by Steve Brewer
John Marlin pulled into his winding gravel driveway and proceeded up to the house. He cut the engine, jumped out of the truck, and walked around to the rear of the vehicle. The deer was lying peacefully, with its head up, in the bed of the truck. Marlin smiled as he looked up at the sky full of stars that seemed to wink back at him. What a night, he thought. Sometimes things just seem to turn out your way. He couldn’t wait to spread the good news in the morning.
He turned back to the deer. “Easy, boy,” he spoke reassuringly as he lowered the tailgate. The deer struggled to its feet, still wobbly from the tranquilizer. Its head hung low like a vulture’s. Marlin spent a few minutes just stroking the deer’s coat, talking to it in soft tones. After a time, the deer seemed to become more alert and regain some of its coordination. Slowly, like a nurse assisting a patient, Marlin helped the drugged buck out of the back of the truck and onto the ground.
Marlin prodded the deer gently toward the fenced side yard of his house. “Come on, big fella. You remember this place, don’t you? We’ll get you all set up with some water and corn. Might even have a little alfalfa in the barn.”
Man and deer proceeded to walk tentatively toward the gate, with the buck occasionally wavering like a boxer who’s gone too many rounds.
Behind the house, Barney Weaver was staggering off just as unsurely into the night.
Sixty-eight-year-old Junior Barstow was the proud sole proprietor of the Snake Farm and Indian Artifact Showplace on Highway 281 just south of Johnson City, a town with about nine hundred residents. Highway 281 ran a north-south course through Blanco County, dissecting Johnson City, which was in the center of the county, and Blanco, another small town fifteen miles to the south. Barstow took advantage of the traffic between the two communities by placing small billboards two hundred yards from the Showplace on both sides of the highway. Hand-painted by Junior himself, the nearly legible signs read:
LIVE SNAKES! INDAIN ARROWHEADS!
Directly ahead!
Thrill the kids! Its a scientific
and historic wonderland!
(Visa excepted)
As promising as the name sounds, visitors were often disappointed when they first saw the Showplace, which consisted of three dilapidated structures: a drooping double-wide mobile home, a garishly colored former fireworks stand, and a Blue Bell ice-cream truck with no wheels. (The truck provided cold storage for deer carcasses. Barstow was also in the business of deer processing and taxidermy.)
Appearances aside, the Showplace was actually a legitimate attraction. Barstow had collected more than two hundred indigenous and exotic snakes, from common Western rattlers and hog snakes to exotic cobras and pythons.
And Barstow’s display of Indian artifacts was in fact one of the most interesting and valuable collections in the Southwest. He had a wide variety of weapons and tools, from common Pedernales point arrowheads to rare Clovis points he had traded and bartered for over the years. Reputable archaeologists and anthropologists from around the country were always amazed that Barstow housed part of his collection in a fireworks stand fortified with a cheap padlock. That is, until Barstow revealed that he placed two of his meanest rattlesnakes in the stand every night.
Through the years, Barstow had been bitten by a variety of venomous snakes and had suffered some nerve damage. While he could easily maintain his snake and artifact collections, the butchering and taxidermy operations were becoming more and more difficult. After some urging from John Marlin, Barstow had hired Phil Colby to help.
On the morning of Friday, October 29, Marlin pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Snake Farm and Indian Artifact Showplace.
Colby had already walked out to meet him. “You ready to grab some breakfast?” he called as he went to shake his best friend’s hand.
Marlin slipped past Colby’s hand and gave him a hug instead. Then he gave his friend a mysterious smile. “Guess where I went last night.” Standing in the parking lot, Marlin proceeded to tell Colby about the previous night’s events.
The conversation flowed easily, as it always does between old friends. Marlin and Colby had known each other since boyhood. The Colby family had been in Blanco County for six generations, and at one point they had owned more than thirty thousand acres of prime ranchland. Some of the land was lost in the Depression. Over the years, various family members had moved away and tracts of the Colby property had been sold. By the time Phil Colby was born, the Colby family lived on what remained of the original homestead—four thousand acres of some of the prettiest acreage in Texas, with over a mile of Pedernales River frontage. Rolling hills thick with live oak, Spanish oak, cedar, elm, and madrone trees. John Marlin and Phil Colby had grown up on that ranch—hunting, fishing, and looking for arrowheads. They knew every square inch of it as well as they knew each other.
