by Ben Rehder
48
David Brunswell had finally had enough of the driver behind him. He looked in the rearview mirror and made a gesture to the guy—a raised arm that meant: Really? You have to keep tailgating me like that? The truck responded by inching even closer to the rear of David’s BMW. David could hear the clattering roar of the truck’s diesel engine.
Zoey turned in her seat to look behind. “What’s this guy’s problem?” she said.
“Dumb redneck,” David said.
Still facing backward, Zoey raised her voice and said, “Hey, buddy, you want to back off a little?” Which was ridiculous, because the man couldn’t hear her. Still, David did appreciate her moral support. For the moment, they were a team.
Zoey began to make a shooing motion with her hand, telling the truck driver to give them some space. The truck got even closer—now no more than five or six feet from David’s bumper as both vehicles moved along at nearly 50 miles per hour.
“Screw this,” David said, looking for another driveway or some other place to pull in. But there was nowhere to go.
“What a dickmonger,” Zoey said. “Dickmonger!” she yelled. “Get off our ass, you raging dickmonger!”
This was getting out of control. What if the guy had a gun? Then David almost laughed, because what if the guy was also going to Jay’s party? Wouldn’t that be awkward?
“Check your phone, Zoey. Do you have a signal now?”
He wanted to be prepared, just in case they needed to call the cops. But Zoey wasn’t listening—she was too focused on fuming at the man in the truck. “Ass munch! Shit face!”
Zoey was plainly taking out her anger on the truck driver. Not that he didn’t deserve it. But David would’ve felt more comfortable if they were on a busy highway, rather than on an isolated road in the country, with no other witnesses. Sometimes you heard horror stories about things that happened out in the country.
“Settle down, babe,” David said, starting to sweat, and still not seeing a place to get off the road.
“Fuck you!” Zoey screamed at the truck driver.
Then she flipped him off—with both hands. The dreaded double bird.
“Zoey, be cool.”
“Fuck him!”
Surprisingly, the truck backed off. Twenty feet away. Then thirty. Maybe the driver simply needed to be put in his place. He couldn’t hear Zoey’s shouting, but he had been able to see her gesture. Maybe that was enough to make him realize he was being a jerk.
Nope.
Suddenly, the truck swerved left, into the oncoming lane, and gunned it, starting to pass in a no-passing zone.
Nicole was on her way to Round Mountain to speak to a woman who had been assaulted by her boyfriend when Celeste, the transplant coordinator from the hospital, called.
“Let me ask you a question,” she said. “How flexible is your schedule?”
“Fairly,” Nicole said. “Why? What’s up?”
“Have you spoken to Heather lately?”
“I haven’t, no. Is everything okay?”
“Not really, no. She’s lost a lot of renal function in the past few days. We had to admit her. Another question, and remember that you shouldn’t feel any obligation to say yes, and that we want you to be completely comfortable with every decision along the way.”
“Celeste?”
“Yes?”
“No offense, but just spit it out, okay?”
Celeste laughed. “Okay. Sorry. Here it is. How would you feel about doing the surgery the day after tomorrow?”
Sparrow Holliday said, “Harley told me about this ‘date’ he had with Sissy Endicott, the young woman from that hillbilly show. I had never seen it, because I don’t have a television. I use the word ‘date’ loosely, because it wasn’t really a date, was it? It was a business arrangement. And, quite frankly, I thought it was ludicrous that a man more than a century old would want to spend time with a woman a quarter of his age. What on earth would they talk about? Harley and I only had 30 years separating us, but even that presented some generational differences.
“Harley said I was getting worked up over nothing. He claimed he was simply a fan of the show and that was all there was to it. Then I saw a photo of her—Sissy Endicott—and, well, she’s a beauty. I started to wonder whether Harley really had other things on his mind. I mentioned to you, Sheriff, that Harley was still sexually capable. I knew nothing about Sissy. How far would she go to make sure the deal went through?
