Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “He doesn’t understand you, John,” Becky said. “He just said he doesn’t know English.”

  Marlin grinned to cover up the uneasiness he was feeling. “Guess you took a little Spanish in high school, too.”

  “Four years,” Becky replied. “I use it all the time on the job.”

  Marlin pondered his next move. Run the plates, you idiot, the voice said again. He ignored it. “Well, I guess I gotta do this the old-fashioned way.” He swung the cruiser door open and climbed out. He pulled his flashlight off his hip while his right hand remained on his holstered .357 revolver. Then he approached the truck on the passenger’s side, a trick he had learned from a veteran warden. The poachers always expected you to approach from the driver’s side, and if you could throw them off, even in a small way, it was to your benefit. Marlin only went as far as the middle of the truck bed and shined his light in through the rear window. He paused for a moment to get a good look at the two men staring back at him. One of them was older, with a droopy mustache. The other was young and slight.

  “Pasajero: bajate del camión,” Marlin said, using a phrase he had memorized.

  The passenger grinned at Marlin through the window. Then he shrugged as if he didn’t understand.

  “No comprende?” Marlin asked.

  The man rattled something off in Spanish that was too quick for Marlin to understand. But both men were laughing and smiling, just as they had been doing since Marlin first saw them. Probably just a couple of illegals who’ve had a little too much too drink, Marlin thought. Saw a deer on the roadside and just couldn’t resist taking a shot, and now they’ve brought the law down on themselves. Marlin didn’t see a deer carcass in the truck bed or anywhere on the roadside. Probably best just to take the weapon away from them, tell them to sober up for a while, and then go on their merry way.

  That’s exactly the way Marlin had it figured—until he heard Becky scream.

  To Marlin, the next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion. His entire body felt sluggish, his mind addled, his reactions dulled. When he looked back, he saw a massive figure grabbing at Becky through the window of the cruiser. In the millisecond that transpired before he reacted, Marlin could see Becky was trying to get away, trying to scramble to the driver’s side, but her seat belt was holding her back. The gargantuan man had her by both wrists and was leaning into the window. Becky shrieked again. By then, Marlin had begun moving back toward the cruiser, his gun drawn. He wasn’t running, because panic was your worst enemy in a situation like this. He positioned himself about ten feet away from the man and aimed the revolver at the center of the man’s back. Marlin was vaguely aware of some movement behind him.

  Marlin, still facing the cruiser, yelled, “Freeze! Let her go and get down on the ground!”

  That’s when a tremendous force jolted Marlin’s brain and his world went dark.

  24

  THURSDAY NIGHT, PHIL Colby lay in the hospital feeling fidgety, on edge. He had tried to call John Marlin at about eight, but got no answer. The answering machine didn’t even pick up. Colby hadn’t expected to reach Marlin; it was, after all, just two days before the deer season. But still, it would have been nice to talk to him. Colby had a lot of questions for him.

  The hospital was quiet, with only the occasional nurse wandering by Colby’s open door. At ten o’clock, he rang Marlin again, still with no answer.

  I’ve had enough of this place, Colby thought, and climbed out of the bed. He was still feeling a little woozy, but his strength was coming back quickly. “Hell, I’ve been kicked by a horse and felt worse than this,” Colby said to himself, to bolster his shaky legs.

  He went to the institutional-looking nightstand and quickly found the clothes he had been wearing when he was admitted. He pulled on his pants and sat down for a minute. Funny how the vertigo can creep up on you. Just then, a heavyset, middle-aged night nurse came into his room. She started to say something, then eyed his blue jeans. “Going somewhere, Mr. Colby?” she asked with a stern expression.

  “Yeah. Home.” Colby replied coolly.

  “I don’t think so. Dr. Hansen wants you in here for at least a few more days for observation.”

  Colby shrugged. “Tell you what…I’ll observe myself. If I notice anything unusual, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “This really isn’t a good idea, Mr. Colby. Please lie back down and let me check your vital signs.” She stepped forward while removing the stethoscope from around her neck.