Unfortunately, the remainder of the Colby property was now owned by Roy Swank, as part of the Circle S Ranch. A drought a few years earlier had been particularly hard on ranchers throughout Texas. Colby had fallen desperately behind on his property taxes and was nearing bankruptcy. The county had finally set a date in stone, essentially telling Colby to pay up or lose his ranch. As the final due date neared, Colby had thought he had it all figured out. He was going to consolidate all his debt with one large loan from First County Bank in Blanco. The day before the taxes were due, Colby went to the bank to pick up a certified cashier’s check. Claude Rundell, the bank president, squirmed in his chair and told Colby that he was sorry, but the loan had been turned down.
“By who?”
“Well, many people provide input on these decisions.”
Colby, struggling to control his well-known temper, stood up and placed both hands flat on the desk in front of him. “Just tell me who makes the final decision.”
Rundell looked down nervously at his desk. “That would be me.”
Colby spoke through clenched teeth. “You just told me yesterday that I was approved.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You gave me your word.”
“I know, but I’m sorry, it’s really not a risk we’re prepared to take.” Rundell went on to say that he couldn’t afford the possibility of a default, and that the bank didn’t want to end up owning a ranch in these tough economic times.
Colby did not take the news well. When the deputy arrived, Colby was force-feeding Rundell his own toupee. In the end, though, Rundell declined to press charges.
Losing the ranch had put Phil Colby in a deep depression for many months. He lived for a while with Marlin, who was nearly as devastated by the loss. Now, as Marlin neared the end of his story, he hoped he had a small bit of news that could lift his friend’s spirits a little.
“You’re all excited because Trey got himself shot?” Colby asked.
“No, let me finish: So Sheriff Mackey wanted to shoot this buck. And I have to admit, it was acting pretty weird. But Swank called and didn’t want it shot. So I tranquilized it.” Marlin paused and grinned.
“What in the hell are you gettin’ at?”
“It wasn’t just any buck, Phil. It was Buck. I got him penned up in my yard.”
A look of wonderment crossed Colby’s face as his mouth fell open. Then he stepped forward and returned the hug Marlin had given him earlier.
4
THE DOMINOES BEGAN to fall on the afternoon of Friday, October 29.
Paul and Vicky Cromwell, co-owners of a small ad agency in Austin, were enjoying the sunshine along the shores of the Pedernales River west of Johnson City. He was lazily casting a fishing lure, hoping he wouldn’t ruin the peaceful afternoon by actually catching a fish. She was lying in a lawn chair, engrossed in a romance novel.
I’m no expert, Cromwell thought, but that doesn’t look like county-approved paving material. He had spied a tuft of blue tarpaulin protruding from a makeshift low-water crossing that spanned the shallow, gravelly river.
“Hey, Vick. What do you make of that?”
“Hmmm?”
> “See that blue stuff sticking out of the dam?”
Vicky didn’t answer. Swell, thought Paul. She’s to the part where the muscular young hero embraces the heroine with rugged passion, yet sensitivity. You could hit her with a crowbar and she wouldn’t look up from the book.
Paul laid down his fishing pole and began walking down the shoreline.
Two years earlier, the Cromwells had purchased a small cabin on a ten-acre tract in a rural subdivision named Mucho Loco. The local real estate agent had assured them that most of the residents were weekenders only, as the Cromwells planned to be.
“City folks like yourself, just looking for a little peace and quiet,” he lied.
The Cromwells agreed with the agent—the countryside seemed quaint and serene, with small cabins barely visible behind cedar trees. They puttered along the dirt roads of the subdivision in the agent’s Ford Explorer. Paul and Vicky spied an armadillo, a possum, and a family of raccoons in the late-afternoon light. By the time they reached the advertised property, they had spotted a dozen white-tailed deer bounding through the trees and were eager to spend their weekends in such a pastoral Shangri-la. As Paul signed the dotted line, the real estate agent smiled and thought: Nothing like a few Bambis to close the deal.
