by Ben Rehder
“We’re just now pulling the car out of the water,” Garza said. “The body’s in pretty bad shape, but from the description the diver’s giving, yeah, it sounds like Slaton.”
On the screen, Sal could see a tow truck pulling a car out of a lake. The lake looked like Pedernales Reservoir. And the car looked like T.J. Gibbs’s Porsche. “What the hell?” Sal said. “Ain’t that your friend’s car?”
Vinnie nodded, his eyes glued to the television.
The camera switched to a clip of the sheriff.
“We were conducting a routine inspection of the dam when one of the team members spotted the submerged automobile. It has apparently been underwater for several days. I’m sorry to confirm at this time that we did discover a body inside the car.”
Sal turned to Vinnie, thinking, Poor kid, having to find out about his dead pal this way. His son looked close to tears. “What the hell happened, Vinnie?” he asked gently. Vinnie didn’t answer.
“I am able to confirm at this time that the deceased was not the owner of the car, and we are presently making efforts to locate him.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Sal said, smiling, looking at Vinnie. But Vinnie looked far from relieved.
A reporter off-camera asked if the sheriff could reveal the identity of the deceased.
“I’m afraid I can’t make any comments at this time.”
The same reporter asked if the deceased was in fact, the missing rancher, Emmett Slaton.
“Emmett Slaton?” Sal said. “What the hell’s he got to do with dis?”
The sheriff paused. Way too long of a pause to suit Sal. A pause big enough to drive a fucking Cadillac through. Then he said:
“No comment.”
As Sal turned to Vinnie again, he felt himself hyperventilating. His head was spinning and his mouth was bone dry. He tried to laugh it off. “Tell me, Vinnie…tell me I got nothin’ to worry about.”
But Vinnie wouldn’t meet his eyes. He just kept looking at the screen, his face a mask of shock.
Sal twisted toward him, ignoring the pain in his broken leg. He spoke softly now, trying to control his rage. “Tell me you didn’t sink him in the goddamn water in dat goddamn Porsche.”
And Vinnie—his only son, a future capo with balls the size of cantaloupes, the boy who reminded Sal so much of himself when he was a kid—said the worst three words Sal had ever heard: “I’m sorry, Pop.”
Sal lunged at Vinnie, who squirmed away from his grasp. “You stupid son of a bitch!”
Vinnie leaped off the couch. “I screwed up, Pop! I’m sorry!”
Sal vaulted off after him, his lame leg buckling under him. “You lousy no-good bastard!”
Vinnie ran from the room, and Sal bucked and jerked on the floor, trying to climb to his feet. “You fuckin’ lamebrain cock-sucker!”
Marlin found Garza near the boat ramps, in a swarm of deputies and staff members from the Corps of Engineers. T.J. Gibbs’s ruined, muddy Porsche sat on the shores of the lake, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape that had been strung between county vehicles. A tow truck sat with its engine idling, the driver reeling in a dripping steel cable. The news-station vans were already back in full force, and Deputy Ernie Turpin was doing his best to keep the media back from the scene.
Marlin ducked under the tape and made his way toward Garza, who nodded him toward one of the patrol cars. They climbed inside and closed the doors. “Yeah, it’s Slaton. Looks like he was shot several times. Lem’s doing an autopsy later today,” Garza said, referring to the county medical examiner.
“Any word from T.J. Gibbs?”
Garza gritted his teeth. “Someone called an hour ago, about an unmanned boat floating around. Before we could check into it, a guy across the lake called. Found a young white male floating, stuck underneath his boat dock. Gotta be Gibbs. And get this: He was wearing a scuba suit.”
Marlin shook his head. He didn’t even know what to say.
Garza rubbed his hands over his face. “What in the world’s going on out here, John? It’s like all hell’s broke loose this week. I’ve never seen anything like it. You hear about the trouble at Sal Mameli’s place?”
Marlin shook his head. “What now?”
“Somebody vandalized some of his machines last night—more like they blew ’em up, right there by his house. A miracle that nobody got killed. No leads on who did it, but my money’s on Thomas Peabody.”
Hearing that, Marlin was relieved nobody had gotten hurt. Marlin knew that if he’d been more careful with Peabody, the little jerk wouldn’t be running loose.
Garza read Marlin’s mind. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch him. Just a matter of time. He would have walked on bail anyway, even if he hadn’t slipped away from you. So don’t blame yourself for the mess at Mameli’s place.”
“Thanks.” Marlin wanted to hear more about the present situation. “So what’s the story on the Porsche?”
“Slaton was in there, along with his dog. In two pieces: It had been decapitated.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Some sick shit, I’m telling you. That probably explains the blood on Slaton’s porch. Plus, we found two guns in the car, a forty-five and a thirty-five.”
