by Ben Rehder
The man looked at the ground and shook his head. The weightlifter next to him smiled broadly and laughed.
Gray smiled, too. Then Droopy Mustache nodded at the steroid junkie, who suddenly drove his right fist into Gray's solar plexus. Gray immediately doubled over and began gasping for air. His heartbeat was pounding so loudly in his ears, he barely heard Droopy Mustache say: “That is not good enough.”
From the south-facing window in his den, Roy Swank could see three strangers approaching the barn where Tim Gray was working. One man—a big son of a bitch—was fair-complected, but the other two looked Colombian. So Oscar really did it, Swank thought. Brought a trio of his assassins up here just like he said he would.
Swank crossed to his desk and opened the middle right-hand drawer. Sitting inside was his favorite pistol: a Colt Mustang Pocketlite .380. He eased the rack back a little to make sure there was a round in the chamber. The .380 wasn't a very powerful weapon, but it was compact and lightweight. This particular model fit neatly into his pants pocket, which is where Swank placed it. Like Swank always told his friends and colleagues: He had never been a Boy Scout—but he damn sure agreed with their motto.
“Hi, this is Marlin. I'm not here right now, so please leave a message at the tone.”
“Marlin, it's Bobby Garza. Hey, I just wanted to say sorry that I couldn't give you more backup on that whole Swank deal. I believe you and everything, but without that powder, I didn't have a chance in hell of getting a search warrant. Anyway, if he's doing what we think he's doing out there, we'll catch up to him sooner or later. Just a matter of time. We'll talk more about it. But listen, I wanted to tell you about something else, too…about how Swank ended up getting the ranch from Phil Colby. You ready for this? Swank bribed Claude Rundell so that he wouldn't give Colby the loan he needed. Found out this morning. Anyway, I'll give you the full story. Give me a call.”
The machine clicked off, the red light began flashing, and the room fell silent again.
The small man named Luis had been rustling around in Marlin's desk, but now he stopped, knowing what he needed to know. Not only was Marlin aware of what was going on, so was the cop. Luis had no idea what all that stuff was about a bribe, but he didn't care about that. He didn't know how to erase the message, so he simply turned the machine off. He let himself out the back door, leaving everything else just the way he had found it.
“DAMN,” MARLIN SAID, as he watched the thin trail of blood meander down his chin. He always seemed to nick himself shaving when he was preoccupied. It was nearly eight o'clock and Becky—still “Nurse Cameron” in his mind—would be at his house shortly.
He splashed a little warm water on his face and that helped to stem the flow of blood. He had shaved and showered that morning, prior to his full day of Wildlife Commission meetings, but it always made him feel relaxed and comfortable to freshen up again before a long night. And poachers typically made the nights right before deer season busy ones. Rural residents would place calls reporting rifle fire, spotlights sweeping fields and hillsides, and vehicles trespassing onto their property. It wasn't unusual for Marlin to get home at four or five in the morning, just hours before first light and the official start of one of the most anticipated annual events in Texas. Sometimes Marlin would catch a few hours of sleep and then head out in the morning to check hunters’ licenses, make the usual rounds to the butcher shops and taxidermists, and answer calls as they came in from the dispatcher. Other times, Marlin wouldn't even bother to sleep; he'd just load up on coffee, eat a light breakfast, change clothes, and get back to it. This schedule repeated itself Saturday night. It was grueling, but Marlin loved it. It was like deer season was a huge party and he was the bouncer. Behave yourself and you could come right in. But try to skirt the rules and you'd get tossed out on your ass.
Marlin was actually kind of glad he had the coming of opening day to distract him from his date with Becky. Date? Was that really what it was? Marlin looked in the bathroom mirror and said to himself, “I've got a date.” He smiled and shook his head. It sounded kind of funny, and he couldn't even remember the last time he had used that word. Sure, he had been seeing Louise for a while. But that really wasn't what he'd call dating. It was just having sex with someone he felt comfortable spending time with. It wasn't butterfly-inducing, knee-wobbling, sweaty-palmed dating. He had forgotten what it was like.
