by Ben Rehder
The living room was immense, larger than the entire square footage of Red's trailer, and it seemed to Red that it would cost a fortune to fill it up with furniture. He could think of other things he'd spend his money on, like a new Remington shotgun or a tricked-out exhaust system for his truck. But the one thing he wouldn't change would be the entertainment system. With that high-definition wide-screen TV, you could sit back, watch the Nashville Network, and damn, the Dixie Chicks were so lifelike you wanted to reach out and cop a feel. He could sit here for hours, which is exactly what the three of them had been doing. It was starting to get a little goddamned boring, to tell the truth.
There wasn't much conversation, and during the silences, Red had to remind himself why they were here. Actually, he still wasn't sure why they were here. They weren't really bodyguards, and Swank hadn't asked them to do much around the house or the ranch. “Just be ready to do whatever I tell ya,” he had said. “And try to keep the newspaper columnist away from the small guest house.” Red figured that's where the Meskins were. At one point, Red had bluntly asked Swank who the Meskins were. Swank wouldn't show his hand, though; he just said that they were “associates” who had “differing opinions” on matters of “great importance.” They'd be gone in a few days. Instinct told Red to watch his ass.
Whiling away time, Red had noticed something about Swank. What he noticed was, this big, powerful businessman wasn't as different from everyone else as he'd like you to believe. He was just a man, with a line of bullshit as weak as the next guy's. He wasn't always calm and collected, like some big-shot who didn't get a little sweaty under the pits the same as everyone else. He got nervous, he paced the room, he worried about beer getting spilled. When he wasn't in a pissy mood, he told stories that were full of lies, just like every other ol’ boy in Blanco County. The only real difference was that Swank had somehow managed to make a shitpile of money. Red figured Swank kept a large sum of cash tucked away somewhere in the ranch house; after all, Swank had already given him and Billy Don a pretty good amount. Red knew he'd never get his hands on any more of it as long as they all just kept sitting around watching the damn TV.
THE NEXT CALL came in from A. Robinson Road near Pedernales Falls State Park, east of Johnson City. Mrs. Beulah Byrd, a retired schoolbus driver and regular caller to the poacher hotline, had reported a vehicle sitting on the shoulder of the road using a spotlight. “They ain't got the brains God give a billy goat,” she had told the dispatcher. “I walked out to the end of my driveway and they's just setting out there, squeezing off a round ever’ now and then. They's drunker'n Cooter Brown, too, from all the hollering.” Mrs. Byrd found it all highly amusing. “Only weird thing,” she said, “is it sounds like they's shooting pistols, not rifles.” She said it in a conspiratorial tone, as if she were trying to unravel the JFK assassination.
Marlin did a U-turn on Sandy Road and headed east back to Highway 281. He jumped the speedometer up to ninety and got to A. Robinson Road in about four minutes. Another six minutes and he was approaching the state park. Marlin glanced over at Becky and smiled. She was gazing intently up the road and seemed to be enjoying the excitement.
“There they are,” Marlin said quietly as he spotted a late-model Ford pickup on the side of the road. Marlin shook his head in disbelief. The buffoons still had their portable spotlight sticking out the window, lighting up a pasture on the other side of the road.
Marlin slowed to about twenty and eased past the truck with his spotlight on. It was always best to get a complete picture of the situation before stopping. He glanced into the cab and saw two Hispanic men staring back at him. One held up a beer can in salute as Marlin rolled by.
Something is strange here, Marlin thought as he did a 180 and came up behind the Ford.
“I gotta piss like a mule,” Billy Don announced, and then extracted his large frame from the downy comfort of the leather sofa.
Red and Roy Swank didn't respond. They were too busy watching SportsCenter on ESPN, where a reporter was saying that the Cowboys’ star receiver was doubtful for this weekend's game against the Redskins. “Damned pantywaist,” Red said with contempt. “Guy gets a quarter-million a game, the least he could do is play.”
Swank nodded, but Red could tell his attention was elsewhere.
