by Ben Rehder
Laughing hysterically, T.J. pulled Vinnie onboard. “Man, did you see that fucker sink? That was great!”
Vinnie smiled, wishing his dad could be here to praise his creativity. “Always glad to help my friends out of a jam,” he said. “I’m freezing my balls off. Pull that rope into the boat and let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, John Marlin stripped off his warden’s uniform, pulled on some work clothes, and rolled a large toolbox out of the shed in his backyard. He stood in the sunlight and surveyed the framework of the room he was adding on to his house.
Last night, after writing his report on the death of Bert Gammel, he had gone on patrol until three in the morning. Chased down a couple of idiots spotlighting deer, but he couldn’t find a rifle in their truck. The men were out-of-towners, so Marlin had sent them on their way with a stern warning to watch their asses in Blanco County. Other than that, it had been pretty quiet. After a few hours of sleep, he had hit the roads again this morning, but it was a typically slow weekday. Most of the hunting camps were empty, except for a few retirees or serious hunters who had taken off work for the first week of the season.
Also, as Marlin had expected, Wylie Smith had not contacted him. It was likely Wylie was in the process of interviewing the other hunters on the Hawley Ranch, but Marlin hadn’t heard a word from the deputy. Fine, Marlin thought. Let him wade through that mess himself.
Now, in the midday lull, he could afford a little time to himself, a chance to indulge in the primitive therapy that carpentry seemed to offer. Something about working with his hands, seeing a structure slowly take shape from his own backbreaking labor, gave Marlin a release he found nowhere else, not even hunting. Over the years, he had built a large covered deck, a sunroom, and a carport for his state-issued Dodge truck.
But Marlin had more of an emotional investment in this particular project. Or, he used to. Last year, after Becky had moved in, she had commented that his place was awfully small. It was a casual remark, but it forced Marlin to do a little long-term thinking. His place was a simple ranch-style cabin. Two bedrooms, one bath. Small living room. Barely more than a thousand square feet, total. It had always been fine for him alone. But he realized that a man and a woman should have a little more space than his house provided.
So last spring he had begun adding a sixteen-by-twenty room to the back of his house. More than three hundred square feet, he had told Becky. That’ll open things up quite a bit, give us plenty of room.
His secret plan—something he had shared only with Phil Colby—was to propose to Becky as soon as he finished the addition.
But then Becky had gone to stay with her mother, and Marlin had put the project on hold for a while. He had been lonely when she was gone, and his heart simply wasn’t in it.
And now she was gone for good.
Oddly, though, now that he knew where things stood, Marlin had the urge to get back to it, to keep himself busy with some honest physical labor. He figured it would be better than moping around all day, thinking himself into a funk.
Marlin eyed the work he had done in the spring. The walls were framed. Now it was time to get the roof up before the weather took too much of a toll on the plywood subflooring he had installed five months ago.
Marlin strapped on a tool belt, pulled a tarp off a stack of two-by-eights, and got busy. Using his circular saw, he notched each rafter to rest on the top plate of the outer wall. Then he began hauling the rafters up the ladder and nailing them in place.
After two hours, the roof line was beginning to take shape. Marlin felt invigorated, his mind fresh, thinking of nothing but the task at hand. He took a break for a large tumbler of iced tea, then pulled his shirt off. Sixty degrees outside, but Marlin had worked up a good sweat wrestling those planks up the ladder.
At two-thirty, he hammered the last rafter into place and remained on the ladder for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard a female voice say, “Ooo-whee! Check out the beefcake.”
He looked down and saw Inga Mueller grinning up at him. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. Marlin thought he had heard a car pull up. She must have heard the hammering and come around the side of the house.
Inga fanned herself with one hand and attempted a Southern accent, saying, “My, my, I do believe I’m getting weak in the knees,” then faked a swoon, leaning against the framework of the new room.
Marlin had to laugh. “You’re a real bashful one, aren’t you?” he said, climbing down the ladder. She tapped on one of the wall supports. “Well, at least there was a stud around to catch me.”
Marlin grabbed a rag and began wiping some of the grime off his hands. “So, you out of jail already?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.
She smiled. “Sure. Got out yesterday. Seems nobody’s pressing charges. Not Rodney Bauer, not Cecil Pritchard... and not you.”
The district attorney had called yesterday, a chuckle in his voice as he read the report and asked Marlin if he wanted to proceed with an assaulting-an-officer case against her. Marlin had declined. “What about Rodney’s truck?” Marlin asked. “Don’t tell me his insurance is going to cover it?”
She folded her arms and cocked a hip, like a young girl pouting. “Well, no. Those heartless ghouls said they would sue me for the damages.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No, not really. I’m going to pay Rodney back myself. In fact, I already did. Met him in Johnson City and wrote him a check. He told me where you live.”
Marlin nodded as he pulled his shirt on. “I was wondering about that.”