“Anyway, it really wasn’t my business, because Harley was free to do as he pleased, and so was I. That had always been our arrangement. But neither of had actually seen anyone else, and the truth is, I began to get jealous. Couldn’t help myself. I knew this young woman couldn’t possibly be interested in Harley, but I couldn’t stop thinking that he was interested in her.
“So I began to make snide remarks intended to make him cancel the date. I said the Endicotts were using him to get the formula for his deer scent. He said no, he was using them, because he’d been on the verge of accepting their final offer—and then he asked for the date as an afterthought. He cackled about that, let me tell you. He’d pulled a fast one on them. He said the date was just an extra perk he earned by being a shrewd negotiator.
“We did have lunch together on that Thursday, as I said, and he told me he was going through with the date. He could be such a stubborn old bastard. He didn’t seem to care if it bothered me or not.
“We didn’t speak again until I went over there on Sunday evening, just a few minutes before Sissy was supposed to show up. I’m not proud of this, but I pretended I was just dropping by to apologize and that I thought the date had taken place the previous night. Truthfully, I was trying to ruin the night for him. I thought Sissy would see me there and...I don’t know. I really didn’t have a plan.
“He wasn’t happy to see me, but he invited me in. I’d barely stepped inside when an SUV came down Harley’s driveway. Harley told me to go wait on the back porch and he’d talk to me in a few minutes. So I started toward the back door, but as soon as he went out the front door to greet Sissy, I turned around and came back to eavesdrop. Again, not something I’m proud of.
“When I peeked through the window, I saw that Sissy hadn’t come alone. Her mother was with her, although I didn’t know who she was at the time. Harley asked her why she was there. The mother said she was there to act as a chaperone, just in case Harley had more than dinner on his mind—the same thing I’d wondered. Harley said something like, ‘Well, would you blame me?’
“The mother was carrying a cane, and she popped Harley right across the top of the head with it. Not hard, but enough to sting. Truth is, I almost laughed. Harley got mad and told them to leave, and they did.
“When Harley came back inside, he was still rubbing his head, and when he saw me grinning, that sure didn’t improve his mood. He said, ‘What’s so funny?’ and I said he got what he deserved, especially after that ‘Would you blame me?’ remark. Now he knew I’d been listening in, so the argument got uglier by the minute, until he said he’d prefer Sissy over me any night.”
Finally, Sparrow Holliday took a long pause. Marlin and Garza remained silent.
“He kept that stick, that broom handle, by the front door,” Sparrow said. “Just in case any of the bucks got too aggressive. That’s how well his most recent deer scent worked, that he had to be careful when he went outside, if he was testing it. Sometimes there weren’t any deer around at all, but other times, there were dozens—depending on how strong the wind was blowing, carrying the scent. Anyway, when Harley made that last remark—about preferring Sissy over me—that stick was there by the door, so I grabbed it and I popped him right in the same place Sissy’s mother had popped him. On purpose, because I knew it was already stinging. I didn’t hit him hard—no harder than she’d hit him. I certainly didn’t intend to hurt him. And he was fine when I left. And that’s what I did, I left—it couldn’t have been half a minute later. He was still on the porch
, watching me go.”
Sparrow Holliday went silent, apparently finished with her story, but Garza didn’t respond right away. Marlin assumed the sheriff was baffled as to how to proceed—and for good reason. Marlin was baffled, too. It was, quite frankly, the most remarkable statement from a suspect he had ever heard.
These two elderly women—Donna Endicott and Sparrow Holliday—had inadvertently conspired to commit what might just be the perfect crime.
Finally, Garza said, “Miss Holliday, we’re going to need to continue this interview at the station.”
No vehicles were coming, but there was a sweeping curve ahead, and a car could come around it at any second.
David applied the brakes and let the big black truck zoom past him, and as it did, the driver laid on the horn. It was ear-splitting through David’s open window.
