by Steve Brewer
Mackey’s greasy supporters knew it would be a tough race, but they had anticipated a somewhat wider victory. After all, they had been bolstered by a late development that should have made Mackey a shoo-in. His opponent, Ed Calhoun, had committed suicide one week before the election.
Many county residents were appalled that Mackey had managed to secure a victory, since nobody seemed to know anybody who had actually voted for him. Not since Lyndon Johnson’s run for the U.S. Senate in 1948 had so many rumors of ballot-stuffing buzzed through the sparsely populated county. Officials resisted calls for a recount. Let’s all be realistic, they said. What will we do if a dead man actually wins the race?
Prior to the election, Mackey ran a used-car lot in Blanco, where he had a penchant for selling to immigrant workers and people living below the poverty line. He had a knack for devising financing contracts that allowed him to accept personal property as collateral for late payments. A deer rifle here, a microwave oven there. Sometimes the odd satellite dish or lawn tractor. Coincidentally, Mackey also owned the only pawn shop in all of Blanco County. In effect, property was redistributed among many of Mackey’s less-fortunate future constituents— and Mackey stood shamelessly in the middle profiting from it all.
Not surprisingly, Mackey developed a reputation as a shyster and a mercenary. This reputation followed him into the sheriff’s office, where he was known to greedily extend his palm and close his eyes.
The high point of Mackey’s larcenous career came in the spring of his second year as sheriff. The well-known television evangelist and alleged tax evader, the Reverend Tommy Clyde, was conducting a fifty-city Southern tour, themed “What We Owe the Lord”; 60 Minutes ran a segment on the tour, calling the story “What We Owe the IRS.”
After drawing large crowds in towns like Amarillo and Abilene, Reverend Clyde headed south to save sinners in the Texas Rio Grande Valley. On the way, his caravan stopped overnight in Johnson City. His large tour bus, a restored Greyhound with a rendition of The Last Supper on the side, drew curious stares from bystanders all along Main Street. The bus came to a stop in front of the twenty-unit Phelps Motel, where Reverend Clyde’s entourage had reserved every room for the evening.
Apparently the reverend liked to sample the Communion wine on occasion, and things got a little rowdy down at the Phelps place. After receiving a few complaints about the noise, Mackey drove over to the motel. He knocked on Reverend Clyde’s door, which was answered by a RuPaul look-alike. Mackey scrambled back to his cruiser, grabbed a Polaroid camera, and burst into the motel room. He managed to fire off a dozen shots of the reverend and the prostitute before they barricaded themselves in the bathroom.
Three days later, an unidentified man delivered a briefcase containing fifty thousand dollars cash to the home of Herbert J. Mackey. Mackey reciprocated with a small envelope containing the twelve snapshots. Praise the Lord.
Friday afternoon, Sheriff Mackey pulled on his brown Stetson, loaded himself into his cruiser, and drove out to see John Marlin.
Marlin heard Mackey pull into the driveway and stepped out to meet him. They exchanged a stiff handshake. Around each other, they had always been about as comfortable as two tomcats sharing the same alley.
“‘Morning, John,” Mackey said, with an uncharacteristic grin.
Marlin did not return the smile. “What brings you out here, Herb?”
“I really think we need to talk about that deer you hauled off the other night. I got a call from Roy Swank and he was asking for that deer back.”
“Now, Herb, we’ve been through all of this before. You know as well as I do that native whitetails belong to the state of Texas. Swank doesn’t own that deer any more than he owns the sky.”
“Sure, I know that. But let’s think this through. Roy Swank has done a lot for Blanco County. He donated all that money to rebuild the courthouse. He gave us that two hundred acres for a county park. Not to mention all the things he’s done for the Parks and Wildlife Department. The man paid for that new truck you’re driving, Marlin. You ever stop to think of that?”
Marlin noticed that Mackey didn’t mention the contributions Swank had made to the Sheriff’s Department over the years—funds to buy new cruisers, Kevlar vests, and dash-mounted video cameras. Rumor had it that Swank had also bankrolled Mackey’s election campaign for the sheriff’s office, making Mackey one of Swank’s biggest fans.