Red licked his lips and turned to his boss. “Notice your scotch is running a little low there, Mr. Swank. Want me to grab ya another bottle?”
Swank looked over at Red with glazed eyes. “In the cabinet under the wet bar,” he said, pointing. “Chivas Regal, not that other crap.”
Red rose and walked behind the bar. He emerged with a new bottle, cracked the seal, and poured four fingers in Swank's glass. “That oughta set ya up,” he said with a smile. He placed the bottle on the end table within Swank's reach.
Red sat back down on the sofa and looked at Swank out of the corner of his eye. “Mr. Swank, I gotta tell ya, I'm still not real sure why we're out here. Not that I mind or anything. We could watch TV for a week, all I care. Just wanna make sure you're getting your money's worth.”
Swank took a long pull from his glass but didn't say anything.
“These Meskins you got runnin’ ’round here,” Red continued, “now, something tells me you and them got some kinda deal going on that you don't wanna talk about. That's fine. But I hate to see a man like yourself get screwed around by a buncha south-of-the-border types. I'm just wondering if there was some way I could help out.”
“You're helping out just by being here,” Swank croaked, his voice rough from the whiskey. “More than that, you don't need to know.”
Well, at least he's talking, Red thought. So he plowed forward. “I just don't think they're giving you the respect they oughta be giving you, Mr. Swank. They're out there skulking around like they own the place. You keep saying it'll all blow over soon, then they'll be gone. But in the meantime you're holed up in here like a rabbit.” Red paused a moment to let that sink in. If he could just get Swank to loosen up, maybe he could find out what was going on. Then he could find a way to cut himself in on it.
Swank turned to Red and looked as if he might say something. Then he shook his head and looked back at the television. “Just drink your beer, son. And enjoy the free ride while you can.”
For a few seconds, Marlin considered running a check on the license plates. Play it safe, a voice told him. But in twenty years, Marlin had never run into a situation he couldn't handle. Plus, he had to admit, he didn't want to look nervous in front of Becky. Vanity. So he put his spotlight on the Ford truck and used his PA. “Driver…step out of the car.” He waited, but nobody emerged. He repeated the order, but the driver did not obey. He could hear one of the men responding in Spanish.
“He doesn't understand you, John,” Becky said. “He just said he doesn't know English.”
Marlin grinned to cover up the uneasiness he was feeling. “Guess you took a little Spanish in high school, too.”
“Four years,” Becky replied. “I use it all the time on the job.”
Marlin pondered his next move. Run the plates, you idiot, the voice said again. He ignored it. “Well, I guess I gotta do this the old-fashioned way.” He swung the cruiser door open and climbed out. He pulled his flashlight off his hip while his right hand remained on his holstered .357 revolver. Then he approached the truck on the passenger's side, a trick he had learned from a veteran warden. The poachers always expected you to approach from the driver's side, and if you could throw them off, even in a small way, it was to your benefit. Marlin only went as far as the middle of the truck bed and shined his light in through the rear window. He paused for a moment to get a good look at the two men staring back at him. One of them was older, with a droopy mustache. The other was young and slight.
“Pasajero: bajate del camión,” Marlin said, using a phrase he had memorized.
The passenger grinned at Marlin through the window. Then he shrugged as if he didn't understand.
“No comprende?�
� Marlin asked.
The man rattled something off in Spanish that was too quick for Marlin to understand. But both men were laughing and smiling, just as they had been doing since Marlin first saw them. Probably just a couple of illegals who've had a little too much too drink, Marlin thought. Saw a deer on the roadside and just couldn't resist taking a shot, and now they've brought the law down on themselves. Marlin didn't see a deer carcass in the truck bed or anywhere on the roadside. Probably best just to take the weapon away from them, tell them to sober up for a while, and then go on their merry way.
That's exactly the way Marlin had it figured—until he heard Becky scream.
