Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  “Just a shitload of boots,” Billy Don hollered back. “Must be fifty pair of Tony Lamas in here. Gen-yoo-wine ostrich and lizard, too.”

  Red appeared in the closet doorway and saw that Billy Don was on the floor pulling on a pair of alligator skins. “Forget the damn boots, wouldya. We ain't got time for that shit. Keep looking.”

  Red went back into the bedroom and looked under the oak-frame king-sized bed. Nothing but luggage. He jostled a few of the bags. Empty.

  Swank was ten minutes into his speech, rambling on about the three key factors that dictate the growth of a whitetail—genetics, environment, and age. His audience didn't seem too fidgety yet, so he pressed on.

  “I've got some beautiful four-and-a-half-year-olds out here, but those deer still have some growing to do. So try to hold out if you can. Wait for the big boys.” Swank made eye contact with an old friend. “And Senator Thomas: Try not to shoot a cow this year.” The crowd chuckled in delight.

  “Hey, Red, take a look at this.” Billy Don emerged from the closet holding a cardboard box, a big smile on his face.

  Red was on his knees going through a cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. “What is it?”

  Billy Don reached in and held up a videotape cassette. “Skin flicks. There's gotta be twenty or thirty in here. This one here is called Blow White and the Seven Dwarves. Looks like a real freak show.”

  Red considered it for a minute. “Old man don't have no wife. Gotta get his rocks off somehow.”

  Billy Don grinned like a schoolboy. “Let's take a look-see.”

  Red stood, grabbed the tape from Billy Don's hand and tossed it back in the box. “Goddamn, how many times I gotta tell ya? We ain't got time for that. We're looking for cash or paperwork or something that tells us what's going on out here. Forget the porno movies.”

  Billy Don walked glumly back into the closet and stuck the box back on the top shelf where he had found it. Then he had second thoughts and grabbed one of the tapes for later that evening.

  AT NINE THAT evening, Sheriff Herbert Mackey fixed himself a stiff drink. The cool liquid would feel good on his aching throat. That Phil Colby was one mean bastard. Talk about a cheap shot…Mackey himself had never even punched a prisoner in the throat. But it was damn sure effective.

  All evening, Mackey had considered calling Roy Swank and telling him about Marlin's suspicions and Colby's accusations. But then Mackey realized something he had known all along: For his own well-being, he had to remain completely ignorant about what was going on at the Circle S. Swank made generous contributions to the Sheriff's Department—and some of that money went straight into Mackey's pocket. The unspoken understanding was that Mackey would let Swank run his ranch however he wanted. That meant Mackey had to turn a blind eye to all the importing violations Swank committed with his trophy deer. But Mackey had been stunned by everything Colby had said. No, it was best to remain out of the loop as far as Roy Swank was concerned. Then, if the shit hit the fan, Mackey could honestly say that he had no idea what Swank was up to. Sure, Colby would tell everyone about his visit to Mackey's office…but Mackey could dismiss it as wild speculation. Unless John Marlin showed up with some solid proof. Then Mackey would have to act. Then he'd have to nail Swank to the wall.

  Mackey wondered whether he had made the right decision about Phil Colby. He could have had one of the deputies pick Colby up on an assault charge. But Mackey had decided to let it go. His instinct had told him that arresting Colby would be a mistake…it would look like Mackey was protecting Swank in any way that he could. So he had let it pass. But he had vowed silently to get revenge on Colby when the opportunity presented itself. And it always did.

  Colby hung out at Marlin's house until ten o'clock. He had been there all day, since his run-in with Sheriff Mackey. He knew that he couldn't go back to his own house…that would be the first place the deputies would look. And Colby was certain they would be looking for him. You can't just assault a police officer and get away with it. Worse yet, Colby had no witnesses to the fact that Mackey threw the first punch.

  So he had parked his truck behind a grove of cedars, slipped into Marlin's house through the back door, and tried fruitlessly to figure out his next move.

