by Ben Rehder
Marlin stayed in the cab while Colby coaxed Buck out of the bed of the pickup. He watched sadly as his best friend helped the deer down to the ground and then walked him into the trees. Marlin thought: Don't know why I'm getting choked up, it's only a deer. But he had to compose himself before Colby returned.
Afterward, the men drove wordlessly back toward the ranch house. Marlin headed up a hill and past the high bluff overlooking the creek. He eased his way through some cattle who had heard the truck and thought it was feeding time, then he bounced along a rutted stretch of dirt road ravaged by recent rains. Finally they navigated around an oak grove and the house came into view.
There in the yard was Buck, waiting for Colby.
The men laughed and shook their heads. For four years after that, Buck rarely strayed more than a quarter-mile from the house.
These were sweet memories for Marlin, but they brought back some ugly ones as well. When Colby lost the ranch—after Roy Swank had bought it from the county—Colby had stayed on as Swank's ranch foreman. But one day last spring, when Colby found himself a new place out in the country—a nice rock home on twenty acres—he tried to take Buck home with him. As he began to load Buck into his truck, Swank pulled up alongside and protested, saying that he owned the deer.
“When I bought the place, that gave me all rights to the animals as well,” Swank said.
“Come on, Roy. It's just one deer. And it's my deer.”
“I can see why you want him. He's a great trophy,” Swank said, hinting at his future plans.
“I'm afraid they don't enter any live deer in the record books.”
Swank just nodded and let a pause say it all. Finally he said, “I know that.”
In an instant Colby realized that Swank was planning on letting Buck be slaughtered by paying hunters. But this would be no hunt; it would be like shooting a dog on your front porch.
Ever since Swank had taken ownership of the ranch, Colby had been struggling with a fierce resentment. He had come to despise not just Swank's affluence, but his smug attitude and cold demeanor. Now his brain went into vapor-lock as his anger boiled over. He grabbed a tire iron out of his truck bed and began slamming creases into the hood of Swank's new Chevy Suburban. Swank fumbled for the ignition. Next, Colby shattered the windshield. Swank locked the doors. Colby was kicking serious dents into the passenger side when Swank finally got the vehicle started and roared away.
Colby had taken the deer home that day, but later he came out the loser. A judge informed both men that native wildlife is, from a legal standpoint, property of the state. In short, Colby had broken the law by transporting wildlife without a permit. He was fined one hundred dollars and ordered to return the deer to the Circle S Ranch. If he refused, he would be jailed for contempt of court and Marlin, as game warden, would have to return the deer for him. Colby didn't want to put his best friend in that position, so he had returned the deer himself. And he and Marlin had been dreading the opening of this year's deer season ever since. Until two days ago.
Deer season is one week away now, Marlin thought as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Ol’ Buck wouldn't have lived through opening weekend.
“I WOULD PREFER you didn't handle that,” Roy Swank said rather curtly to one of his visitors.
They were in Swank's expansive den, where the walls were adorned with the heads of elk, buffalo, deer, warthogs, and antelope. Gold-trimmed display cases contained African tribal weaponry, relics, and artifacts. The smaller, slender visitor had opened one of the cases and was examining one of Swank's prize possessions.
“What in tarnation is it, anyway?” he asked, reluctant to put it down.
“That,” Swank responded, “is a dried rhinoceros penis.”
The object practically leapt from Red O'Brien's hands back to its rightful place in the case.
Red's faced turned bright red. “That's just sick, is what it is.”
Billy Don was laughing heartily. “I guess you're not used to handling a dick that long, are you, Red?”
Red was about to fire off a comeback when he noticed that Swank was staring at them sternly and drumming his fingers on the desk. “Quit horsing around, Billy Don,” Red said. “The man called us here for a reason. Let’s hear what it is.”
Swank motioned the men to two upholstered chairs in front of his desk while he took a seat behind it. He did not offer them a drink. “I'm not sure what you gentlemen know about me, but I run a fairly successful hunting operation out here.”