To Marlin, the next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion. His entire body felt sluggish, his mind addled, his reactions dulled. When he looked back, he saw a massive figure grabbing at Becky through the window of the cruiser. In the millisecond that transpired before he reacted, Marlin could see Becky was trying to get away, trying to scramble to the driver's side, but her seat belt was holding her back. The gargantuan man had her by both wrists and was leaning into the window. Becky shrieked again. By then, Marlin had begun moving back toward the cruiser, his gun drawn. He wasn't running, because panic was your worst enemy in a situation like this. He positioned himself about ten feet away from the man and aimed the revolver at the center of the man's back. Marlin was vaguely aware of some movement behind him.
Marlin, still facing the cruiser, yelled, “Freeze! Let her go and get down on the ground!”
That's when a tremendous force jolted Marlin's brain and his world went dark.
THURSDAY NIGHT, PHIL Colby lay in the hospital feeling fidgety, on edge. He had tried to call John Marlin at about eight, but got no answer. The answering machine didn't even pick up. Colby hadn't expected to reach Marlin; it was, after all, just two days before the deer season. But still, it would have been nice to talk to him. Colby had a lot of questions for him.
The hospital was quiet, with only the occasional nurse wandering by Colby's open door. At ten o'clock, he rang Marlin again, still with no answer.
I've had enough of this place, Colby thought, and climbed out of the bed. He was still feeling a little woozy, but his strength was coming back quickly. “Hell, I've been kicked by a horse and felt worse than this,” Colby said to himself, to bolster his shaky legs.
He went to the institutional-looking nightstand and quickly found the clothes he had been wearing when he was admitted. He pulled on his pants and sat down for a minute. Funny how the vertigo can creep up on you. Just then, a heavyset, middle-aged night nurse came into his room. She started to say something, then eyed his blue jeans. “Going somewhere, Mr. Colby?” she asked with a stern expression.
“Yeah. Home.” Colby replied coolly.
“I don't think so. Dr. Hansen wants you in here for at least a few more days for observation.”
Colby shrugged. “Tell you what…I'll observe myself. If I notice anything unusual, I'll be sure to let you know.”
“This really isn't a good idea, Mr. Colby. Please lie back down and let me check your vital signs.” She stepped forward while removing the stethoscope from around her neck.
Colby put a hand in the air. “Nurse. I know you're only trying to help me out. And you don't want to get in trouble with the doctors. But until you've met me, you don't even know the meaning of the word ‘hardheaded.’ ” Colby checked her name tag. “Marilyn, here's the deal. I'm going home tonight, with or without the doctor's permission.”
Nurse Marilyn paused for moment, biting her lip. Then she knelt down in front of Colby and checked his pupils. In a soft voice, she said, “Fine. But please—let me check your vitals before you go.”
“It's a deal,” Colby smiled.
His pulse was a little high, but everything else checked out fine. Colby continued to dress while Nurse Marilyn proceeded down the hall to find some forms for him to fill out. She had said something about liability and insurance and asked him to please wait for five minutes. He waited ten, and then he put on his shoes and walked to the nearest elevator.
He followed the signs to the front exit and walked out into the cool night. Then he realized, in his semifogged state, that he didn't have a car. Maybe this leaving wasn't such a good idea after all.
When Marlin came to, his head was pounding, his vision was blurred, and he felt nauseous—yet he knew exactly where he was. Lying on the floor of the old rock cabin on the lower pasture of the Circle S Ranch. When Marlin and Phil Colby were kids, the dilapidated structure had served as their fortresslike headquarters. They'd ride horses down from the main house, bringing along their .22s to do a little plinking. Or they'd haul out the fishing rods they stored inside the house and wet a line in the nearby Pedernales River. It had been two decades since Marlin had set foot in the house, yet he immediately recognized the barn-wood interior and the rusted woodstove in the corner.