Marlin said, “I don’t really want to sit here and argue Roy Swank’s finer points with you. It’s no use anyway.”
Mackey smiled again. “Well, sure it is. I know we can work something out. After all, it’s just one deer.”
“Yeah, but that one deer is gone.”
“What? When? Who has it?”
“I had him penned up in my yard, and this morning he was gone.”
Mackey’s face tensed. “Goddamn it to hell. That’s just great.”
“I thought his injury would keep him from jumping, but I was wrong. Tell you what, I’ll call Swank and let him know,” Marlin said. And then I’ll call Phil, he thought, and tell him to keep Buck out of sight.
“That sounds like a real problem,” Tim Gray said.
“You’re damn right it’s a problem, and thanks ever so much for your concern,” replied Roy Swank, sitting behind his desk. “But what I need to know from you is how big a problem it is.”
Gray wrung his hands. “You know, it could just be the effects of the rut.”
Gray was referring to the yearly breeding season for white-tailed deer, when the doe is in estrus. It is then that the bucks are most active and the most combative with each other, trying to win the favor of receptive females.
Swank smiled a menacing grin. “Gray, are you a hunter?”
“No.”
“Then shut the fuck up. It ain’t like any rut I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen plenty. So what say we begin to deal in reality?”
Gray was fumbling in his mind for a reply, but his verbal skills were hampered by the drugs coursing through his veins. Finally: “All I can do is make an educated guess, and my guess is that it won’t die. It will exhibit some rather unusual behavior for a while, then it will be okay.”
Swank didn’t look convinced.
“Deer are very hardy animals, you know,” Gray continued, trying to sound confident. “No sir, my guess is it will be just fine.”
“It better be.” Swank took a long drag on his cigar. “Because if it dies, guess who gets to go looking for the carcass?”
As John Marlin drove to San Antonio on Saturday to see Trey Sweeney, the biologist, in the hospital, he laughed to himself. Buck wasn’t any more inclined to jump a fence than Herbert Mackey himself was. After all, Buck was thoroughly domesticated. Phil Colby had raised Buck from a fawn, after finding him bedded beside a dead doe on his ranch five years ago.
Back then, Trey had advised Colby as to the proper methods of feeding and caring for the fragile fawn, scarcely a few weeks old. Colby had risen at all hours of the night to bottle-feed Buck with a colostrum-replacement formula to help build the fawn’s immune system. Colby kept the deer tucked away in the barn at night, away from the cold and safe from foxes, coyotes, dogs, and other predators. He even immunized Buck against common deer ailments.
When he was two weeks old, the deer was ready for solid food. Colby would put Buck on a leash and walk him down to the Pedernales River, where forage and browse were plentiful.
As the deer grew strong and healthy, the bond between Colby and Buck flourished. Buck was more like a dog than a deer, following Colby around as he completed his chores. Buck even slept inside on occasion, and seemed to prefer it.
It always pained Colby to think of releasing Buck back onto the ranch, but Marlin assured him it was the right thing to do. Finally, the day after deer season ended, Colby and Marlin drove out to the north pasture with Buck in the back of Marlin’s truck.
“You made your first mistake when you named him, you know that,” Marlin said to his unusually quie
t friend.
Colby nodded.
“He’ll be all right. Doubt he’ll ever even leave the ranch. And you’ve run all the coyotes out of here.”
Colby stared out the window.
Finally Marlin reached the location they had agreed on—a grove of towering sycamore and cypress trees near a flat, wide creek that fed into the river. Their favorite campsite when they were boys. Both men considered it the most beautiful place on the ranch.
Marlin stayed in the cab while Colby coaxed Buck out of the bed of the pickup. He watched sadly as his best friend helped the deer down to the ground and then walked him into the trees. Marlin thought: Don’t know why I’m getting choked up, it’s only a deer. But he had to compose himself before Colby returned.