Marlin hopped in the shower at fifteen minutes before eight, hoping that Becky wouldn't arrive early. As he lathered up, he took stock of his middle-aged body. His muscles weren't as defined as they once were, and he had some small love handles. But all in all, not too bad. Marlin's body was like that of a linebacker who hadn't played in nearly twenty years—which is exactly what he was. He had played Division II ball at Southwest Texas State University and had held the school record for unassisted tackles for a few years. His torso was still powerful, yet not as lean as it once was. His arms were in good shape, but not as bulky as in his college weight-lifting days. Marlin, like most men his age, found it easy to rationalize away the benefits of staying in top shape. What's the point of having a rock-hard physique when your job doesn't really call for it? Football's one thing, but you don't need to be able to bench 250 to write a poacher a ticket. That line of thinking always made it easier to have a second helping of chicken-fried venison and another cold beer. But maybe it was time to dust off the weights in the garage, Marlin thought. Start watching his diet a little. He was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when he heard the doorbell.
“Am I early? Nice outfit,” Becky said with a giggle, standing on the front porch. Marlin had answered the door wearing a cotton robe, a wet towel hanging around his shoulders.
“No, sorry,” he said swinging the door open. “I was a little late getting back from Austin. The Commission meeting ran a little long. Come on in.”
There was an awkward moment as Marlin went to shake Becky's hand. He wondered if he should have given her a quick hug. After all, they had gotten to know each a little over the past week. Marlin closed the door behind her and escorted her beyond the small entryway into the living area. “I'll be ready in just a sec. Would you like something to drink?”
“What ya got?” Becky asked.
Marlin noticed that even though she had been very friendly at the hospital, she seemed even more easygoing and casual now. He liked it. He also liked the way she was dressed: faded, well-fitting jeans, a lightweight red sweater, and white tennis shoes. She smelled great, too, Marlin noticed, like one of those scented magazine inserts. He didn't know any of the popular women's perfumes by name, but he knew he had smelled this one before.
“How about a Coke or a beer?” Marlin replied over his shoulder as he made his way into the kitchen.
“A beer would be great.”
Marlin opened the refrigerator and said, “Miller Lite all right?”
“That's fine,” Becky called from the other room. “I like your house. But there're a few things missing that I thought you'd have.”
“Like what?” Marlin asked, returning with a beer in a frosty mug.
“Trophies on the wall. You know, big bucks with big antlers out to here.”
Marlin smiled. “Hey, we're not all in it for the racks.”
“You do hunt, don't you?”
“Oh, you bet I do. When I can find the time. It's kind of ironic: I became a game warden because I love the outdoors, and especially deer hunting. But it's my job that keeps me from hunting as much as I'd like. Here, have a seat.” Marlin gestured toward the couch and they both sat down. But then Marlin suddenly felt very self-conscious in the robe and stood up again. “Why don't I go get dressed real quick and then we can head out?”
“No hurry,” Becky said. “I don't have to work tomorrow.”
Marlin looked at her and grinned. Her remark sounded kind of forward, but he knew she hadn't meant it that way.
Becky turned bright red. “What I meant was, I don't mind driving back home late tonight since I
don't have to go in tomorrow.”
“I know that's what you meant. I'll be right back.”
Becky looked around the living room and thought: Definite bachelor. The house was neat and clean and everything, but it just didn't have a woman's touch. Functional but boring furniture. No art on the walls, no color anywhere. Nothing was there just for the sake of making the room more pleasant—like a bowl of potpourri or a vase of flowers. The glass-topped coffee table held a few plastic coasters and a stack of magazines. She glanced through them. Texas Trophy Hunters, Texas Parks and Wildlife, Southern Outdoors, Esquire…Esquire? That seemed as out-of-place as a refrigerator in an igloo. But maybe there was more to John Marlin than she thought. He definitely seemed intelligent, sensitive, and, since she could think of no other word to describe it, worldly. Before she met him, she would have guessed that your average game warden was a grade-A redneck—a tobacco-chewing, truck-driving, Confederate flag-waving member of the NRA. So much for stereotypes.