“John…how are you feeling?” The voice seemed to come from the end of a tunnel. It sounded familiar…and yet…
Marlin felt a warm hand on his cheek. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and finally focused on the face of Becky Cameron. She was kneeling on the dirt floor beside him, holding a flashlight. Marlin struggled with confusion for a moment, and then his whole body tensed as he remembered what had happened. Marlin attempted to sit up, but Becky held him down. “It's best that you stay still for a while,” she said in a reassuring tone. “John, can you tell me your last name?”
What kind of stupid question is that? Marlin wondered. “Marlin,” he croaked through an arid throat.
“What day is it?”
“It was Thursday night. I don't know if it still is.”
“Good. I was worried that you might have a concussion.”
“What the hell happened?” Marlin asked, knowing that Becky wouldn't have an answer. “Who were those guys?” He already had a pretty good idea.
“I don't know. They put us in the backseat of your truck and brought us out here. They blindfolded me. I don't know where we are. They wouldn't let me ask any questions, and neither of them said a word the whole time.”
“Neither of them? I thought there were more than two.”
“There were three, but only two in your truck. The other drove the truck they were in. I think he came out here, too.”
Marlin took a moment to soak all this in. His brain was swimming, and he couldn't seem to manage a sensible train of thought. All the facts were in his head…he just couldn't put them in any kind of logical order. He reached around gingerly and felt the wound on the back of his head. He had a lump about the size of a golf ball, topped with a pretty good gash. Dried blood matted his hair. He'd probably need stitches, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.
“Where are they now?” Marlin asked, propping himself on one elbow. It was the only thing he could think to ask.
“Outside. Or at least one of them is. I heard the truck drive away earlier, and I heard two doors closing when they left. I think one guy stayed behind with your truck. I hear him moving around every now and then, and I can smell a campfire. They nailed the door shut when they left, and the windows are boarded up. The only thing they said was for us to stay put or we'd be sorry.”
Of course, no matter how muddled Marlin's synapses were, no matter how hampered his cerebral abilities, he knew Roy Swank was behind all this. “Becky, I'm sorry,” he said softly.
“What for? It's not your fault. How could you know poachers would react like that?”
“They weren't poachers,” he said, watching her face closely. He didn't see fear, only confusion. So far, she seemed unshaken by the abduction, unwilling to cringe in fear. He wondered if that would change as she learned the truth. “I think they're drug dealers. Working with a guy named Roy Swank. We're on his ranch right now.”
Marlin took a deep breath and told her the entire story…the shooting of Trey Sweeney in his deer suit, Buck's abnormal behavior, the white powder found by Thomas Stovall, every
detail. He had to pause at times and gather his strength, but Becky sat by patiently each time and waited for him to continue. When he was done, she didn't cry or tremble or yell at him for dragging her into this mess. She just asked if he wanted some water. “Yes, please,” he said.
She handed him a jug from somewhere and he took a long drink. It was icy-cold and felt fantastic, reaching the parched recesses in his throat. He hadn't realized until then how thirsty he was.
Meanwhile, Becky rose to her feet and walked over to the door. Then she surprised Marlin by banging on it like a narc on a drug raid.
Seconds later a thickly accented voice came through the door: “Que pasa?”
She answered back, sounding just as peeved. “I need some aspirin, some peroxide, and some towels in here. Plus some more water—sanitary. To clean his wound.”
“I no speak Englees,” the man responded in a taunting voice. Marlin could hear faint laughter.
“Like hell you don't,” Becky replied. She waited, but the man said nothing further. So she repeated her demand, this time in Spanish, and more forcefully than before. She seemed to go on for quite some time, but Marlin couldn't keep up with her fluent Spanish.
Marlin heard the man grunt and then say a few words back.
Becky turned to him and said, “He's bringing us a few things so I can clean you up.”
Marlin had to laugh, even though it hurt.
An hour later, Becky and Marlin heard a vehicle pull up, followed by a single slamming car door and then a muffled conversation in Spanish between two men. These were the first voices Marlin had heard outside the cabin, leading Marlin to believe that Becky was right: Only one man was guarding the cabin. That information might prove useful in the future. One of the men sounded quite agitated.