Afterward, the men drove wordlessly back toward the ranch house. Marlin headed up a hill and past the high bluff overlooking the creek. He eased his way through some cattle who had heard the truck and thought it was feeding time, then he bounced along a rutted stretch of dirt road ravaged by recent rains. Finally they navigated around an oak grove and the house came into view.
There in the yard was Buck, waiting for Colby.
The men laughed and shook their heads. For four years after that, Buck rarely strayed more than a quarter-mile from the house.
These were sweet memories for Marlin, but they brought back some ugly ones as well. When Colby lost the ranch—after Roy Swank had bought it from the county—Colby had stayed on as Swank’s ranch foreman. But one day last spring, when Colby found himself a new place out in the country—a nice rock home on twenty acres—he tried to take Buck home with him. As he began to load Buck into his truck, Swank pulled up alongside and protested, saying that he owned the deer.
“When I bought the place, that gave me all rights to the animals as well,” Swank said.
“Come on, Roy. It’s just one deer. And it’s my deer.”
“I can see why you want him. He’s a great trophy,” Swank said, hinting at his future plans.
“I’m afraid they don’t enter any live deer in the record books.”
Swank just nodded and let a pause say it all. Finally he said, “I know that.”
In an instant Colby realized that Swank was planning on letting Buck be slaughtered by paying hunters. But this would be no hunt; it would be like shooting a dog on your front porch.
Ever since Swank had taken ownership of the ranch, Colby had been struggling with a fierce resentment. He had come to despise not just Swank’s affluence, but his smug attitude and cold demeanor. Now his brain went into vapor-lock as his anger boiled over. He grabbed a tire iron out of his truck bed and began slamming creases into the hood of Swank’s new Chevy Suburban. Swank fumbled for the ignition. Next, Colby shattered the windshield. Swank locked the doors. Colby was kicking serious dents into the passenger side when Swank finally got the vehicle started and roared away.
Colby had taken the deer home that day, but later he came out the loser. A judge informed both men that native wildlife is, from a legal standpoint, property of the state. In short, Colby had broken the law by transporting wildlife without a permit. He was fined one hundred dollars and ordered to return the deer to the Circle S Ranch. If he refused, he would be jailed for contempt of court and Marlin, as game warden, would have to return the deer for him. Colby didn’t want to put his best friend in that position, so he had returned the deer himself. And he and Marlin had been dreading the opening of this year’s deer season ever since. Until two days ago.
Deer season is one week away now, Marlin thought as he pulled into the hospital parking lot. Ol’ Buck wouldn’t have lived through opening weekend.
6
“I WOULD PREFER you didn’t handle that,” Roy Swank said rather curtly to one of his visitors.
They were in Swank’s expansive den, where the walls were adorned with the heads of elk, buffalo, deer, warthogs, and antelope. Gold-trimmed display cases contained African tribal weaponry, relics, and artifacts. The smaller, slender visitor had opened one of the cases and was examining one of Swank’s prize possessions.
“What in tarnation is it, anyway?” he asked, reluctant to put it down.
“That,” Swank responded, “is a dried rhinoceros penis.”
The object practically leapt from Red O’Brien’s hands back to its rightful place in the case.
Red’s faced turned bright red. “That’s just sick, is what it is.”
Billy Don was laughing heartily. “I guess you’re not used to handling a dick that long, are you, Red?”
Red was about to fire off a comeback when he noticed that Swank was staring at them sternly and drumming his fingers on the desk. “Quit horsing around, Billy Don,” Red said. “The man called us here for a reason. Let’s hear what it is.”
Swank motioned the men to two upholstered chairs in front of his desk while he took a seat behind it. He did not offer them a drink. “I’m not sure what you gentlemen know about me, but I run a fairly successful hunting operation out here.”
Both men nodded. Red thought: We saw one of your best bucks up close and personal three nights ago. But I missed it.
Swank continued. “I have a lot of great deer out here, some for harvesting, some for breeding. It takes a long time to build a healthy trophy herd, you know. And now, one of my trophies is missing.” Swank briefly told them about the situation with Marlin and Buck.