He stood there a moment, uncertain what to say, thinking Inga would announce the reason for her visit. Instead, she looked up at the roof joists and said, “What’re you building?”
Marlin hesitated for a second. “Aw, I’m just adding on another room. Wanted a little more space.”
“What is this, a two-bedroom? Three? What’s a single guy like you need all that space for?”
Marlin wondered how she knew he was single. There was the obvious sign that he didn’t wear a wedding ring, but not all married men did. Who had she been talking to?
Marlin simply shrugged, then grabbed his glass. “You want some tea?”
“You got any beer?”
“I do. What kind you like?”
“Cold.”
“My favorite flavor. Think you can refrain from throwing it on me?”
She put her hands up in an I surrender gesture. “I come in peace.”
Thomas Collin Peabody simply didn’t understand women. Not this one, anyway, this wild sprite, this forest nymph named Inga. Ah, what a fiasco. Here she was, mooning over a common man—a redneck, a hick, a yokel. Meanwhile, a man who truly loved her—a man of substance and values and compassion and humanity—sat outside in her rusting Volvo.
She had asked him: Did he want to come inside? Hell no, he didn’t. He just couldn’t stand watching her make eyes at the man, like she did with all the others. But she always said it didn’t mean anything. Just my way of doing things, she’d say. Gets them on my side. Sure, it got them on her side because they wanted to get her on her back. It gave Thomas Peabody a big knot in his stomach just thinking about it.
Who was this Marlin guy, anyway? A game warden. Not even a real police officer. Peabody was surprised they were even allowed to carry guns. And now this guy—this high-and-mighty game warden—was in there, chatting with Inga, probably having a good laugh about the incident at the coffee shop, then checking out her breasts when she wasn’t looking. Or maybe even when she was.
From the moment Peabody had met Inga at a logging protest, where he had chained himself nude to a massive redwood, Peabody had loved her with a feverish intensity. She was truly a vision, more beautiful than the loveliest Rodin, more haunting than the most provocative Picasso. She seemed to share so many of Peabody’s qualities, too: a love of nature and its deli
cate ecosystem, an affinity for the animals that graced the Earth, and a strong moral compass that dictated the actions necessary to defend both.
They had been fighting the good fight together for two years now, traveling the country when necessary. Living off Thomas’s trust fund, doing their best to right wrongs wherever they found them. When Inga had spotted an article in Birdwatcher about the plight of the red-necked sapsucker, Thomas had said, Certainly, by all means, let’s see what we can do about it. Let’s mosey on down to Texas and have us a look-see. That had elicited a smile, but not the kind of smile Peabody wanted. More like a smile you’d get from your sister.
Then, when he had humbly asked for her hand in marriage, he had received that same smile again. Oh, Tommy, she had said. I don’t know what to say. You’re so sweet to ask. So sweet to ask. What kind of comment was that? That’s the kind of remark you make when a friend inquires about your sickly aunt.
That’s when he realized she wasn’t just going to give him her heart. He was going to have to win it. He was going to have to prove just what kind of man he was. A good man. A gentle man. A compassionate man. And if he had to vandalize a few backhoes or slander a couple of developers along the way, so be it.
Inside, sitting at the small kitchen table, Inga sipped her beer and gazed around the room. “I like your place. Kind of rustic, all the wood and rock, nice and comfortable. Makes me feel right at home.”
“Thanks. I enjoy it out here, away from town.”
“God, from what I’ve seen, even when you’re in town you’re not exactly bumping elbows with people on the sidewalk. I think I’ve got more people living on my block in Minneapolis than you guys do in the entire county.”
“Well, a small town like this, it’s not for everybody, that’s for sure,” Marlin said, thinking of Becky.
Inga gave him a curious glance, started to say something, then let it pass.
“Want another beer?” Marlin had noticed her bottle was empty.
“Sure.”
As Marlin went to the fridge, Inga said, “Listen, I came out here because I wanted to tell you about something. Tomorrow evening, I’m holding an assembly, sort of a town-hall meeting, at the high school gymnasium. I want to address this brush-clearing business, see if I can talk some sense into some of these people. I think if they heard the facts, some of them would think twice about what they’re doing.”
Marlin set two fresh beers down and stared at her for a few seconds. He said patiently, “I can tell you right now, you want to be careful how you phrase things. Like, ‘talk some sense into these people.’ You start making them feel stupid or ignorant, they won’t listen to a word you say.”
She gave him a surprised look. “Oh, I know that. I wouldn’t say that in the meeting....”
Marlin looked up at the clock. Almost time to get back on patrol.
Inga sighed. “Now you think I’m kind of a bitch, don’t you? That I think everyone around here is a hick.”
Marlin shrugged.
Inga said, “The truth is, I don’t think ‘these people’ are stupid or ignorant. Maybe a little uninformed, a little desperate, that’s all. They’re looking to solve a tough problem, and they’re going about it the best way they know how.”
Marlin gave her a small smile. “Okay, now you’re sounding reasonable.”