She rose from the couch and walked over to a wall that displayed a collection of framed photographs. She saw what were obviously old family portraits, including a few shots that showed John with his parents, she assumed, and another young man about his age. There were a few hunting, vacation, and party pictures, and she recognized Phil Colby in many of them. There were also a couple of John with a brunette woman. Very nice looking, Becky noticed. Is that a little bit of jealousy? she wondered. She passed it off as curiosity.
She took a sip of her beer and skimmed through his CD collection on the entertainment center next to the television. George Strait, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakam. Those, she expected, but she also found Fats Domino, ZZ Top, Frank Sinatra, and AC/DC. This was getting interesting. She was holding a copy of Fandango when Marlin walked back into the room wearing his warden's uniform.
“Sorry ’bout the duds, but I gotta wear ’em when I'm on patrol. You like ZZ Top?”
She looked down at the CD case she was holding. “Love ’em, but especially their older stuff. Like this.” Marlin arched his eyebrows at her in surprise. “Mexican Blackbird is a classic,” she said.
In a growling, bluesy voice, Marlin sung, “Aw, let's drive that ol’ Chrysler to Mexico, boys.” Becky laughed and Marlin joined in, both of them feeling a little silly.
“You want another beer?” Marlin asked, gesturing at her empty mug.
“No thanks.”
“Well, why don't we head out, then? I'm not promising the most exciting night of your life,” Marlin said as he opened the front door for her.
He'd remember making that statement much later, and realize how wrong he was.
“YOU NEVER TOLD me why you hunt,” Becky said. They were at a rest stop on Highway 281 near Miller Creek Loop, finishing the picnic dinner Becky had brought along as promised. No calls from the dispatcher yet. It was a balmy evening, partly cloudy with just a trace of a southerly breeze. Crickets performed a buzzing symphony and frogs called urgently from the nearby creekbank.
Marlin pondered the question for several moments before responding. “You know, I've thought about that myself a lot, and I'm not exactly sure why I do it. It's just something that's part of me, I guess. I mean, I love venison, and that always seems to be my main reason. Gotta fill the freezer and get enough to last the year.”
“So you eat it all?” Becky asked.
Marlin looked at her as if she had asked if he breathed oxygen on a daily basis. “Well, yeah, I wouldn't hunt anything I'm not planning on eating. For instance, I don't like dove meat, so I don't hunt dove. Same with fishing. I like a little catfish occasionally, just not enough to get me out on a boat to catch my own. But I do know plenty of hunters who just want to find the biggest buck in the county and don't really care about the meat. I think that's the perception most non-hunters have of us: just a bunch of trophy-driven killers.”
Becky touched his arm lightly, “Oh, I hope you don't think that's what I was saying….”
“You don't mind hunting?”
“No, of course not. We're part of the food chain, aren't we?”
Marlin nodded.
“And as long as it's done humanely,” Becky continued, “then I really don't see the problem with it.”
“I'm glad you feel that way,” Marlin replied. Then, without thinking: “Next time, I'll whip up some chicken-fried venison. Ever had it?”
“No, but that sounds great.”
Marlin hadn't meant to be presumptuous about a next date, so he flushed a little and looked down at his plate. Then he continued with his train of thought. “There's more to hunting than just the venison, though. It's like feeling a kinship with the outdoors, a way of staking your spot in nature, being a part of it instead of just a spectator. Most people, all they ever see of nature is what they can see from their car windows.”
Becky raised her hand. “Guilty as charged. Not that I've never been for a hike in the woods or a picnic in a state park or things like that. But I'm not exactly Calamity Jane, riding a horse and killing my own dinner.”
“But you do appreciate the outdoors?”
“Love it. The problem is, when you live in the city, you can get everything you need at the grocery store, the mall…you can even watch wildlife twenty-four hours a day—on the Nature Channel. So most people don't have a lot of reasons to get out and explore. I'd say you're a lucky man. You seem to love what you do, and you get to do it away from all the turmoil of the city and the crowds, the road rage and the stress.”
Marlin nodded. Sometimes he took it all for granted, and it was nice to hear someone reaffirm his choices in life. It was easy to wonder, at times, whether he should be off chasing the almighty dollar like everyone else. Life's too short, he always concluded.