“John Marlin told Sheriff Mackey that the buck jumped the fence,” Swank said. “But I’m not so sure that’s what happened. I’m inclined to believe that he has it stashed away somewhere, or that he gave the deer back to Phil Colby. Colby used to own the deer. Of course, he used to own this ranch, too, but look who’s stoking the home fires now.” Swank laughed merrily, and Red and Billy Don joined in, although they had no idea what was so humorous.
Swank finally regained his composure and stared intently at Red, who was the clear leader of the two. “I understand Sheriff Mackey is your cousin?”
“Yessir, second cousin twice removed on my daddy’s side.”
Swank nodded. “Well, Sheriff Mackey and I have gotten to be good friends in the last few years. I called him about a problem I’m having, and he told me something interesting. He said you and Billy Don know this county inside and out—all the people, all the back roads—and that y’all might be able to help me get my deer back. I’m willing to pay a fair price, of course.”
Red could sense the sweet smell of opportunity in the air. After all, if a trophy buck’s antlers were sometimes worth thousands of dollars, imagine what the whole critter was worth! Play this guy right, and there could be some serious money on the line. Of course, ol’ cousin Herb would want a finder’s fee, but that was fine with Red.
“Sheriff Mackey was right,” Red said. “Me and my associate here are awful good at that sort of thing. But it’s gonna be expensive.”
“How much?”
Red started adding up some of his past-due bills in his head. Which meant the men could all be sitting there till Christmas.
“Don’t be bashful, Mr. O’Brien. I’ll be honest—it means a lot to me to get that deer back immediately. I’m having a large hunt here on opening weekend. You know, with Skip Farrell, the hunting columnist, and some other media types. It will mean a lot of great publicity for the ranch, so I’m willing to pay a fair price.”
“Ten thousand bucks. Cash.”
“Done.”
“Apiece,” Billy Don spoke up.
“No problem. I’ll give you half now and half when the job is complete.” Swank opened a desk drawer and withdrew a stack of crisp hundreds. Before he handed the cash over, he said, “Anytime, day or night—when you find that deer, call me.”
The men rose and Swank showed them back to the front door, where he handed them each a business card with half a dozen phone numbers on it. “I am never completely out of touch. Just keep trying those numbers and you’ll find me.”
Red said, “Mr. Swank, it’s a pleasure to be working with
you. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m sure that I won’t. Oh, and gentlemen, do me a favor. Don’t do any more poaching on my property.”
“Oh shit. How did he know it was us?” Billy Don asked when they were back in the truck.
“Hell if I know. But I say we keep our traps shut and earn some easy money.”
“Aren’t you nervous, Red? I mean, how come if Swank knows it was us, Mackey hasn’t figured it out? He may be your kinfolk, but you shot a guy!”
“We shot a guy, you ingrate. But I think Swank was just taking a wild guess anyway. Besides, all he seems to care about is that damn deer. That must be a awful special buck.”
Red pulled into a convenience store on the edge of Johnson City. He was ready to start spending some of his newfound money. “Billy Don, run in there and get us a twelve-pack of Busch. Wait a minute. Hell, get us a case of Corona. We can afford it.”
Billy Don climbed out of the truck.
“And get me a handful of Slim Jims,” Red called after him. “And some Moon Pies. And a pack of Red Man.”
After Billy Don went inside, Red wasn’t thinking about Trey Sweeney lying in a hospital. He wasn’t thinking about last week’s poaching disaster. All he was thinking about was where John Marlin and Phil Colby might have hidden the trophy buck.
Trey Sweeney was in room 312 according to the front desk. Marlin knocked gently, but didn’t receive an answer. The door was slightly ajar, so he eased it open and saw that Trey was sleeping.
Marlin entered and took a seat in one of two chairs for visitors. Not bad, he thought. A private room. One of the benefits of state health insurance.
Marlin noticed several magazines on a small end table. Zoologists’ Monthly. Fauna World. Definitely Trey’s. Marlin was thumbing through Wildlife Weekly when a nurse came into the room.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t know Mr. Sweeney had a visitor.”
“Yeah, I was just waiting to see if Trey would wake up.”