“Anyway, this assembly, it’s at seven o’clock, and I was wondering whether you’d join us.”
Marlin didn’t want to get in the middle of this.
“Please,” she said, reaching across to lightly touch her fingers to his forearm. “It would help out a lot, and I know people would listen to any comments you wanted to make.”
Marlin hesitated. “How do you know anyone’s even gonna be there? I mean, this is the first I’ve heard of it, and—”
“There’s going to be a notice in tomorrow’s paper, right on the front page. I talked to Susannah Branson, the reporter.”
Ah, there it was. That’s how Inga knew Marlin was single. Probably knew a lot more than that.
“Will you come, John? Help me out a little?”
He tried to avoid her eyes, but she tilted her head, used body language to draw his gaze to hers.
He wanted to say, Thanks but no thanks, I’ve got enough issues to deal with at the moment. But staring into those blue eyes, Marlin knew he didn’t stand a chance.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
While doing a little light cleaning Wednesday afternoon, Maria noticed that a lamp was missing—the one that normally sat on the table at the end of the hallway, where the Mamelis placed their mail. Maria thought perhaps Mrs. Mameli had moved it into the living room or one of the bedrooms, but she could not spot it anywhere. Very strange.
Then, while dusting in Mr. Mameli’s den, she realized that some of the art on the walls had been rearranged. Three oil paintings that had been displayed in various places throughout the room were now clustered on one wall. It seemed an odd grouping to Maria, giving the room a lopsided feel, but she was not an art expert.
She rolled the Hoover upright into the den from the hallway and switched it on. Despite the noise—maybe because of it—vacuuming always had a calming effect on Maria. The persistent droning of the motor, the rhythmic pushing-and-pulling motion: it was almost hypnotic. Maria often found her mind wandering when she vacuumed, usually back to her homeland or someplace equally pleasant.
Today she found herself thinking about that nice man from yesterday. Smedley. He had visited the Mameli household many times, sometimes staying for dinner. But yesterday was the first time he and Maria had spent any time alone.
She wondered about the name “Smedley,” whether it was as regal-sounding to American ears as it was to hers. The man had a kind heart, she was sure of that. After all, he had helped her bury the cat in the backyard. How many men would be willing to do that? Certainly not Mr. Mameli or his strange son.
Maria was not sure of Smedley’s relationship with the Mamelis. Maybe he was a friend of the family, or possibly a coworker of some sort. She knew that Mr. Mameli seemed to get uptight when Smedley came around, so he must be a friend of the señora’s.
Maria shook her head and chided herself for being so foolish. Thinking these thoughts about an American man would lead nowhere. What possible interest could he have in a housekeeper, especially a humble foreigner such as herself.
Maria slid the nose of the vacuum underneath Mr. Mameli’s couch and was startled by a loud clacking sound. Something was caught in the vacuum, perhaps a coin.
She leaned the Hoover backward and rested it on its neck, exposing the brushes that swept the floor.
She peered inside—and there, in the small mouth of the vacuum, was a short cylindrical tube made of brass. She reached in with her slender fingers and extracted it. Maria was fairly certain she had seen one of these objects before, and she thought it was part of the ammunition for a handgun. Something called a shell. But she was not certain, because she was not familiar with handguns at all. Whatever it was, it was quite pretty, in a way. She slipped it into the pocket of her apron.
Sal slipped into Maria’s cottage while she was in the house getting dinner ready.
Earlier, Vinnie had said he had taken care of Slaton’s corpse. Got rid of everything, including the guns and the two shells.
Vinnie had said it, plain as day. But it wasn’t until a few minutes ago that Sal realized what Vinnie had said. Two shells? Sal thought. There shoulda been three.
Cleaning up yesterday, they had been in a rush and they must have missed one. Just the kind of small thing that can really screw you over good. So he had gotten down on his hands and knees and given his den a thorough search.
Nothing.
Except fresh vacuum tracks.
So he had taken the bag out of the Hoover and sifted through it. Came up empty there, too.
That left Maria’s cottage. She had probably found the shell and thought it was some sort of magic trinket. Like the goddamn Indians who sold Manhattan
for a handful of baubles and beads. Sal always remembered that phrase from his high-school textbook. Baubles and beads.
Sal was going to ask Vinnie to search Maria’s small house, but the kid had wandered off somewhere again. That meant Sal would have to do it himself, because this was the kind of thing that needed to be taken care of quickly.
So Sal eased Maria’s bedroom door open and stepped inside. In the dim light, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Then, he pawed through the drawers of her bedside table. Nothing there but Spanish-language women’s magazines and various types of lotions and hand creams.
So he turned to her dresser. He sifted through her clothes, spending a little extra time in her lingerie drawer. Where the fuck did all this good stuff come from? he wondered. She had never worn any of this lacy stuff for him. He spied several jewelry boxes on top of her dresser and sorted through those. Nothing but cheap knickknacks.