  The house was eerily silent. He kept hoping the phone would ring and he would hear Marlin's familiar voice. But as each hour passed, Colby became more and more convinced that Marlin had gotten himself into some serious trouble. Colby didn't like to think about it, but he knew that Marlin might not even be alive. If Swank was really running drugs, then he was mixed up with some serious scum—men who would do just about anything to protect their business.

  Colby felt trapped. Regardless of his suspicions, he still didn't feel confident enough to call the DEA or the FBI or whoever the hell you're supposed to call in a situation like this. What would he tell them, anyway? They weren't likely to raid Swank's home based on Marlin's letter alone. They would want to talk to Marlin first, see what kind of evidence he had.

  And in the back of Colby's mind, there was still the smallest trace of a chance that Marlin was just fine. If Marlin reappeared and Colby had called the authorities in on Marlin's behalf, it could be a real disaster for Marlin.

  No matter how Colby looked at it, he couldn't come up with a good solution. He couldn't trust Mackey. The one cop he could trust, Bobby Garza, couldn't be reached. It wasn't time to call in federal agents yet. So that left just one option.

  He'd go out to the Circle S and figure things out for himself.

  Swank staggered out of the massive guest house at eleven o'clock. He had mingled with his guests all evening, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, playing poker…but most of them had turned in by now. A few diehards were finishing one last drink—which they would regret in the morning—out on the front porch under the stars.

  By the time Oscar arrived, Swank figured, all the lights would be out, all the hunters snoring in their bunks. The Colombians would take their goods and Swank could quietly put all this nasty business behind him.

  He entered the ranch house, locked the door, ambled down the main hall, and heard the wide-screen television playing in the billiards room. He poked his head in and saw Billy Don on the leather sofa and Red in Swank's favorite recliner. Swank shook his head. The imbeciles were watching an infomercial about a male potency drug. Swank had always been amazed at the power of television…you could sell a ten-pound bag of dog shit if you put it in the right package. Maybe that was something he should look into.

  Swank started to tell the rednecks to turn the TV off and go to bed…but he decided it would be worthwhile to have them awake at midnight. He didn't expect to see Oscar, but the crazy Colombian was unpredictable. So he left them where they were and groggily continued down the hall to his bedroom.

  “D'you hear that?”

  “What?” Red replied.

  “A door closin’ or sumpin’.”

  “Probably just Swank hitting the hay. Don't be so jumpy. The Meskins are all gone. You saw ’em leave, same as me.”

  “Sorry we couldn't find nothin’, Red. Maybe they was just here to buy a horse or sumpin’. Maybe that's all it was.”

  Red stifled a yawn. He'd had too many beers and was fading fast. The whole evening had been a letdown. They hadn't even been able to find any cash. “You seen any horses out here?”

  Billy Don shook his head.

  “Well, then…how the hell they gonna buy one?”

  “Maybe they done bought ’em all.”

  Red started to reply but realized it was futile. His heart just wasn't in it. So he swigged his beer and sat in silence.

  “Hey, Red?” Billy Don called to him.

  Red didn't reply.

  “Red?”

  “What?” Red said, like he was talking to a pesky younger brother.

  “Know what I wanna do?”

  “Does it involve Wesson oil?” Red asked, “’cause I've always told you I'm not into that.”

  “Very funny,” Bill
y Don said, sitting up straight on the leather sofa. “I wanna watch one of them skin flicks.”

  Red started to make a smart-ass remark but, frankly, it sounded pretty good to him, too. “You're too late. Swank's back and they're all in his bedroom closet.”

  Billy Don grinned and held up the black videocassette. “All exceptin’ this one.”

  “You awake?” Marlin asked.

  “Yes,” Becky murmured. “And a little scared.”

  Marlin was reclining with his back against a wall and Becky had her head in his lap. Looking down, he could see her gorgeous features in the glow of the Coleman camping lantern. Luis, their captor, had been kind enough to give them a few provisions…the lantern, a couple more blankets, more water…he had even given Marlin his wristwatch and wallet back. But regardless of Luis’ friendly demeanor, Marlin knew that a criminal was a criminal. You could never be sure of what he might do next. So Marlin had decided it was time to do something about their situation. A few hours ago, they had agreed to wait until Luis had gone to sleep—judging by when the campfire had burned down—and then put their plan into action. Catch him when he was groggy.