The Cromwells soon discovered, however, that the populace of Mucho Loco consisted primarily of ex-bikers, white separatists, and trailer-park refugees. Weekends were anything but relaxing as frequent gunshots split the night. Stereos blared from neighboring cabins as teenagers threw wild parties. One spring afternoon, the Cromwells pulled on their swimsuits, slathered each other with Coppertone, and strolled down to the common area on the river. There they interrupted what appeared to be an orgy of Woodstock alumni. A dozen people lounged in the shallow water, all long-haired and nude. At least one couple was openly engaged in sex. Women with hairy armpits and free-swinging breasts cackled in merriment as Lynyrd Skynyrd played from a boombox. Empty cans of Lone Star littered the riverbank, and the smell of marijuana hung in the air like dirty gym socks. The Cromwells politely declined an invitation to join the festivities.
All of this was more than enough to motivate Paul and Vicky to put their cabin back on the market. (For Sale by Owner this time; Paul couldn’t stand the thought of giving the deceptive real estate agent another commission.) But bad luck follows the lower middle class like a loyal hunting dog, and the Cromwells were unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle. Early that summer, torrential rains had annihilated a portion of the low-water bridge on the only road into Mucho Loco. Unless you had a rowboat and Schwarzenegger-sized arms, you were effectively stranded in or out of the subdivision. Most of the full-time residents were grateful for the crisis, which was, in essence, a reprieve from work.
As it happened, that summer continued to produce record rainfall, and the county postponed repairs to the bridge. The residents finally found some relief by way of a rancher who let them cut through his property on horses and four-wheelers. Nothing else could manage the rugged terrain. But for the Cromwells, the restricted access to Mucho Loco was a major setback. Nobody will want to buy the place now, Paul said, except maybe a swimmer with a death wish.
Finally, after the rains, the county roads department sprang into action. That is, they patched the missing segment of the bridge with a questionable mixture of cement, rock, and clay. Even an untrained eye such as Paul’s could tell that the repair was no more than a Band-Aid, sure to wash out with the next big storm. Better than nothing, thought Paul. We’d better sell this place while the selling is good.
Paul placed an ad in the Austin American-Statesman and the San Antonio Express-News the following week:
Rustic cabin on ten acres. Friendly neighbors. Seclusion courtesy of Mother Nature. 512-551-1649.
Paul considered it the best ad he had written all year. But it better pay off soon, Paul was thinking as he approached the dam. He walked out onto the low-water crossing with the cool water rushing past his ankles. The surface of the original dam was slick with algae in some places, but he picked his footing carefully. As he got closer to the repaired portion, he could see the small flap of blue tarp just inches underwater.
Paul walked out onto the rough new segment of the dam. He could see where the patchwork was already eroding from the current; that was the only reason the previously buried tarp was visible at all. He thought: What the hell, my shoes are already soaked. Might as well check it out.
He leaned over the side of the dam, reached into the water and took hold of the tarp. The water was clear and cold. The tarp was rolled up like a carpet. Paul pulled the tarp back like one pulls up a shirtsleeve.
Meanwhile Vicky had finally realized that Paul had wandered off, and she was watching from fifty yards away. She saw Paul walk out onto the dam. She saw him lean over and reach into the water. She saw him jerk back and then scramble, slipping and sliding, back to the riverbank.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Paul yelled. “There’s a fucking human hand in there!”
Tim Gray was in dire need of narcotics but the goddamn Pekingese on the exam table wouldn’t hold still. Taking a stool sample was, without a doubt, the worst part of being a veterinarian—especially for a man with a squeamish stomach, like Tim Gray. Growing up, Gray had thought being a veterinarian meant delivering cuddly puppies and mending horses’ lame legs. Yeah, right, he thought. Nobody told me I’d spend half the day mining for crap in dogs’ butts. Unfortunately, Gray’s occupation offered all types of intestinally challenging tasks, such as cleaning up cat piss and emptying canine anal glands. Though he still loved animals, Gray had come to hate caring for them.
