by Ben Rehder
Marlin paused for a moment and scribbled a few notes. Then he asked another question, trying to keep his tone casual: “Lester, have you ever heard or seen any kind of disagreement between Gammel and any of the other hunters? You know how a deer lease can get-guys get kind of possessive of their favorite hunting spots, or they don’t want anybody shooting does, things like that. Ever have any problems out here?”
Lester removed his Stetson and rubbed the back of his free hand across his brow. “I’ve had a few of them come to me over the years and ask me about a couple of things, wanting me to settle a disagreement or something. But nothin’ that would lead to somethin’ like this.”
Marlin nodded.
“Let me back up for a minute,” Lester said. “I should say that I’m in charge of the lease and everything. I collect the money, lay down the rules, and get the hunters’ signatures on the leases. But as far as how they divvy up the ranch or whose blind goes where, I leave that all up to them. So there coulda been some disagreements I ain’t never heard about. But there is one thing that seems to have caused some trouble over the years. Mind you, when I say trouble, it really hasn’t been that big of a deal.”
Marlin waited patiently.
“It’s been about spikes,” Lester continued, referring to bucks who have two nonforking antlers, rather than the multipointed antlers most deer carry. Many hunters consider spikes to be inferior deer, and insist they should be culled from the herd to prevent them from passing along their genes. “Can we talk off the record for a second, John?”
Marlin knew he was about to hear about some hunting violations-minor considerations when investigating a hunter’s death-so he told Lester to tell him anything he needed to.
Lester glanced over at the body. “Bert was big on shooting any spike that came along. He’d just shoot it and throw it in the ravine. Probably shot three or four every year. He wasn’t being an asshole or anything, just thought it was the right thing to do.”
Marlin nodded. Each time Gammel had done this, he was committing two game violations: one for failing to tag the deer, and the second for wasting the meat.
“And some of the other hunters wanted him to ease off?” Marlin asked.
“Yeah, there was a couple. The one time I saw it come to a head, Gammel almost got in a fight up at the barn where they butcher their deer.”
“With who?”
“Jack Corey.”
“What happened?”
“I arrived in the middle of it all, but I guess they had a few words and Gammel popped Jack in the jaw. Ol’ Jack was in the middle of gutting a doe, so he had a knife in his hands. It looked to me like he was thinkin’ of using it. But I stepped between them and it cooled off real quick. Bert said that he shouldn’t have lost his temper, and then he just left. Most of the guys seemed to side with Jack and had a few things to say about Bert after he took off.”
“When did this happen?”
“Middle of last season.”
“Anything else happen since then?”
“Not that I know of.”
Marlin knew a deputy would want to cover all this ground with Lester again, maybe in front of a tape recorder, but it was good to get everything down on paper now. Marlin asked several more questions, but nothing of relevance came up.
“Lester, do me a favor. I’m gonna take a quick look around for a minute. I need you to just wait in your truck, grab some coffee. We don’t want to make more footprints around the body than we need to.”
“Sure, John. No problem.”
Marlin followed the same path toward the body that he had originally taken, careful to watch for footprints, tire tracks, or any other type of evidence. He saw none.
Standing over the corpse, Marlin tried to re-create the shooting in his mind. He could picture Gammel climbing down the ladder from his blind, taking a few steps in the haze of twilight, then-Boom! — a high-powered slug rips through his chest.
Television viewers often think that a body is thrown back violently when a person is shot with a rifle, but this is rarely the case. Depending on where the victim is hit, the bullet often passes through quickly and cleanly, hardly swaying the victim at all. Deer hunters can attest to this, as whitetails rarely ever fall when struck through the lungs, but instead race off in a frenzied sprint until the oxygen is depleted from their system.
Marlin could envision Gammel dropping the rifle, clutching at his chest, then falling to the ground in a heap, his heart a shredded, useless clump of muscle.
Looking beyond the corpse toward the blind, Marlin could see the spray of Gammel’s blood and small bits of tissue from the exit wound. Marlin carefully stepped around the body and sighted back down these lines of blood. He found himself staring down a long, alleylike opening through the heavily wooded area. The alley dead-ended at a clump of cedars just across the fenceline.