  Colby put a hand in the air. “Nurse. I know you’re only trying to help me out. And you don’t want to get in trouble with the doctors. But until you’ve met me, you don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘hardheaded.’ “ Colby checked her name tag. “Marilyn, here’s the deal. I’m going home tonight, with or without the doctor’s permission.”

  Nurse Marilyn paused for moment, biting her lip. Then she knelt down in front of Colby and checked his pupils. In a soft voice, she said, “Fine. But please—let me check your vitals before you go.”

  “It’s a deal,” Colby smiled.

  His pulse was a little high, but everything else checked out fine. Colby continued to dress while Nurse Marilyn proceeded down the hall to find some forms for him to fill out. She had said something about liability and insurance and asked him to please wait for five minutes. He waited ten, and then he put on his shoes and walked to the nearest elevator.

  He followed the signs to the front exit and walked out into the cool night. Then he realized, in his semifogged state, that he didn’t have a car. Maybe this leaving wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  When Marlin came to, his head was pounding, his vision was blurred, and he felt nauseous—yet he knew exactly where he was. Lying on the floor of the old rock cabin on the lower pasture of the Circle S Ranch. When Marlin and Phil Colby were kids, the dilapidated structure had served as their fortresslike headquarters. They’d ride horses down from the main house, bringing along their .22s to do a little plinking. Or they’d haul out the fishing rods they stored inside the house and wet a line in the nearby Pedernales River. It had been two decades since Marlin had set foot in the house, yet he immediately recognized the barn-wood interior and the rusted woodstove in the corner.

  “John…how are you feeling?” The voice seemed to come from the end of a tunnel. It sounded familiar…and yet…

  Marlin felt a warm hand on his cheek. He blinked several times to clear his vision, and finally focused on the face of Becky Cameron. She was kneeling on the dirt floor beside him, holding a flashlight. Marlin struggled with confusion for a moment, and then his whole body tensed as he remembered what had happened. Marlin attempted to sit up, but Becky held him down. “It’s best that you stay still for a while,” she said in a reassuring tone. “John, can you tell me your last name?”

  What kind of stupid question is that? Marlin wondered. “Marlin,” he croaked through an arid throat.

  “What day is it?”

  “It was Thursday night. I don’t know if it still is.”

  “Good. I was worried that you might have a concussion.”

  “What the hell happened?” Marlin asked, knowing that Becky wouldn’t have an answer. “Who were those guys?” He already had a pretty good idea.

  “I don’t know. They put us in the backseat of your truck and brought us out here. They blindfolded me. I don’t know where we are. They wouldn’t let me ask any questions, and neither of them said a word the whole time.”

  “Neither of them? I thought there were more than two.”

  “There were three, but only two in your truck. The other drove the truck they were in. I think he came out here, too.”

  Marlin took a moment to soak all this in. His brain was swimming, and he couldn’t seem to manage a sensible train of thought. All the facts were in his head…he just couldn’t put them in any kind of logical order. He reached around gingerly and felt the wound on the back of his head. He had a lump about the size of a golf ball, topped wi
th a pretty good gash. Dried blood matted his hair. He’d probably need stitches, but that was the least of his worries at the moment.

  “Where are they now?” Marlin asked, propping himself on one elbow. It was the only thing he could think to ask.

  “Outside. Or at least one of them is. I heard the truck drive away earlier, and I heard two doors closing when they left. I think one guy stayed behind with your truck. I hear him moving around every now and then, and I can smell a campfire. They nailed the door shut when they left, and the windows are boarded up. The only thing they said was for us to stay put or we’d be sorry.”

  Of course, no matter how muddled Marlin’s synapses were, no matter how hampered his cerebral abilities, he knew Roy Swank was behind all this. “Becky, I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  “What for? It’s not your fault. How could you know poachers would react like that?”