“Fuckstick!” Zoey yelled, repeating the double-bird gesture. David had never seen her behave this aggressively. He was sort of proud, in a weird way.
But he was also relieved the encounter was over.
He loosened his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, and watched as the truck continued to speed around the curve, going at least 80 miles per hour.
Then the truck began to fishtail, and David watched in horror as the driver overcorrected and lost control. The Ford left the roadway going sideways, and when the tires hit the rough surface of the unpaved shoulder, the truck flipped and began to roll—tumbling over and over down a slope. It was strange how well David could see shards of glass, bits of plastic, and other debris flying in all directions.
David hit the brakes even harder and brought his car to a complete stop. He was parked in the middle of the road.
“Oh, fuck,” Zoey said, stunned. “Jesus. Holy shit.”
David was doing his best to remain calm. The driver of the truck would need help. An ambulance. Doctors and nurses.
“My fucking god,” Zoey said. “I made him do that. I made him pass us.”
“No, you didn’t. He was going to do it anyway.”
David eased his car onto the narrow shoulder, but there was a guard rail that prevented him from pulling completely off the road. His driver’s-side tires remained on the pavement. He turned on his emergency flashers and said, “Wait here.”
“What are you—”
“Just wait here, Zoey. I’ll be right back. Call 9-1-1 if you can.”
He climbed out and closed the door, then trotted across the highway and started down the slope toward the truck, which had come to rest on its crumpled roof.
As he got closer, he began to hear the hiss of steam escaping and the heated ticking of a cooling engine which was no longer running. He heard nothing else. No moans or groans. No screams for help.
David reached the mangled truck and got on his knees to look inside.
49
Two days later.
“How about one of them food trailers?” Billy Don said. “I can make a mean breakfast taco.”
It was the first idea the big man had suggested—and for that reason Red hated to shoot it down—but it had a flaw.
“Not bad, but there’s too much red tape in the whole food-service industry,” Red said. “All kinds of laws and regulations and hoops you have to jump through. You’d think washing your hands every now and then would be enough, but that ain’t the half of it. Health department is always on your ass. Plus, the margins are pretty slim.”
“What exactly is a margin?” Billy Don asked.
It was a good sign that he was asking questions. Hell, it was a good sign that he had even come out of his bedroom. This was the first time since the breakup that he’d done more than poke his head out to see if there was anything to eat. Slowly but surely, Billy Don was getting back to his normal self. Not moping around as much.
“A margin is like the sum of your profit, plus depreciation and amortization, divided by expenses and deductions,” Red said. “It gets kinda complicated. You almost have to be a tax attorney to understand it all.”
They were kicking back on the deck behind Red’s trailer, with a bucket full of canned beers on ice between them. And now they were finally having the conversation Red had been wanting to have. Right after Billy Don had moved back in, it had occurred to Red that canceling the wedding meant Billy Don would save a shit ton of money. He’d still have most of the $25,000 he got from the pig bounty. It only made sense that they should pool their money, because the bigger the pool, the greater the possibilities. Any venture capitalist knew that.
Of course, Red and Billy Don had not received the $3,000 reward that had been offered in the Harley Frizzell case. Word had gotten around that Sparrow and Donna Endicott had both wacked Harley with a stick right before he died, and there was no real way of knowing which one had actually killed him. How weird was that? Red hated to think of sweet little old Sparrow possibly going to prison. It was a sad situation, no doubt.
“Maybe an auto shop?” Billy Don said. “Hardware store? Oh, hey, I got it! We could open a beer joint.”
Red was nodding, but merely to offer encouragement, rather than out of any real interest in those ideas. “It would be a hoot to own a beer joint, for sure,” Red said. “But let me see if I can change your way of thinking a little bit. Ain’t nothing wrong with owning a bidness. Hell, it’s the American way. But what I’m looking for is less of a day-to-day nose-to-the-grindstone type of operation and more of a set-up where we can maximize revenue as fast as possible.”
