “I think that’s—”
“But there’s one other thing I want,” Frizzell said. “
Won’t cost you nothin’.”
“What would that be?” Rosen asked, positively gleeful that he was moments away from closing what might be the biggest deal of his career.
If he’d had a thousand chances, Rosen wouldn’t have been able to guess what the old man was going to request.
Harley Frizzell had said, “I’d like to spend an evening with Sissy.”
33
An aging Nissan Sentra emerged from the gate at the Endicott ranch at 9:47, and Billy Don said, “Gonna follow it?”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Red said, cranking the engine of his old Ford. As he backed out of the hiding spot under the oak tree, limbs squealed as they scraped the roof of his truck. Didn’t matter. He was due for a paint job sometime in the next few years anyway. He dropped it into DRIVE, pulled onto the dirt road, and gunned it toward the county road. He came to an abrupt stop at the chain.
He sat. Billy Don sat.
“Well?” Red said.
“Well what?”
“You gonna hop out and move the chain or what?”
“You gonna say please?”
“Yes, please, whatever—but hurry up.”
Billy Don grunted as he exited the truck. He dropped the chain and Red pulled through. After Billy Don replaced the chain and got back in, Red gunned it. The Sentra had a good head start, but Red would easily catch up before it reached the highway.
“What time are we gonna do it?” Jessi called from the bathroom. She had just turned off the shower.
“Twelve-thirty,” Liam called back from his bed.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Why twelve-thirty?”
Liam was trying to psych himself up for the mission. Give it his undivided concentration, so that, if he was lucky, he could avoid winding up in some dark, dirty prison cell.
“I figure all they have out there in the country is a volunteer fire department, and maybe at lunchtime, the firemen will take longer to respond.”
“Smart,” Jessi said.