  Marlin stroked Becky's hair and his heart fluttered with mixed emotions…the thrill of having discovered this wonderful creature versus the fear of losing her. “I want to tell you again how sorry I am about all this. If I had had any idea…”

  “Hush,” she said, rolling onto her back, placing a finger on his lips. “It's not your fault.”

  He leaned down and they kissed. It was heaven—and he wondered if it would be the last time.

  Marlin slipped out from underneath Becky and peered through the slender crack around the door. “Looks like the fire is fading.” He tried to sound confident. He glanced at his watch. “Let's give it another half hour…till midnight. Then we'll get the hell outta here.”

  It was eleven-forty. Oscar and his men had driven aimlessly around the Central Texas countryside for more than five hours, making one stop for dinner at a barbecue joint outside of Fredericksburg. Now Oscar had heartburn to go along with his increasingly foul mood.

  Oscar was becoming more and more anxious as they approached the main entrance to the Circle S Ranch. He knew he had already wasted far too much time. The time to act had come. He would take what was his…and show no mercy to anyone who tried to stand in his way.

  The ranch gates were open and Julio pulled Oscar's rented Cadillac onto the dirt road. Even the suspension system of the big luxury car was not immune to the rugged terrain, and it bounced and rocked in the ruts of the road. Oscar cursed at Julio in Spanish, telling him to slow down. Julio simply stared at his dark form in the rearview mirror as he eased off the gas pedal.

  At a fork in the road, Julio turned toward the ranch house. “You fool!” Oscar barked. “We mus’ get Luis first. He is the bes’ marksman. Go to the cabin.” Julio swung off the road into some weeds and found his way onto the alternate path.

  Oscar knew this whole thing with tranquilizer darts would be frustrating and time-consuming. He had contemplated not even bothering with tranquilizers—just open fire with the deer rifles and a spotlight. But he simply couldn't risk that much noise, even with Swank's connections to the sheriff. They would need to use the tranquilizer gun and Luis was the best man for the job.

  “What about the game warden and the woman?” Tyler Jackson asked with interest. “Who's gonna watch ’em?” He had been hoping to draw a little guard duty himself. The woman was a knockout…all he had to do was tie the game warden up for a few minutes and…

  “We will do what must be done,” Oscar said sharply, as if he knew what Tyler was thinking.

  Oscar berated Julio again as the Cadillac bottomed out on limestone. The lesser-used road would be no problem for a truck or SUV, but it was slow progress in a car.

  “Que hora es?” Oscar asked to nobody in particular.

  Julio glanced at his watch. “Eleven-fifty.”

  PHIL COLBY, BREATHING heavily, watched the Cadillac's receding taillights from his hiding spot. He hadn't expected any traffic on the ranch at this hour, but he figured it could be a hunter arriving late. Not likely, though, the more he thought about it. Especially in a Cadillac. And now they weren't even going to the ranch house, they were changing course and taking the road that led down to the lower pasture by the river. He wished he could have seen inside the car, but it was too dark.

  If Marlin was actually being held captive somewhere on the ranch, Colby knew he still had the element of surprise on his side. The occupants of the Cadillac apparently had not spotted him hiding in the tall grass, and his truck was parked safely two hundred yards past the ranch entrance in Thomas Stovall's driveway.

  Under the cloak of darkness, Colby slowly approached the ranch house. As the guest house came into view, Colby saw twenty or thirty vehicles parked neatly along the driveway. So the hunters were all here, after all, ready for opening day. That made Colby somewhat anxious. Would Swank really invite the state's top power brokers to his ranch while he was holding a man hostage? That would be outrageous, even for Swank. The hunters would be swarming over every square inch of the ranch in the morning, and Swank was too smart to think that Marlin wouldn't be found. Colby's doubts started to get the best of him and he began to turn around. But, in his mind, he replayed Bobby Garza's message on Marlin's answering machine. He remembered Marlin's letter to the attorney general. And he pressed forward.