“This is really good,” Marlin said, taking a bite of his fried-chicken sandwich.
“I hope you don't mind it cold. When I was a kid, we used to always eat leftover fried chicken right out of the fridge.”
“Excellent,” Marlin said, just as a call came in over his cruiser's radio.
Marlin took Highway 290 north through Johnson City, then turned west on Sandy Road. Four minutes later, he pulled into a ranch entrance between two stone columns. The mailbox said BUSHONG. One of the Bushong's neighbors had called to report rifle shots. Marlin climbed out of the cruiser, opened the recessed gate, then continued on. He followed the winding driveway about a half-mile through a thick copse of tall first-growth cedars, then the cruiser broke back into open terrain. The headlights bounced off sluggish cattle standing on each side of the road. Marlin came to several forks, and each time he turned as if he had a mental compass. He came to two more gates, which he opened and closed behind him as he progressed onto the ranch.
Finally Marlin came to a large field and saw what he was looking for: Bobby Bushong's old Chevy pickup moving slowly in the low grass. Marlin steered the cruiser off the rutted road and pulled alongside the driver's side of the truck.
“ ’Evening, Bobby,” Marlin said to the shaggy middle-aged man inside. A curious young weimaraner whimpered from the bed of the truck.
“How you doing, John?” Bushong replied.
“Just out making the rounds. Got a report of some shots over here.”
Bushong nodded. “Doing a little spotlighting, cleaning up some of the pigs out here before the hunters show up on Saturday. They never want to shoot ’em, and they don't believe me when I tell ’em they eat as good as the pork they buy in the store.”
“Any luck?”
“Got two big ol’ sows and a young boar over yonder.”
“Anything else?” Marlin asked as he switched on the spotlight attached to the side of his cruiser.
Bushong grimaced. “Well, you know how it is.”
Marlin played the spotlight over the field and came to rest on the three wild hogs. A large white-tailed doe lay next to them. “I guess that's all you need for tonight, huh? I mean, those should last you a while.…”
Bushong brightened. “I reckon they
will.”
“And I imagine you remembered to buy a hunting license this year.”
“Yes sir,” Bushong said, reaching for his wallet.
Marlin waved him off. “That's all right, I don't need to see it.”
The men made small talk about the prospects of the upcoming season, then Marlin turned around and left the ranch.
“Didn't you see the deer lying there?” Becky asked.
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“Well, that was illegal, wasn't it? It's not hunting season until Saturday, right?”
Marlin was back on Sandy Road, just cruising, heading northwest to the edges of Blanco County. “Let me tell you something about Bobby Bushong,” Marlin said. “His family has been on that ranch since the turn of the century. He somehow manages to make a living, selling fenceposts and firewood, raising cattle, leasing it out to hunters. He's a hardworking man, and he's not a cheater. But sometimes it can get a little rough, like with the bottom dropping out of the cattle market this year. There's a lot of families like his, people who would rather make do for themselves than turn to the government for food stamps. He'd never go out and shoot a deer just for the antlers or just for the sport of it. What he was doing was putting food on the table.”
They rode on in silence for a few minutes. Then Becky said, “But how do you know he won't do it again?”
“Oh, he'll do it again. And they'll eat every last scrap of it.” Marlin opened his mouth but couldn't find the right words. Finally he said, “The way I see it, part of my job is knowing who needs to get busted and who doesn't. Sometimes that's an awfully easy call.”
Red was sitting on the plush leather sofa next to Billy Don. Man, that soft leather sure cradles you, Red thought, like easing down onto a plump hooker. Both men were drinking beer from longnecks and had been warned several times by Roy Swank not to spill it. “That's full-grain leather, you know, not split-grain,” he'd say, as if expecting the two rednecks to nod their heads in appreciation. “And try not to get your goddamn donut crumbs all over everything,” he added, glaring at Billy Don. Billy Don swept a clumsy hand over the sofa, flinging crumbs out onto the bearskin rug. Swank was half-drunk, from what Red could tell, and sat nearby in a matching leather recliner. He was nursing a big tumbler of scotch on the rocks, but he didn't seem too concerned about the possibility of his own spillage.