  “They weren’t poachers,” he said, watching her face closely. He didn’t see fear, only confusion. So far, she seemed unshaken by the abduction, unwilling to cringe in fear. He wondered if that would change as she learned the truth. “I think they’re drug dealers. Working with a guy named Roy Swank. We’re on his ranch right now.”

  Marlin took a deep breath and told her the entire story…the shooting of Trey Sweeney in his deer suit, Buck’s abnormal behavior, the white powder found by Thomas Stovall, every detail. He had to pause at times and gather his strength, but Becky sat by patiently each time and waited for him to continue. When he was done, she didn’t cry or tremble or yell at him for dragging her into this mess. She just asked if he wanted some water. “Yes, please,” he said.

  She handed him a jug from somewhere and he took a long drink. It was icy-cold and felt fantastic, reaching the parched recesses in his throat. He hadn’t realized until then how thirsty he was.

  Meanwhile, Becky rose to her feet and walked over to the door. Then she surprised Marlin by banging on it like a narc on a drug raid.

  Seconds later a thickly accented voice came through the door: ”Que pasa?”

  She answered back, sounding just as peeved. “I need some aspirin, some peroxide, and some towels in here. Plus some more water—sanitary. To clean his wound.”

  “I no speak Englees,” the man responded in a taunting voice. Marlin could hear faint laughter.

  “Like hell you don’t,” Becky replied. She waited, but the man said nothing further. So she repeated her demand, this time in Spanish, and more forcefully than before. She seemed to go on for quite some time, but Marlin couldn’t keep up with her fluent Spanish.

  Marlin heard the man grunt and then say a few words back.

  Becky turned to him and said, “He’s bringing us a few things so I can clean you up.”

  Marlin had to laugh, even though it hurt.

  An hour later, Becky and Marlin heard a vehicle pull up, followed by a single slamming car door and then a muffled conversation in Spanish between two men. These were the first voices Marlin had heard outside the cabin, leading Marlin to believe that Becky was right: Only one man was guarding the cabin. That information might prove useful in the future. One of the men sounded quite agitated.

  “Any idea what they’re saying?” Marlin asked.

  “The loud guy—he sounds like an American to me—is pissed that the other guy asked for our supplies. Said he has better things to do than run errands.”

  Moments later, Marlin heard a scraping noise on the outside of the door. He speculated that the kidnappers had simply installed brackets on either side of the outward-swinging door (which accounted for the hammering Becky had heard), and then placed a two-by-four in each bracket to hold the door closed. It was the only door to the one-room house. Outside, the man they had spoken with an hour ago called out, “Move away from the door. Remember, I have a pistola.”

  Marlin and Becky did as they were told, and a few seconds later the door swung open. From the sliver of moon Marlin could see rising in the horizon, he knew that it was about midnight. Two dark forms entered, shining a powerful spotlight at Marlin and Becky huddled in the corner.

  A stern voice, clearly American, spoke from behind the spotlight: “Listen up, Marlin. If you want these supplies, you’ve gotta do something for me. I’ve got a cell phone here. I’m gonna dial a number and you’re gonna leave a message for your pal Bobby Garza. You’re gonna tell him that everything is just fine at the Circle S Ranch, that everything you told him earlier was a big misunderstanding.”

  Marlin wondered how they knew about his conversation with the deputy. “Now, why in the hell would I do that?”

  There was a pause, then the voice said harshly, “Because if you don’t, I’ll kill him. And his family. And right before I do it, I’ll tell ‘em you sent me.”

  Marlin winced. He knew that Garza was one of the few advantages he and Becky had. Once Garza learned Marlin was missing, he’d come straight to the Circle S. But now, his captors were taking that advantage away. Marlin heard the beeping of a phone being dialed, then an enormous man stepped from behind the spotlight. “No fuckin’ around, ya hear, or I’ll make the little lady there understand the true meaning of pain.”

  Marlin nodded and the phone was thrust into his hands. He held it to his ear and heard Garza’s voice-mail greeting at the sheriff’s office. Marlin wanted to shout a warning into the phone, let Garza know what was happening and where they were. But he wasn’t about to put Becky into that kind of danger.

