Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  “Well, yeah, but your men put quite a scare into him.…Maybe he's just taking a break.”

  “It don’ matter to me,” Oscar said. “Juss as long as everything is ready to go by midnight. And if it ees not ready, I will do it my way.”

  “What are you saying, Oscar?” Swank asked, trying his best to keep his courage up.

  Oscar screamed into the phone. “I don’ care about your beeg hunting party or the value of your animals. Those drugs will be out of those deers by midnight…one way or another!” He slammed the phone down.

  Great, just great, Swank thought. Where the hell was Gray, anyway? You couldn't count on anybody to do a damn thing right. He glanced out the window toward the small guest house. Somehow Swank had managed to let a small army of crazed drug lords invade his property like a cancer. Only, there wasn't any treatment available…except time. There was still a chance this could all blow over. Even if Oscar made good on his threat and killed all the remaining deer, Swank could come out of all this okay. Might even still make a bundle.

  Then he noticed the buzzards circling a couple hundred yards behind the barn.

  Could be a dead rabbit, raccoon, or some other varmint. But Gray was missing—and that gave Swank an uneasy feeling.

  Oscar's man Julio Olivares, the one with the droopy mustache, had no real concerns about a possible confrontation with Deputy Bobby Garza. If the deputy had not believed the message Marlin had left for him last night, then it was up to Julio to resolve the situation. Oscar hated loose ends.

  Julio had killed several men in his lifetime; in Colombia, men in the drug business died all the time. A body would be found in a ravine or in the trunk of a car, a single shot to the head. More often than not, authorities hardly even investigated such matters. They might do a quick background check on the deceased, discover a history of drug-related criminal behavior, and let it go at that. Why bother with more?

  Of course, Julio would prefer not to kill the American deputy. Not because of any deep-seated respect for life, but because it created so many more headaches. In the United States, he couldn't afford to just abandon the body, especially a lawman's body. Better to take him hostage like the other two, hold him until Oscar said everything was okay, then return to Colombia. Julio and his men could probably be back across the border before the hostages even realized they were no longer being guarded.

  But…the deputy could be a problem, and Julio could kill him if he needed to, without even the slightest tug on his conscience. That was a nice thing to know, that he could murder someone without the slightest compunction.

  It was also nice to do this task on his own. Oscar had considered sending Tyler along with Julio, but that muscle-bound freak generally created more problems than he solved.

  Julio pulled the rental car to a stop in front of the lawman's house, then unfolded a Texas map and puzzled over it for a few minutes. To anyone watching, he looked like another lost tourist who had wandered off Highway 290. He climbed out of the car with his sport coat over his arm, concealing the revolver in his right hand.

  He glanced casually down the street, cocked the hammer on his pistol, and rang the doorbell. He'd have to do this just right. If the deputy gave him even a moment's trouble, if he hesitated to obey for even just a second, Julio would have to resort to violence.

  He rang the doorbell again, hoping that the lawman was home; Julio wanted to complete this chore and get back to the ranch. He rang the bell a third time and began to think the house was empty. Suddenly the door was jerked open and Julio's finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger.

  “What I want you to do is grab a couple shovels and bury his body.…I don't care where.”

  “But Mr. Swank, don't we need to call the law in on this?” Red replied.

  “Son, you gotta understand…he died from his own hand…a drug overdose. The man had a problem, and I was his friend, just trying to help him. Brought him out here to try and dry him out. I don't see how bringing the law into it is gonna do anyone any good. Think of how his family will feel. It'll just be a lot of embarrassment all around. Plus, they won't be able to collect any life insurance. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

  Red glanced at Billy Don, who was preoccupied with a wart on his elbow. Red looked back at Swank. “Just bury him anywhere? Without no funeral? Now, I'm willing to bet that's almost illegal.”

  Swank puckered his lips. “You can have his truck.”

  “That new Chevy?”

  Swank nodded his head. “Betcha could sell it for some good cash down in Mexico. After I'm done with you here.”

  Red thought it over for a few seconds. “Where're the shovels?”

  Colby swung the door open and called, “Marlin? Hey, buddy, you here?” He'd hate to walk in on John with a woman. Maybe they were just shacked up and not answering the door or the phone. That wasn't exactly Marlin's style, but you never know.

  No answer, so he walked through the house. Empty. No clue as to where Marlin was or who owned the car outside. Colby scribbled a note—Call me—and placed it beside the telephone. Then he remembered that the answering machine was off. Probably a slipup on Marlin's part, so Colby decided to turn it on. When he did, the light began blinking, indicating a recorded call. It was the same as Colby's machine: If it was turned off by accident or by a power outage, the machine saved any calls that hadn't been reviewed. Curiosity got the best of Colby and he pressed the PLAY button.

  “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.…”

  Now, what the hell was that all about? Colby wondered.

  “…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.”

  Colby listened back to the message several times, just to make sure he heard it correctly. Then he felt the familiar hatred for Roy Swank blossoming deep in his belly. Colby wanted to grab the answering machine from the bar, hurl it across the room, slam his fist into the nearest wall…anything to quell this festering rage.