“A thirty-five? I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”
Garza nodded, getting excited. “That’s our ace in the hole. There was only one model ever made—by Smith and Wesson, from 1913 to 1921. There was only something like eight thousand of them produced, so it’s something you might see at a gun show. But at a crime scene? We’re running the serial number, but don’t hold your breath on that. We’ll check for prints, too, but being underwater that long….”
“Any kind of connection between T.J. and Slaton?”
“We’re looking into it.” Garza must have seen a look of concern on Marlin’s face. “I know what you’re thinking: Just yesterday, we were speculating on whether Sal Mameli mighta had something to do with both Gammel and Slaton. Now we find Slaton in a car owned by one of Vinnie Mameli’s runnin’ buddies.”
Marlin nodded. He didn’t want his anger toward Vinnie Mameli to cause him to jump to any conclusions, but he felt it was an angle worth exploring.
Garza said, “I’m gonna take this real slow, John. One step at a time, with no screwups. If either Vinnie or Sal was involved, we’re not gonna let them slip through the net, I promise you that.”
Marlin asked about Jack Corey and Wylie Smith. “They’re fine,” Garza replied. “Both in the hospital getting checked out. One other thing: This isn’t out yet, so you gotta keep it under your hat....”
Marlin nodded.
“I saw Wylie late last night.” Garza paused—and Marlin knew the sheriff didn’t want to say what he was about to say. “He admitted to holding a gun to Corey’s head. Just flat-out confessed to it. So, between you and me, he’s a goner. Unofficially, he’s already off the force—only he doesn’t know it yet. Probably be some criminal charges.”
Oddly, Marlin’s spirits sank when he heard the news. He had never liked Wylie, but it was heartbreaking when a fellow law-enforcement officer strayed the way Wylie had. It was obvious Garza was bitterly disappointed that one of his deputies had nearly wrecked the life of an innocent man.
Garza continued, with a grim face: “Now I gotta figure out what to do about Corey. He’s clear on the Gammel charge, and we can’t really hold him accountable for the standoff.”
“Hell, the county’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue.”
“Yeah, I can’t say I’d blame him.” Garza glanced out the window. “Listen,” Garza said, “I’ve still got a lot of work to do around here. You can hang around and see how it plays out, or take off and I’ll keep you posted.”
Marlin reached for the door handle. “Think I’ll go for a drive,” he said. “Take a break for a while.”
“I don’t blame you.”
The twin stories of Jack Corey’s surrender and the discovery of Emmett Slaton’s body were big news, ju
stifying sporadic live updates on KHIL for the remainder of the day.
Unfortunately for Smedley Poindexter, the only thing playing on the television set in the headquarters of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated, was Hee Haw. The same clip. Over and over.
Smedley tried valiantly to hang on to his dignity. But within hours, he was a blubbering, pathetic wreck.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
John Marlin had never wanted to be anything but a game warden. After all, it was in his blood. His father, Royce Marlin, had been Blanco County’s game warden for twenty-two years, up until the mid-1970s. Growing up, John used to watch in awe as his father pulled on his uniform, strapped on his handgun, and set off into the field. Then Royce would come home for supper and tell tall tales about his exploits that day, John’s mother rolling her eyes at the exaggerations. It was a happy, exciting childhood—until Royce was killed by a poacher in 1976.
Even that didn’t deter Marlin’s drive to carry the warden’s badge; if anything, it strengthened it. He had completed the game warden cadet academy in Austin in 1982, and then awaited his assignment. The state would relocate him to the first available position, whether it was in the piney woods of East Texas or the flatlands of the Panhandle. As luck would have it, Marlin was assigned to Blanco County when the previous warden retired. For twenty years now, Marlin had thoroughly enjoyed chasing poachers and enforcing game laws around his hometown.
But as he drove the back roads that sunny afternoon, he had to admit that the last week had been unusually rewarding. Nailing a killer like Maynard Clements was gratifying—and Marlin was rarely called upon to take part in a case of that magnitude. Marlin found himself thinking about Bobby Garza’s open-ended offer to become a sheriff’s deputy. There was no doubt it would be more exciting, with higher-profile cases.
What is this, Marlin wondered, a midlife crisis? He put the thought out of his head and puttered down rural roads for the next three hours, stopping at generations-old hunting camps, as well as some new ones. He checked licenses, made small talk with men he had known since birth, and decided that being a game warden wasn’t so bad after all.
Just after noon, he drove back home few lunch. Pulling into the driveway, his stomach turned a flip as he saw a familiar car sitting next to Inga’s Volvo: Becky’s Honda Civic. He swore quietly. He had forgotten that Becky had planned to pick up the last of her things.
Before he made it to the front door, Inga exited, an odd smile on her face. She didn’t say anything until they were a few feet apart. “You have a visitor.”
“Yeah, that’s what I gathered.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Listen, John,” Inga said, “if I screwed anything up for you...”
“No, there wasn’t anything left to screw up.”
“Becky and I talked for a while. I hope you don’t mind.”