  “You’d better make it damn good,” the big man growled.

  Marlin could faintly see the second man, the one who was in the truck earlier. The man smiled and shrugged—a strange gesture, Marlin thought.

  At the tone, Marlin said, “Hey, Bobby, it’s John Marlin. You’re not going to believe this, but I talked to Thomas Stovall earlier this evening and he said that business with the white powder was all a practical joke. Friends put him up to it. Real funny, right? Wish I could write the guy up for being an idiot. Anyway, I just wanted you to know what was happening. Talk to you later.”

  Marlin hung up, feeling more defeated than ever, and the big man grabbed the phone out of his hands.

  The two captors backed out of the cabin, leaving a paper grocery bag inside the doorway. Marlin heard the two-by-four slide back in place. Seconds later, he heard an engine start and a vehicle drive off into the night.

  Marlin was feeling a little woozy. It was his first time standing since he had regained consciousness—and he was fooling himself if he thought he would get over the blow to the head easily. He felt a wave of nausea and his knees began to weaken. Becky recognized the look on his face and helped him back to the threadbare blanket on the floor. She handed him the jug of water again, and he drank deeply.

  Becky had hung the flashlight from a nail on the wall and it cast a pale glow around the room. The batteries were dying quickly. “I need to get your head cleaned up before the light fades,” Becky said as she grabbed the grocery bag the man had left. She began pulling items out: “Gauze. Band-Aids. Rubbing alcohol…that’ll sting bad. Peroxide…that’s better. Hey, they even got some Advil in here. They must be humanitarians.”

  Marlin managed a weak smile.

  “The problem is, you need stitches. But I’m not about to try to stitch you up in this…place.”

  Marlin shrugged weakly. “I’ll get ‘em done later.”

  “If we don’t get…If we wait too long, stitches won’t work. You’ll just have to let it heal as is. You could end up with a nasty lump there.”

  “No problem. I’ll wear a hat.” Marlin was doing his best to appear unrattled.

  Becky kneeled down on the blanket next to him and asked him to lie on his stomach. Marlin flipped over, crossed his arms and rested his forehead on his wrists.

  “This is a pretty bad cut, and I don’t want it to get infected,” Becky said. “I’m going to pour some hydrogen peroxide on it, but it shouldn’t sting.” She unscrewed the cap on the plastic bottle, poured a little into the cap, and gently po
ured the peroxide onto the wound. After a minute, she dabbed at the wound with a gauze pad. “I’m not going to try to put a bandage on you. It needs air anyway. Sorry I can’t do more.”

  Marlin rolled onto his side and looked her in the eyes. “You’re doing plenty,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Marlin listened: There were no noises from outside the house except the gentle wind. Marlin propped himself on one elbow, then reached up and cupped a hand around Becky’s neck. She leaned toward him…and they kissed. Marlin instantly felt his trousers tighten, and his pain seemed to evaporate.

  Becky placed a few more gentle kisses on his lips and smiled. “We’d better take it easy, buster. You need to save your strength.”

  25

  PHIL COLBY HAD chanced upon a cab driver just ending his shift and had offered him fifty bucks, flat, for a ride to Johnson City. A good deal for the cabbie, but more than Colby could really afford to pay. Screw it, he thought. He was tired and just wanted to get home.

  His house was dark when he arrived and there were no messages on the machine. Not a very welcoming return home. Of course, everybody thought he was still in the hospital. He tried to call Marlin again but got no answer. Colby figured he was out looking for poachers.

  Colby undressed and took a long, hot shower, trying to keep his stitches dry. It was nice to be back in his own surroundings. Tomorrow he would hook up with Marlin, and then he’d find out the latest on Buck. Last he knew, Swank still had the deer but was planning to return him. That was a strange deal. It almost seemed like a dream, Marlin telling Colby in the hospital that Swank wanted to “do the right thing.” Swank doing the right thing was about as likely as George Foreman turning down a hamburger.