As a fresh-faced graduate of Texas A&M a decade earlier, Gray had set up practice in Blanco, his hometown. His clientele had grown quickly. Dogs and cats, horses, cows, sheep, pigs and poultry—even llamas, emus, and ostriches—they all needed attention. Dealing with such a broad range of species also meant Dr. Gray handled a variety of animal medications. Over the years, Gray had developed a taste for some of the rather potent pharmaceuticals he dispensed to his furry and feathered patients.
His first experimentation had been with acepromazine, a tranquilizer commonly used for dogs frightened by thunderstorms or fireworks. He had packed a light lunch, a six-pack of Heineken, and three hundred milligrams of “Ace.” Then he went sailing on Lake Buchanan. Under an enormous blue sky, he ate a sandwich and washed the tranquilizers down with three beers. He had wonderful, vivid hallucinations for about thirty minutes, and then he passed out.
When he woke up thirty-six hours later, every inch of exposed skin was blistered by the unforgiving August sun. He was suffering from heart palpitations, double vision, and a severe case of dehydration. And he couldn’t wait to explore other possibilities from his medicine cabinet.
Next he had tried phenylbutazone, a horse medication commonly used for arthritis. He swallowed a hundred-milligram tablet at six P.M. on a Saturday night. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in a seedy motel room in Houston at three P.M. on Sunday. The TV blared a rerun of M*A*S*H. He was surrounded by empty beer cans. Two soiled condoms lay on the carpet. The lingering smell of cheap perfume assaulted his nostrils. He quickly pulled on his clothes and left. Later the next week, snippets of the evening came back to him. Something about being escorted out of a Wal-Mart because he was found nude lying in a canoe in the sporting-goods section. Vague recollections of ordering a dozen supertacos at a Jack-in-the-Box. One freeze-frame memory of riding down Loop 610 in a limousine with his head out the moonroof, singing an AC/DC tune. Other than that, he didn’t have a clue.
After these “lost time” episodes, Gray was more prudent with his experiments, starting with a small amount and working up to a pleasant and “safe” dosage. He was hopelessly hooked, though he had yet to admit it to himself. Throughout the day, as he dealt with dogs, cats, snakes, and ferrets, his center of concentration remained on the illicit substances waiting in his office.
As he wrestled with the Pekingese on th
e exam table, he could feel the raw hunger for drugs beginning to eat at his belly.
“Agnes, give me a hand,” Gray hollered to his assistant in the adjoining room. She was bathing an Australian shepherd, a popular breed with local ranchers. “Flopsie is being a real bitch today.” Flopsie looked up at Gray and bared her tiny white teeth with a pitiful growl.
“You just have to give her a little loving,” Agnes said as she walked in. Flopsie immediately began wagging her tail. Agnes petted her shaggy head. “Hold still, sugar, and let nice Dr. Gray get a little sample.”
With Agnes distracting Flopsie, Gray quickly inserted the instrument and completed the task, while his mouth filled with pre-regurgitation saliva. Finally, all done.
While Agnes put Flopsie back in her kennel, Tim Gray slipped quietly into his office and closed the door. He sat at his desk and opened the bottom left-hand drawer. “Come to Papa,” Gray said as his heart began to race and beads of sweat broke on his forehead. As he fumbled with the small zippered bag that contained his stash, the phone rang. He could hear Agnes answering it outside.
“Dr. Gray, it’s Roy Swank on the phone.”
“Tell him I’ll call him right back.”
“He says it’s urgent.”
“All right, all right.” Gray unscrewed the top of a small vial, dipped a tiny spoon into the snow-white powder and sucked it into his left nostril. He did the same with the right nostril. Then he grabbed the phone.
Two minutes later, Agnes watched as Tim Gray bolted from his office, ran outside to his Honda Accord, and squealed out of the parking lot.
Agnes turned to Flopsie in the small wire kennel: “Somebody’s having a bad day.”
Flopsie wagged her tail in reply.
5
THREE YEARS AGO, one of the most despised and unethical men in Blanco County was voted in as sheriff. Herbert Mackey had won the election by the slimmest margin in county history—thirteen votes, to be exact.