Both men nodded. Red thought: We saw one of your best bucks up close and personal three nights ago. But I missed it.
Swank continued. “I have a lot of great deer out here, some for harvesting, some for breeding. It takes a long time to build a healthy trophy herd, you know. And now, one of my trophies is missing.” Swank briefly told them about the situation with Marlin and Buck.
“John Marlin told Sheriff Mackey that the buck jumped the fence,” Swank said. “But I'm not so sure that's what happened. I'm inclined to believe that he has it stashed away somewhere, or that he gave the deer back to Phil Colby. Colby used to own the deer. Of course, he used to own this ranch, too, but look who's stoking the home fires now.” Swank laughed merrily, and Red and Billy Don joined in, although they had no idea what was so humorous.
Swank finally regained his composure and stared intently at Red, who was the clear leader of the two. “I understand Sheriff Mackey is your cousin?”
“Yessir, second cousin twice removed on my daddy's side.”
Swank nodded. “Well, Sheriff Mackey and I have gotten to be good friends in the last few years. I called him about a problem I'm having, and he told me something interesting. He said you and Billy Don know this county inside and out—all the people, all the back roads—and that y'all might be able to help me get my deer back. I'm willing to pay a fair price, of course.”
Red could sense the sweet smell of opportunity in the air. After all, if a trophy buck's antlers were sometimes worth thousands of dollars, imagine what the whole critter was worth! Play this guy right, and there could be some serious money on the line. Of course, ol’ cousin Herb would want a finder's fee, but that was fine with Red.
“Sheriff Mackey was right,” Red said. “Me and my associate here are awful good at that sort of thing. But it's gonna be expensive.”
“How much?”
Red started adding up some of his past-due bills in his head. Which meant the men could all be sitting there till Christmas.
“Don't be bashful, Mr. O'Brien. I'll be honest—it means a lot to me to get that deer back immediately. I'm having a large hunt here on opening weekend. You know, with Skip Farrell, the hunting columnist, and some other media types. It will mean a lot of great publicity for the ranch, so I'm willing to pay a fair price.”
“Ten thousand bucks. Cash.”
“Done.”
“Apiece,” Billy Don spoke up.
“No problem. I'll give you half now and half when the job is complete.” Swank opened a desk drawer and withdrew a stack of crisp hundreds. Before he handed the cash over, he said, “Anytime, day or night—when you find that deer, call me.”
The men rose and Swank showed them back to the front door, where he handed them each a business card with half a dozen phone numbers on it. “I am never completely out of touch. Just keep trying those numbers and you'll find me.”
Red said, “Mr. Swank, it's a pleasure to be working with you. You won't be disappointed.”
“I'm sure that I won't. Oh, and gentlemen, do me a favor. Don't do any more poaching on my property.”
“Oh shit. How did he know it was us?” Billy Don asked when they were back in the truck.
“Hell if I know. But I say we keep our traps shut and earn some easy money.”
“Aren't you nervous, Red? I mean, how come if Swank knows it was us, Mackey hasn't figured it out? He may be your kinfolk, but you shot a guy!”
“We shot a guy, you ingrate. But I think Swank wa
s just taking a wild guess anyway. Besides, all he seems to care about is that damn deer. That must be a awful special buck.”
Red pulled into a convenience store on the edge of Johnson City. He was ready to start spending some of his newfound money. “Billy Don, run in there and get us a twelve-pack of Busch. Wait a minute. Hell, get us a case of Corona. We can afford it.”
Billy Don climbed out of the truck.
“And get me a handful of Slim Jims,” Red called after him. “And some Moon Pies. And a pack of Red Man.”
After Billy Don went inside, Red wasn't thinking about Trey Sweeney lying in a hospital. He wasn't thinking about last week's poaching disaster. All he was thinking about was where John Marlin and Phil Colby might have hidden the trophy buck.
Trey Sweeney was in room 312 according to the front desk. Marlin knocked gently, but didn't receive an answer. The door was slightly ajar, so he eased it open and saw that Trey was sleeping.