Marlin wanted to groan. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. “Anything I should know?”
Inga shrugged. “She’s a nice lady.”
“Yeah, yeah, she is.”
“I’m going to go into to town for a while, let you two talk.”
“I appreciate it. You can come back for—”
Inga held up a hand. “Why don’t I call first? Okay?”
Marlin nodded, and Inga walked to her Volvo, climbed in, and drove away.
Marlin turned toward the house, and Becky was already standing on the front porch holding a box, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Hey, there,” he said softly.
Becky didn’t reply. She set the box down on the porch and took a seat in one of the two rocking chairs, looking straight ahead.
Marlin eased into the chair beside her.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said.
“I’m sorry....”
She shook her head, cutting him off, and Marlin saw a single tear run down her cheek. She stared down at her hands. “I am surprised at how quickly this happened, I will say that much.”
“That’s not fair,” Marlin replied, feeling a need to defend himself. “You haven’t really been here in four months…and I’m not talking physically, I’m talking about up here.” Marlin tapped his temple.
She leaned back in the rocking chair and finally looked him in the eye. “I know that. And I’m not sure how I could have changed it. With my mother... and the new job....”
Marlin wished there was something he could say to make the awful ache in his chest go away, but he knew words alone couldn’t do it. It would take time—for both of them. Finally, Becky laughed and said, “If I had known you had company, I would have put on some makeup.”
Marlin tried to grin, but it didn’t quite work out. “How’s your mom?”
“Actually, she’s doing okay—for the moment. The doctor says it could still be several weeks. I had to get out of there for a while.”
They sat for a time, letting the sun warm their faces, listening to the doves in nearby trees.
“Becky,” Marlin said, “I’ve told you before: You mean more to me than any woman I’ve ever met. I love you, and I only want you to be happy.”
Her face was a mottled red now, the tears flowing freely. “I know that.” She let one hand drift over and cover his—but it felt like anything but a lover’s gesture. “I love you, too.”
They rose, and Marlin helped Becky pack the rest of her things.
Thomas Peabody could see the BrushBusters from his vantage point—and it appeared that Emmett Slaton had owned a much larger fleet than Sal Mameli. Peabody counted eleven of the infernal machines. Surely the old man must have realized the irreparable damage he was inflicting on the ecosystem. Perhaps Slaton had disappeared because Mother Nature had smote him down, exacting punishment against those who would abuse her. Alas, someone else would come along and fill Slaton’s shoes. Those machines wouldn’t sit idle for long. Unless Peabody put them out of commission for good. It would be the pièce de résistance of his entire campaign. A replay of last night, with an extra little encore at the end.
The two rednecks in the trailer posed a small problem, but Peabody couldn’t see how they could possibly disrupt his plan. It would all happen too quickly, and be too stunning, for them to react in time. He might need a few moments to hot-wire one of the BrushBusters, but he was certain he could accomplish it if he had to. He had learned all types of interesting skills from fellow activists. He had also learned that the men who ran these machines were often foolhardy enough to leave the keys in the ignition.
Afterward, Peabody’s work would be done here. The rednecked sapsucker would be saved. He would gather Inga, load up into the trusty Volvo, and ride off into the activist hall of fame.
It was seven o’clock before Bobby Garza finally got back to his office and logged on to one of the terminals connected to the Department of Public Safety’s computer network. After wrapping up the crime scene at Pedernales Reservoir—sending the body of Emmett Slaton to the M.E.’s office, and the Porsche, the guns, and the dead dog to the lab in Austin—he had left Bill Tatum in charge of the investigation. Then he went home and slept for four hours. The Jack Corey standoff had thoroughly wiped him out, and he was emotionally and physically exhausted. After his short break, though, he felt renewed enough to dive back into the Slaton case.
He had checked in with Bill Tatum, who told him that the body found under the dock was indeed T.J. Gibbs. Tatum was on his way back from Austin after informing the Gibbs family of T.J.’s death. He had spent an hour interviewing the family, but could not discover any link between T.J. and Slaton. He also reported that none of the deputies had run a check yet on either of the handguns found in the Porsche.
Garza was disappointed, but he didn’t quibble. His deputies had been stretched to the max in the last week, and they didn’t need to hear his complaints. Especially when he had just awakened from a midday slumber himself.
So now, sitting at his desk in his office, he accessed the DPS
network. He entered the first serial number, the one from the .45 automatic. After a few seconds, the owner was identified as Emmett Howard Slaton. Interesting, but a little disheartening. Garza was afraid the second gun would come back as Slaton’s, too.
He typed in the second serial number and waited. This request took a little longer to process, but the results finally appeared on his screen. Garza frowned.
It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Who the hell is Roberto Ragusa?
Before he could figure it out, the phone on his desk rang. Someone was calling his direct line. Garza answered it. “Good evening, Sheriff, my name is Eugene Kramer. I’m an attorney in Austin.”