  But then Colby realized something: If Marlin was missing—and he seemed to be—then it likely had something to do with this message from Deputy Garza. Something to do with Roy Swank. Colby's anger evaporated, replaced by concern for Marlin.

  COLBY THOROUGHLY SEARCHED Marlin's house but found no more clues, nothing that told him where Marlin was or what had happened with Roy Swank. Then his eyes came to rest on the computer. Worth a shot.

  He booted it up and was immediately faced with a control panel asking for a password. He tried all the obvious words—names of Marlin's relatives, past pets and girlfriends, favorite songs—but had no success. Then a thought occurred to him and he typed in BUCK. Damn, it worked! Just like the movies.

  Colby quickly found a bunch of word-processing folders and began to scan through them. Mostly files related to Marlin's work…minutes from Wildlife Commission meetings…letters to landowners regarding wildlife management…memos from higher-ups about changes in game laws.

  Then he spotted a file titled ATTORNEY GENERAL. He opened it.

  Julio's finger twitched on the trigger, but he managed to refrain from firing. A pregnant woman had answered the door. She wore a faded blue bathrobe and had curlers in her hair. No makeup. Dark circles under her eyes. In her arms was a toddler who took one look at Julio and began to wail. In spite of all this, the woman smiled.

  Julio was momentarily taken aback. Oscar had said nothing about a wife or family. Just a deputy. Grab him or kill him, Oscar had said, it didn't matter. Just make sure he is
not a threat. Julio had never killed a woman or child before, but he was always willing to try something new.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked, looking a little surprised to have an unexpected visitor on her doorstep.

  “Yes, I am looking for Bobby Garza,” Julio replied, eyeing the toddler with discomfort. Screaming children tended to attract attention from passersby. He glanced back over his shoulder to see if any of the neighbors were watching. When Garza came to the door, Julio would force his way into the house at gunpoint and then figure things out from there.

  “I'm sorry, hon, he's not here,” the woman said in a cozy Central Texas drawl. “Something I can help you with?”

  Julio smiled his best smile, which looked more like a constipated grimace. “That is very kind, but I really need to speak with Señor…uh, Mr. Garza. Where might I find him?”

  The woman produced a pacifier from somewhere within her bathrobe and stuck it into the toddler's mouth. The child immediately began sucking, but kept both eyes on the intriguing stranger. “You don't know Bobby very well, do ya?” the woman asked, laughing, as if there were some joke that Julio was not privy to.

  Why must everything be so difficult? Julio wondered. Why couldn't she just answer the question instead of asking her own? Perhaps she would be willing to answer if she had a loaded pistol pointed between her eyes. “No, I am just in town for a few days. I am with the Mexico City police,” Julio said, making a story up on the fly. “We are here studying the law enforcement techniques of rural police officers. I was supposed to speak to your husband.…”

  She shook her head. “Bobby never said anything to me about that.”

  Julio was losing patience. He caressed the pistol grip with his thumb. “Perhaps, I can find him…go speak to him. Where did you say he was?”

  The deputy's wife seemed to be losing a little of her friendly demeanor. She studied Julio through squinted eyes, still shaking her head. Julio was about to raise his sport coat, jam the pistol in her face, or better yet, aim it at her child. But she answered first. “Everybody knows, this time of year, he's out fishing at Lake Buchanan. He almost didn't go this year, though. Some emergency at work. But this morning he said it had been taken care of and he took off. He musta forgot all about ya.”

  Fishing? To Julio, it certainly sounded like the phone call from Marlin had worked. Julio nodded at the woman. “Well, then…I am sorry to bother you.”

  “How's your sandwich?” Marlin asked.

  “Not bad. And yours?”

  “Pretty good.”

  Marlin watched Becky eat. She was proper without being stuffy, gently holding her sandwich in a napkin. Marlin had already managed to get mustard all over himself, not to mention the grime and dirt he had collected in the last twelve hours, but she still looked like she could have just stepped out of the shower. Amazing. How do women do that? he wondered.

  “I have to say, you've been pretty amazing through all this,” Marlin said. “Most gals would be freaking out right now.”

  “Working at a hospital kind of teaches you to keep your cool. Sometimes you can't worry about what's going to happen in an hour or in the next ten minutes, all you can do is concentrate on what's happening right now. I'd say we're in pretty good shape at the moment.” She took another small nibble.

  Marlin liked her sense of confidence.

  “For one thing,” she continued, “I don't think Luis would have given us these sandwiches if he were planning on doing anything to us. And he definitely wouldn't have told me his name.”

  “Oh, I see I have a regular criminal psychologist in my presence. What makes you think that?”

  “Once you relate to a victim on a personal level, you feel more empathy for them. Something I've learned through nursing, because it's also true of patients. You can't help but become attached to some of your patients, especially the kids. But it makes it that much harder to take if something happens to them. Sometimes, to keep your distance, you find yourself calling them ‘Mrs. Whoever’ or ‘Mr. So-and-so’ instead of calling them by their first names. It's a strange thing in the hospital…if you hear a nurse getting chummy with someone, you can be pretty sure that person is going to be okay. Kind of sad, when you think about it.”