Marlin entered and took a seat in one of two chairs for visitors. Not bad, he thought. A private room. One of the benefits of state health insurance.
Marlin noticed several magazines on a small end table. Zoologists’ Monthly. Fauna World. Definitely Trey's. Marlin was thumbing through Wildlife Weekly when a nurse came into the room.
“Oh, hello. I didn't know Mr. Sweeney had a visitor.”
“Yeah, I was just waiting to see if Trey would wake up.”
“He's still on some pretty heavy pain medication.”
Marlin stood. “I'm John Marlin, game warden in Blanco County.”
The nurse took his outstretched hand. “Becky Cameron. Pleased to meet you. You're a friend of Mr. Sweeney's?”
“Well, we work together on some things. But yeah, I'd say we're friends, too.”
Becky smoothly removed an IV bag from its holder and replaced it with another.
Marlin said, “What can you tell me about his condition?”
“Actually, since you're not family, I really can't tell you a lot.” She gave him a smile. “Unless you're conducting an investigation of some sort….”
Marlin got the hint. “On an informal basis, yes, that's exactly what I'm doing.”
Becky sat down in the empty chair. “As the cliché goes, your friend is lucky to be alive. The bullet broke several ribs, but it passed almost parallel to his chest, so his internal organs were untouched. It really was pretty miraculous.”
“Did they have to do surgery?”
She nodded. “We had to remove one of his ribs completely, since it was too shattered to mend properly. But that's fairly common and shouldn't be a problem. Two other ribs were broken, but they should heal on their own. Overall, he should be just fine.”
“That's easy for you to say.” Trey spoke from his bed.
“Well, look who's awake.” Marlin rose and stood at the bedside. “How you doing, Trey?”
“Oh, not so bad, I guess, other than comin’ damn close to being a ten-point buck's love slave.” Trey was slurring, clearly medicated.
Becky Cameron said, “Mr. Sweeney, I just replaced your IV and your pain medication isn't due for another two hours. So just call me if you need anything.” She started toward the door.
“Hold on, Nurse Cameron. Have you met ol’ Johnny here? John, I don't know if you've noticed, but Nurse Cameron bears quite a resemblance to Julia Roberts.”
Marlin had noticed. The nurse was quite attractive, with flowing reddish-brown hair, dark-green eyes, and a knockout figure.
“That's enough out of you, Mr. Sweeney,” Becky said, stifling a smile. “Don't embarrass me in front of your friend. Now, I'll leave you two alone.”
After she left, Marlin pulled a chair up next to the bed. Nobody had been to see Trey, so Marlin told him of the events with Buck, starting with the tranquilizing and ending with the visit from Sheriff Mackey.
“So where is Buck now?” Trey asked.
“Let's just say the last time I saw him, he was in my yard.”
Trey was starting to seem a little more alert. “You wanna be careful with that deer, John. He's been acting real strange lately.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He's one of my test deer, you know that. And I've been doing a little research, getting ready for the breeding season. You know how active the males get during the rut, but Buck has been an aberration lately. He doesn't sleep. He never quits moving. I don't think he even eats. He just keeps wandering, day and night.”
“Maybe some of the does are already in heat,” Marlin said.
“Believe me, even if they are, this is like nothing I've ever seen. Two solid weeks of activity. I mean, it got to the point where I was thinking it was something neurological.”
“So you thought you'd go wandering around a pasture in the middle of the night looking like some kind of circus performer. Real clever, Trey.” Marlin felt obligated to give him a little grief.
“You know as well as I do that I could have just walked right up to him and examined him. But I wanted to see how he was behaving in his natural habitat. Only, I got shot first,” he said sheepishly.
“I was concerned, too,” Marlin said, “when I saw how he was acting that night at the Circle S. But by yesterday, he seemed fine. Like the same old Buck.”
“I'll be honest with you. I'd much rather see Buck back with you or Phil instead of with Swank. Just promise me you'll be careful.”