  Colby stopped a hundred yards away from the main house and listened. All was quiet. He could see the front wraparound porch of the guest house. It was unoccupied except for the moths flittering around the porch light. Colby felt safe moving among the trees around the house toward the barn. He knew that Swank owned no dogs. He also knew which floodlights, mounted on posts at random around the house, were triggered by motion, so he was able to carefully avoid them.

  The metal barn loomed in the darkness several hundred yards behind the house. Colby decided it was as good a place as any to look for Marlin. He followed the curving road to the barn, walking quietly in the limestone dust.

  The barn was well built, but not completely weatherproof, and Colby could tell from the dark seams that no lights were on inside. He put his ear against the cool sheet metal of the barn door and listened. Nothing. Colby took a deep breath and began to roll the large, heavy door open. To Colby, the noise equaled that of a freight train chugging along the tracks. So much for stealth. He opened the door wide enough to slip through and switched the lights on. The interior was just as he remembered…large, gated stalls, hay stacked against one wall, various ranching implements hanging from roof joists. And nobody to be seen. Staring into the wide expanse of the barn made Colby suddenly self-conscious, and he switched the light off. He pulled a small flashlight from his back pocket and quickly checked each stall. Empty, just as he expected.

  “John?” he whispered into the darkness. He waited a moment and then retreated from the barn, leaving the door open.

  Colby circled the barn and walked over to a nearby fence-line. A ten-foot fence. Colby knew this was the five-acre pasture where Swank kept his newest prize bucks. He scanned the sparsely treed pasture and saw nothing. The deer were probably huddled on the back side of the pasture, as far away from human activity as they could get.

  Colby squatted on his heels for a few minutes, dejected. He cursed himself for not having a better plan.…Hell, he didn't have any plan at all. What was he supposed to do, just walk right up to Swank's front door and knock? Demand to see Marlin? Right about now, that seemed to be his only option, and it was a lousy one.

  Then Phil Colby had one of those glorious moments—one of his college professors used to refer to it as “an epiphany”—when the truth suddenly presents itself of its own accord. But this wasn't just one epiphany, it was two.

  First, if Swank was keeping drug-packing deer on his property, they were likely contained in a small area…a pasture just like the one in front of him. The deer couldn't be allowed to roam t
he ranch freely because they might never be seen again. Big bucks are the most elusive animals in the woods. Colby recalled one wildlife study where a hunter was turned loose on a high-fenced hundred-acre pasture with one lone buck. Over an entire hunting season, the hunter managed to get one fleeting glimpse of the buck. He never got a shot. If there were deer in this pasture, their bellies probably contained a lot more than corn.

  Second, there were at least a dozen feed shacks and other assorted outbuildings within two hundred yards of the barn. But keeping a man hostage in any of those would be just plain stupid. As Colby knew intimately, there was only one building on the ranch remote enough to serve as a makeshift prison. The old rock cabin down by the river. Where the Cadillac was headed.

  Marlin peered through the crack of the door frame again and saw that the fire was almost out. Surely Luis was dozing by now, otherwise he would have stoked the fire. After all, it was getting cooler, now down in the low fifties.

  He turned to Becky. “You up for this? We don't have to try it if you don't want to.”

  She shook her head. “Let's bust out of this dump.”

  He smiled and walked over to her, put his arms around her. “Remember…when he opens the door, just stand there and look gorgeous.”

  She gave him a coy look, an expression that would have been arousing under any other circumstances. “I think I can handle that.”

  Marlin tilted his head, thinking, for a second, that he heard an engine…far away, on the bluffs above the river. But the rushing water made too much noise and he couldn't be sure.

  He looked back at Becky. “Well, then…”

  Julio was almost as mad at himself as he was at Oscar. He'd had about enough of his boss, who was really nothing more than a foul-mouthed young punk. Over the years, Oscar had never shown Julio the proper respect. All he ever did was criticize, like now. Was it Julio's fault that the Cadillac was a pedaso de mierda and couldn't make it out of the mud?