Rather than walking directly down the natural alley, Marlin worked his way through the dense surrounding cedars until he came to the barbed-wire fence. He eased his way over the wire and approached the massive cedar tree at the end of the alley. Once again, he was careful to watch for shoeprints, shell casings, or any other signs of recent activity.
Marlin knew that in such a heavily treed area, a bullet could not have traveled far in a parallel path to the ground. Of course, the bullet might have been a stray, coming from a great distance in a large arc. They’d know if that was a possibility later, when the body was in the hands of the medical examiner, Lem Tucker. But Marlin had a hunch the bullet had traveled right down the alley, which was, in essence, a perfect shooting lane for a hunter. Regardless of what was being hunted.
Marlin peered through the low-hanging limbs of the bush-like cedar and noticed a partially broken, inch-thick limb dangling downward. Looking more closely, Marlin saw several smaller limbs and twigs on the ground a few inches below the tree’s lower branches.
At this point, Marlin donned a pair of latex gloves from his jacket. He gingerly reached underneath the branches and grabbed one of the fallen twigs. It appeared to be cleanly cut-as with a small set of hand snippers. In a month or so, these cuttings would turn brown and be easily visible. But for now, they were hardly noticeable, blending in with the rest of the tree. Marlin never would have seen them if he hadn’t first spotted the broken branch.
Marlin had cut and snapped his share of cedar branches before. Actually, you couldn’t really snap them because they were too resilient. You just bent them until they gave way and stayed where you wanted them. Or you brought along a pair of snippers. In any case, Marlin could think of only one reason he had ever bent or cut cedar limbs. To create a “window” through the limbs-so he could get a better shot. Hill Country hunters commonly used cedars as makeshift blinds because the trees provided such good concealment.
Marlin looked past the canopy of the tree to the base of the trunk. There, he saw a recently disturbed area of soil. Marlin could see exactly where the man had sat, the impression of his butt, the troughs where his heels had scraped through the cedar mulch.
Then Marlin spotted a dark brown stain on the ground a foot or so from where the man had reclined. Marlin recognized this as the remnants of a puddle of tobacco spit.
Marlin gingerly made his way behind the cedar tree and peered through the canopy, giving himself the same view as the man who had used this little hideaway. Looking through the small window the man had created, Marlin couldn’t see much. But he could sure as hell see the ladder to Bert Gammel’s deer blind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sal Mameli was enjoying a leisurely afternoon, sipping a scotch, thumbing through the local newspaper. He noticed an article about some tree-hugger causing all kinds of trouble with local hunters, throwing coffee on the game warden and shit like that. Reading further, he saw that she was calling for a halt to cedar-cutting. Just great, he thought. First he had Emmett Slaton to deal with-hopefully, Vinnie was on top of that situation-and now he had a crazy broad bad mouthing his business.
&n
bsp; Sal tossed the paper aside and gulped the last of his scotch. Up to now, he had been enjoying his time alone in an empty house. Vinnie was off doing something, and Angela had thrown something into a Crock-Pot for dinner, then gone shopping with Maria, the housekeeper.
Maria.
Now, there was a broad that was starting to give Sal the willies. More and more, she reminded Sal of his mother’s aunt Sofia-and that was not a good thing. Thinking about Aunt Sofia gave Sal a tremor.
She had died when Sal was only ten, maybe eleven years old, but he still had sharp memories of her. She was a Gypsy. Not just a woman who liked to dress in scarves, skirts, and funky jewelry, but an honest-to-fuck Gypsy. She had powers, this woman, and everybody in the village knew it.
Sal remembered a time, sitting on the front porch of their ramshackle home, maybe two years before his family immigrated to America. A neighbor walked by, the father of a large family that lived down the hill. He and Aunt Sofia didn’t get along too good, always exchanging sneers, maybe a rough word here and there. Sal had no idea what had started the bad blood.