“You're telling me to be careful?” Marlin said, gesturing around the hospital room.
“I'm serious, John. Just keep an eye on him. You never know what he's going to do.”
“Relax. You don't have to worry about Phil and me.”
Trey smiled and shook his head. “I'm not concerned about you. Just don't hurt the damn deer.”
SUNDAY MORNING, BARNEY Weaver watched television and wished it was Monday, when his food stamps would come by mail. They always arrived on the first of the month, and Barney was anxious. His pantry was running low.
Barney soon lost interest in the tube and decided to write in his journal instead, a practice he had begun during the Unabomber hearings. The idea of keeping a journal appealed to Barney—something about it seemed mysterious and intelligent. It also implied that he had something to say, something worth putting down on paper. So he wrote.
Sunday, October 31
Tried to brake into Marlin's the other day. No luck. Had a minor mishap. Can't find the proof I need but I will sooner or later. Louise ain't doing me like that. If I can proove it I'll be rich and she won't have the last lauhg. She never did lauhg though. And I kind of like Marlin ever since he caught me with too many doves but didn't write me a ticket so maybe I won't hurt them. I just want my share of the money and I think that's right There's plenty to go around. My lawyer's telling me to find something that will show she was fooling around before the divorce. Have to keep trying.
Barney was happy with the entry: concise and well-written. Someday his heirs would read the journal and realize what a wise man he was, and appreciate how he had struggled to deliver their portion of the American dream. They would respect him for his persistence in the face of adversity and admire his determination. But right now, it was time for a cold beer and some pork rinds.
As an officer of the law, Blanco County deputy Bobby Garza was everything that his boss, Herbert Mackey, was not. Honest. Respectable. Concerned. Intelligent. He lived by a code of honor born of a family history rich in law enforcement.
Garza was born in Marble Falls, about thirty minutes north of Johnson City in Burnet County, but his family had moved into Blanco County when he was three. His father had been sheriff of Blanco County in the 1970s, a firm but fair public servant respected by citizens countywide. Bobby's master plan—and he was a meticulous planner—included holding the same office himself. Several friends and neighbors had already encouraged him to run for sheriff, even at the age of thirty-four, but he was biding his time. His father always told him that if he didn't win the first election, he wouldn't win a second.
Being a precise man, Garza was one minute early for his ten o'clock meeting with Lem Tucker, the county coroner. Garza parked his cruiser and waited outside the tiny county morgue, which used to be a Dairy Queen. The windows were painted black and the signage had been removed, but the festive red-and-white exterior seemed much too lively for its purposes. There was even a sticker on the inside of the front door that said, Y'ALL COME BACK. Garza often chuckled about the irony, though nobody else seemed to notice.
Lem Tucker pulled in at five minutes past ten, driving his huge old Chevy Suburban instead of his county car. He climbed out wearing work clothes—old jeans, muddy boots, and a faded shirt. He was a few years older than Bobby Garza, but just as trim. The men had know each other for years, as most residents did in the area. They had a friendly relationship and were occasional hunting partners.
“You didn't have to get all dressed up on my account,” Garza teased, leaning against the fender of his car.
“Sorry. I was just out fixing up a few blinds. You ready for deer season?”
“Just sighted in the thirty-thirty last week.”
“You still using that old brush gun? You'd think a lawman like you would know a little something about firearms.”
The men exchanged a little more small talk as they made their way to the front door. Once they stepped inside, the bantering stopped, as it usually did. Tucker flipped on the lights, revealing the standard floor plan familiar to Dairy Queen customers the nation over. The large main room was sparsely furnished with a few filing cabinets and battered desks. A smaller adjoining room led to the walk-in freezer, the chief reason the old building had been selected as the new morgue site. Lem pulled the handle on the freezer and both men walked in.
“I'm afraid I don't have a lot to tell you at this point,” Lem said as he pulled back the sheet that covered the body. The blue tarp the body had been wrapped in was safely tucked away at the sheriff's office as evidence, along with the man's clothing. There was no jewelry or identification.