Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  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.

  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 t
o 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.

  This time, it was Sal who leaped forward, literally vaulting himself over the desk, wrapping his arms around Slaton as the rancher pulled frantically on the trigger. Both men crashed to the ground, Slaton grunting as he landed on his back, a stream of frothy blood rolling from the corner of his mouth. Sal felt a new cut open on his scalp as Slaton slammed the butt of the gun against the crown of Sal’s head with surprising force. Sal grabbed Slaton’s right wrist, shook the gun loose, then gripped the left wrist. Now he had both of Slaton’s wrists pinned to the floor. Before the rancher could begin to struggle, Sal crashed his head against Slaton’s, a classic head-butt, and the rancher was out cold.

  Sal rolled off of him and sat, breathing heavily, on the floor, one leg still arching over Slaton’s knees. “What the fuck!” Sal said to himself. He had never been in a brawl like that. Back home, you pop a guy one time in the chin and he’s ready to call it quits. But this old bastard fought like he was possessed by the devil.

  Sal worked his way to his feet, got a head rush, and almost fell back to the floor. He squatted there a moment, hands on his knees, and regained his composure.

  Finally, he picked up both guns and turned to go clean himself up. Maybe I should call the law, he thought. Wouldn’t that be a switch? The cops coming to my rescue?

  Then he heard a noise behind him, the growl again. Sal turned to see Slaton standing, a bloody mess, ready to come at him once more.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Sal hissed. He raised his .35 and pointed it. But Sal saw another familiar look on Slaton’s face. A look that said, Sure, I might die today, but I’m gonna take you with me.

  With a bone-chilling scream, Slaton lumbered forward.

  Sal shot him in the center of the chest—and Slaton stopped in his tracks. Sal fired again. And a third time. For a moment, both men were frozen, motionless, the rancher standing bolt upright, confusion on his face, his eyes staring into space somewhere above Sal’s head.

  Then he crumpled to the ground like a house of cards.

  Seconds later, Vinnie came bursting into the room, eyes wild, ready to act. “What the hell? Pop! What’s going on?”

  Sal collapsed into a chair, giving Vinnie a clear view of the body on the floor.

  “Jesus,” Vinnie said, going pale. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is he doin’ here?”

  Sal gave his son a harsh glare. “I was gonna ask you the same fuckin’ thing.”

  Bobby Garza, a rugged, handsome man in his mid-thirties, had held the office of Blanco County sheriff for just more than a year. He had won the appointment by default when the previous sheriff, a corrupt, greedy ape of a man, was implicated in a drug-smuggling ring. A collective sigh of relief could be heard around the county when Garza was selected, because he was the only available deputy with the right combination of experience, intelligence, and honesty. Later, John Marlin had been one of Garza’s chief supporters in the general election in the spring, and Garza had held the office by an overwhelming margin.

  Thirty minutes after Marlin had radioed the dispatcher to request assistance with the death of Bert Gammel, Garza’s patrol car crunched down the gravel road of the Hawley Ranch and pulled in next to Marlin’s truck.

  Marlin’s relief at seeing Garza, who had become a close friend over the years, was tempered by the presence of a skinny, red-faced man with a crew cut in the passenger seat. Wylie Smith had been hired to fill Garza’s deputy position when Garza rose to sheriff, and the new man hadn’t made many friends since. Before coming to Blanco County, Wylie had been stationed in Houston with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department, and he had brought along the cynicism, sarcasm, and attitude of superiority that so many big-city residents seem to pack with them when they come to the country. But Marlin had to admit that the forensic training Wylie had received in Houston would be valuable to the case.

  “What we got, John?” Bobby Garza asked, shaking Marlin’s hand. Wylie surveyed the landscape and offered no greeting.

  “Lester found one of his hunters dead near his blind this morning,” Marlin replied, picking a careful path toward the body. “It’s Bert Gammel.”

  Garza and Wylie both nodded somberly as they stared at the corpse.

  Marlin said, “Took a round right in the chest. Plus, he’s hunting with a two-seventy automatic. I didn’t find a shell casing, so I guess we can assume he didn’t fire.”

  “Do me a favor, will ya, and don’t assume what we know at this point,” Wylie said. “Leave
that to us to figure out.”

  Marlin gave Wylie a cold stare, but before he could reply, Garza spoke up: “Well, it doesn’t hurt to go into this with a fresh eye, but Marlin was first on the scene, so let’s hear what he has to say.” Marlin wished Garza had added asshole to the end of that last sentence.

  Marlin checked his notes and quickly ran through Lester’s report, then summarized what he himself had discovered so far. He discussed the narrow alley between the trees and ended with the likely-looking hiding spot where the killer had carried off the ambush.

  “So you just took it on yourself to begin the investigation?” Wylie asked. “Decided to start without us?”

  “Well, it wasn’t what I’d call a real thorough bit of detective work, Wylie. I saw what I saw and decided to give the area a look. Anyone could have figured it out. Even you.”