On this particular day, the man had two goats with him, herding them along the country road, taking them to market in town. The man saw Sofia and muttered, “Fattucchiera,” under his breath. “Witch”-that’s what it meant. Sofia said nothing, and the man continued down the lane, not looking back. But then Aunt Sofia raised her left hand, pointing in the man’s direction, her eyes fluttering in their sockets, and she chanted something Sal didn’t understand.
The goats dropped dead. Fell like stones, the both of them. Sal wouldn’t have believed it if he hadn’t seen it.
Another time, a beautiful young woman in town had tried to seduce Sal’s father, a virile, good-looking man. Sal’s mother heard about it and, in tears, complained to Aunt Sofia. The old Gypsy just held her tight, shushed her, told her that the woman would get what was coming to her.
The next day, Sal saw the young woman in town. Her face was covered in warts-large, scaly warts-from the top of her forehead to the collar of her blouse. The rumor was that the warts continued down her chest onto her breasts. People pointed and whispered, and the young woman skulked away in shame and embarrassment.
There were dozens of episodes like this, occurrences that ultimately caused the villagers to shrink away in fear whenever they saw Aunt Sofia.
And now there was Maria.
Sal was beginning to believe that Maria had the same powers as Aunt Sofia. Okay, maybe not Gypsy powers, but black magic or voodoo or something. Whatever the hell they practiced down in Guatemala.
For starters, there were Maria’s pets-that damn cat and that pathetic lame bird. Sal had often seen the cat out in the garden, stalking songbirds, dropping little dead sparrows and wrens at Maria’s front door. So, a couple of months ago during breakfast, Sal had asked Maria how she managed to keep the cat from trying to eat her own bird. It took a few tries before Maria understood his question because her English wasn’t so good. But she finally got what he was asking, and, in her broken English, said she had put a spell on the cat, made it think the bird was just another cat. Then she had laughed like it was only a joke.
But Sal had seen the look in Maria’s eyes. That gleam, like Aunt Sofia used to have.
Just last week, Sal had slipped out to Maria’s cottage one night to play a little “Hide the Salami.” Maria pretended to resist his visits on occasion, as a good girl would, but Sal figured she secretly enjoyed them, that she craved the attention. After all, she was thousands of miles from home, had no boyfriend, and Sal was no slouch. He knew a few tricks in the sack. But on this particular night, Maria seemed kind of depressed. Sal noticed her staring into the corner of her darkened bedroom. Seconds later, the cat jumped on his back like some demon from hell-left claw marks down his back. Almost as if Maria had sent some sort of voodoo message to the cat, telling it what to do.
A couple of other times, Sal had walked in on Maria in the middle of what appeared to a black-magic ceremony. She had candles burning all around the room, some kind of freaky music playing, and she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. And chanting… the woman was chanting. Low, indecipherable words, the same as Aunt Sofia did. The cat was always perched on the bed watching her, blinking its black, soulless eyes. Gave Sal the friggin’ creeps.
Maria also wore all kinds of weird little necklaces and bracelets she made out of cheap trash that she found. Broken glass with the edges sanded down. Little bits of polished rock and metal. Aunt Sofia wore cheap crap like that, too-to ward off spirits, she said. Who knew why Maria wore her jewelry, but it had to be something evil.
Sal was staring into space, thinking about Maria, when the doorbell rang and he flinched, dropping his empty scotch glass on the floor.
Goddamn, just like someone to come along and ruin his peace and quiet. He started to ignore the visitor, but then figured it might be one of the guys from his work crews. They stopped by sometimes when they finished a job, looking for more work. That was the amazing thing: These jamooks were eager to bust their balls all day long for a lousy twelve bucks an hour when Sal was making twenty times that without breaking a sweat. Gotta keep those crews working, Sal thought, as he made his way down the hallway.
Sal peered through the peephole-something that always made him feel a little cowardly-and there was Emmett Slaton standing on his front porch.
“Hey, paisan!” Sal said with a self-satisfied smile as he opened the door. “Finally come to your senses?”