  Marlin knew exactly what she was talking about. He tried not to get too friendly with local poachers, even though many of them were very likable, because it made it tougher to write citations. Marlin already thought he was too much of a pushover at times. “I think you're right,” he said. “Seems like these guys are just holding us…waiting for something…or someone. My guess is that they somehow figured out how much I knew, so they want me out of the way for a while. Maybe until they can cover everything up.”

  “Did you tell anyone about your suspicions?”

  “Just Bobby Garza,” Marlin said.

  “Bobby sure is popular this weekend, Phil, but he's not here. He went fishing. It's his day off, you know,” Vera Garza said. Colby was on her doorstep, a copy of Marlin's letter to the state attorney general in his pocket.

  Colby was surprised. Judging from Marlin's letter, Garza knew as much about the situation at the Circle S Ranch as Marlin did. “Wha…When did he leave? Where did he go?” Colby finally managed to respond.

  “You sure you don't want to come in for some iced tea?” Vera asked again.

  Colby shook his head, looking a little worried.

  Vera eyed him with concern, but decided not to pry. “He took off this morning. He was headed up to Lake Buchanan, meeting a friend from Burnet up there.”

  “When's he coming back?”

  “Sunday evening. You know, he always likes the lake on opening weekend of deer season ’cause it's so quiet. Then he hunts deer later in the season—after all the amateurs are outta the way, he says.”

  Colby was momentarily at a loss. He was hoping to pump Garza for information, tell him that he couldn't find Marlin. He wanted a cop on his side…and not Sheriff Herbert Mackey. That guy was as a crooked as a pig's tail.

  “Sweetheart, is something wrong?” Vera asked in her comforting Texas way.

  Colby forced a weak smile. “Nothing I can't handle. Is there any way I can reach Bobby? Is he staying at one of the cabins up there?”

  “No, they always camp out. You can try his cell phone, but you probably won't have much luck. Just like I told the other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “There was a Mexican cop ’round here earlier, saying something about needing to talk to Bobby. Seemed kinda weird to me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said he was from Mexico City and he was suppose to talk to Bobby about how country cops do their jobs. What would a Mexican cop care about how we do it here in Blanco County?”

  Colby sat in his truck for a long time and thought things over. He knew that his best friend appeared to be missing, but he was having a tough time believing it. Speaking of unbelievable, the letter Marlin had written to the attorney general seemed outrageous. Deer acting as carrying cases for drugs? On the other hand, Colby knew Marlin wasn't one to go off on wild tangents or to jump to conclusions. The letter didn't offer up any firm proof, but Colby figured that Marlin must have some. And if anybody was capable of participating in such a ballsy scheme, it was Roy Swank. Swank also had the connections to get as many deer across the border as he wanted, without the usual quarantining procedure. He probably had friends at all levels, guys who could sail the deer through with a minimum of paperwork and without a proper inspection.

  But what did this Mexican cop have to do with everything? Could he be a Mexican drug agent, also working to shut Swank down? That seemed unlikely, considering the drugs were leaving Mexico rather than coming in. Colby figured that Mexican cops—like their American counterparts—would be far more concerned about imports rather than exports. No, it was entirely likely that the guy wasn't even a cop.

  Colby had tried Bobby Garza's cellular phone several times with no luck. Either he was out of
range on the middle of massive Lake Buchanan, or he had turned his phone off for the weekend. That left Colby with limited options. What if Marlin's letter was all speculation and he had no evidence against Swank? In the letter, Marlin had said he was in the process of putting together some evidence. That didn't sound like he had anything solid at the moment. If Colby went to the DEA, Marlin could end up looking like an idiot. Might even cost him his job. On the other hand, what if he was in trouble and Colby did nothing?

  The more Colby thought about it, the more he realized he really had only one alternative: As much as he hated to do it, he'd have to talk to Sheriff Herbert Mackey. He dreaded the thought of it, but even Mackey wouldn't be dumb or dishonest enough to just dismiss Colby. In his wildest imagination, regardless of the sheriff's other moral shortcomings, Colby couldn't picture Mackey being involved with drug smuggling. The man was about as backcountry conservative as they come, always spouting on hypocritically about God and country, preaching eye-for-an-eye justice to anyone who would listen. Of course—according to local rumor—that never stopped Mackey from squeezing money out of the criminals unfortunate enough to find themselves under his meaty thumb. Colby knew this particular type of redneck well, the kind of person who thinks criminals are no better than stray dogs…dogs who need a well-placed kick on occasion to keep them in line. But to protect a drug smuggler? Colby didn't think there would be a bribe big enough to sway even a greedy opportunist like Mackey—and Marlin's letter hadn't mentioned Mackey being involved. If Colby approached Mackey on a professional level, right in his own office, he'd have to do something. Wouldn't he? And hell, Mackey might surprise Colby and know exactly where Marlin was.

  On the other hand, if Mackey was working with Swank, this would be a good way to rattle Swank's cage a little, make him realize that people were becoming suspicious of him. That might help Marlin in the long run.

  So that was the plan. Go speak to Mackey. Keep it local. Try to track down Marlin…at least give it another day…before calling in the feds.