“Meaning a get-rich-quick scheme,” Billy Don said.
“Now, see, I hate that phrase. People tend to use it when they’re putting an idea down. Or a person. It’s judgmental, if you ask me, not to mention inaccurate. For instance, was Harley’s deer scent a get-rich-quick scheme?”
“I guess not,” Billy Don said. “He worked on that for years.”
“Exactly. So what we need is a big idea or invention like that—but hopefully it won’t take us years to come up with it. Or even months.”
They sat quietly. Red watched white-winged dove raid the corn underneath his deer feeder.
“I got an idea,” Billy Don said.
“What?”
“Promise you won’t make fun?”
“Promise.”
“I mean it.”
“I won’t.”
“It could be a big moneymaker.”
“Tell me,” Red said.
“It’s risky,” Billy Don said, “although not as risky as you might think.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Billy Don took a long drink of beer. Then he said, “Did I ever tell you that I am really, really good at blackjack?”
Red didn’t reply right away. Frankly, he was stunned. Then he wanted to laugh, but he kept it in. He’d played a little blackjack himself, and it involved adding numbers. For example, at first you might get dealt an eight and then a three and then a nine, and you had to add that up correctly. Wasn’t always easy with a dealer and a bunch of other players waiting impatiently. Red had a hard time believing Billy Don had the math skills to add up those numbers and win a single hand of blackjack, much less a bunch of hands in a row.
“You shittin’ me?” Red said.
“Nope.”
“How good?”
“Damn good.”
Red couldn’t believe he was even considering it. It was crazy, pure and simple. But the possibilities...
He rose out of his chair, went inside, and returned with a deck of cards.
“Let’s see what you got,” he said.
The waiting room at the hospital was crowded, and there was a TV on the wall that was turned up too loud, so Marlin had to get up occasionally and walk the halls. He didn’t stray too far, in case a doctor or nurse came out to give him an update.
They’d let him stay with Nicole in the pre-op area earlier in the morning, and the surgeon had answered some questions, but then they’d wheeled her out for surgery—three hours and thirty-six minutes ago. They’d said
the operation would take two to three hours. Marlin’s mind was straying to some bad places, and he knew he needed to stop imagining complications. Fortunately, during one of his hallway meanderings, a distraction arrived in the form of a call from Bobby Garza. Marlin ducked into an alcove.
“How’s it going up there?” Garza asked.
“Just waiting. Wondering why it’s taking so long.”
“I’m sure everything is fine. Sometimes they take the patient away for surgery, but it doesn’t actually start for another hour or two. You should flag someone down and ask, if you’re concerned.”
“Yeah.”
“You won’t do that, will you?”
“Probably not.”
“You’ll just sit and worry.”
Marlin grunted.
“Think of it this way,” Garza said. “Instead of dreading this day for the next three or four weeks, now it’ll be over and done with.”
“True.”
“The other reason I called...I thought you’d want to know that Aaron Endicott died about an hour ago.”
Not unexpected. Three days earlier, shortly after Marlin and Garza had questioned Sparrow Holliday at her house, Darrell Bridges had called with the news that Endicott had been involved in a major rollover accident during a road-rage incident. He’d suffered severe blunt force trauma to the head and abdomen. He’d been flown by helicopter to a hospital in San Antonio.
Marlin said, “I have to be honest and say I’m not real broken up about it.”
“Yeah. It’s almost like that man existed to wreak havoc on other people’s lives.”
“Will you do me a favor?” Marlin said.
“You bet.”
“Call Phil and let him know.”
“He’s next on my list,” Garza said.
When Marlin had called Phil to tell him about Nicole’s upcoming surgery, Phil revealed that Aaron Endicott had come out to the ranch again and made a veiled threat. Marlin had gotten the sense that Phil might be prepared to do something rash. But now the problem had been solved, and Phil deserved to know immediately.