But something was all wrong. Emmett Slaton appeared to have blood all over his shirt, on his forearms, even up his neck and on his face. He emitted a low, threatening growl, a rumble from deep in his chest, and launched himself onto Sal.
Sal tumbled backward, his legs buckling under him, his head banging smartly off the tile, a jolt of pain running down his spine. He could feel Slaton groping, trying to get a grip with both hands around his neck. Sal brought a knee up hard into the rancher’s chest and felt something give, maybe a rib. Then he brought an elbow down onto Slaton’s collarbone, then again on the crown of his head, and managed to drag himself away from the old bastard. But Slaton seemed unfazed. He sprang to his feet and rushed Sal again, wrapping him in a bear hug. The men went spinning wildly down the hall, sending a lamp crashing to the floor, and ended up in Sal’s den. There were no words exchanged, only grunts and groans as both men jockeyed for an advantage, gripping, grabbing, throwing an occasional short punch. Finally Sal broke free again, but then Slaton landed a tremendous right cross to his chin.
“That’s for Patton, you wop sumbitch!” Slaton yelled.
Sal was confused, staggering, feeling the impact of the blow, a couple of teeth loosened. What the hell does Slaton’s damn dog have to do with this? he wondered. Before Sal could clear his head, Slaton grabbed a poker from beside the fireplace. He lunged, swinging wildly, the hum of the steel rod whistling past Sal’s ear. Another swing, this one catching Sal hard on the left wrist.
Sal screamed in anguish, getting nervous now, frustrated, wracked with pain. This old geezer was kicking his ass and meant to kill him, Sal had no doubt. If he could only get to the.38 in his nightstand…
Slaton took another swipe, the pronged end of the poker scraping across Sal’s torso, Sal feeling the blood begin to flow.
Then he remembered the.35-caliber in his desk drawer. It was an old collectible, a family heirloom. But like every gun in Sal Mameli’s house, it was loaded and ready for action.
Sal feigned left then went right, Slaton stumbling, not able to keep up. Sal scurried behind his desk and ducked as Slaton hurled the poker inches from his skull, leaving it embedded in the wall like a spear.
Sal yanked open the top drawer, fumbling for the small gun in the back-so close to ending this fiasco-only to glance up and see Slaton aiming a.45 directly at his face. He must have had it in the waistband of his pants.
“You lowlife piece of shit,” Slaton croaked, out of breath, cradling his arm against his wounded
ribs. “Bring your hands up…slowly!”
Sal did as he was told, the.35 hanging in his hand. Now the room was cloaked in an eerie calm, both men gasping for air, eyeing each other carefully, Sal feeling the blood pound in his ears, the ache in his arm, the warm stickiness of blood on his belly.
“Toss that piece over here,” Slaton demanded.
Sal pitched the gun at Slaton’s feet.
“What the fuck is this?” Sal shouted, trying to show a little bravado, maybe back Slaton down a little. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”
“Shut up! Just shut your goddamn mouth!”
Sal stared Slaton directly in the eyes, refusing to look away, knowing that would only make him look guilty. Whatever Vinnie had done, he had pushed it too far. Or he hadn’t pushed it far enough, gone ahead and clipped the guy. And now Sal was the one paying the price.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Slaton just stood there, his pupils large as dimes, boring his eyes into Sal’s skull. Sal knew that look, and he didn’t like it at all. He had seen it on plenty of faces back East, wiseguys looking to make their bones, trying to work up the courage to kill another human being. In a matter of seconds Slaton would either pull the trigger or lose his nerve.
Sal had owned a.45 just like the one Slaton was holding, knew the damage it could do, the softball-sized hole it would leave in the back of his head. His brains would be all over the wall behind him. Sal stared down the barrel of the weapon, feebly holding his hands in front of him, waiting to hear the roar that would cast him into another world.
Then he noticed that the safety was still on.
The old fucker was so worked-up he’d forgotten about the safety. It was Sal’s only chance, but he had to act quickly, before Slaton tried to pull the trigger and realized his mistake.