by Steve Brewer
But then Colby realized something: If Marlin was missing—and he seemed to be—then it likely had something to do with this message from Deputy Garza. Something to do with Roy Swank. Colby’s anger evaporated, replaced by concern for Marlin.
27
COLBY THOROUGHLY SEARCHED Marlin’s house but found no more clues, nothing that told him where Marlin was or what had happened with Roy Swank. Then his eyes came to rest on the computer. Worth a shot.
He booted it up and was immediately faced with a control panel asking for a password. He tried all the obvious words—names of Marlin’s relatives, past pets and girlfriends, favorite songs—but had no success. Then a thought occurred to him and he typed in BUCK. Damn, it worked! Just like the movies.
Colby quickly found a bunch of word-processing folders and began to scan through them. Mostly files related to Marlin’s work…minutes from Wildlife Commission meetings…letters to landowners regarding wildlife management…memos from higher-ups about changes in game laws.
Then he spotted a file titled ATTORNEY GENERAL. He opened it.
Julio’s finger twitched on the trigger, but he managed to refrain from firing. A pregnant woman had answered the door. She wore a faded blue bathrobe and had curlers in her hair. No makeup. Dark circles under her eyes. In her arms was a toddler who took one look at Julio and began to wail. In spite of all this, the woman smiled.
Julio was momentarily taken aback. Oscar had said nothing about a wife or family. Just a deputy. Grab him or kill him, Oscar had said, it didn’t matter. Just make sure he is not a threat. Julio had never killed a woman or child before, but he was always willing to try something new.
“May I help you?” the woman asked, looking a little surprised to have an unexpected visitor on her doorstep.
“Yes, I am looking for Bobby Garza,” Julio replied, eyeing the toddler with discomfort. Screaming children tended to attract attention from passersby. He glanced back over his shoulder to see if any of the neighbors were watching. When Garza came to the door, Julio would force his way into the house at gunpoint and then figure things out from there.
“I’m sorry, hon, he’s not here,” the woman said in a cozy Central Texas drawl. “Something I can help you with?”
Julio smiled his best smile, which looked more like a constipated grimace. “That is very kind, but I really need to speak with Señor…uh, Mr. Garza. Where might I find him?”
The woman produced a pacifier from somewhere within her bathrobe and stuck it into the toddler’s mouth. The child immediately began sucking, but kept both eyes on the intriguing stranger. “You don’t know Bobby very well, do ya?” the woman asked, laughing, as if there were some joke that Julio was not privy to.
Why must everything be so difficult? Julio wondered. Why couldn’t she just answer the question instead of asking her own? Perhaps she would be willing to answer if she had a loaded pistol pointed between her eyes. “No, I am just in town for a few days. I am with the Mexico City police,” Julio said, making a story up on the fly. “We are here studying the law enforcement techniques of rural police officers. I was supposed to speak to your husband.…”
She shook her head. “Bobby never said anything to me about that.”
Julio was losing patience. He caressed the pistol grip with his thumb. “Perhaps, I can find him…go speak to him. Where did you say he was?”
The deputy’s wife seemed to be losing a little of her friendly demeanor. She studied Julio through squinted eyes, still shaking her head. Julio was about to raise his sport coat, jam the pistol in her face, or better yet, aim it at her child. But she answered first. “Everybody knows, this time of year, he’s out fishing at Lake Buchanan. He almost didn’t go this year, though. Some emergency at work. But this morning he said it had been taken care of and he took off. He musta forgot all about ya.”
Fishing? To Julio, it certainly sounded like the phone call from Marlin had worked. Julio nodded at the woman. “Well, then…I am sorry to bother you.”
“How’s your sandwich?” Marlin asked.
“Not bad. And yours?”
“Pretty good.”
Marlin watched Becky eat. She was proper without being stuffy, gently holding her sandwich in a napkin. Marlin had already managed to get mustard all over himself, not to mention the grime and dirt he had collected in the last twelve hours, but she still looked like she could have just stepped out of the shower. Amazing. How do women do that? he wondered.
“I have to say, you’ve been pretty amazing through all this,” Marlin said. “Most gals would be freaking out right now.”
“Working at a hospital kind of teaches you to keep your cool. Sometimes you can’t worry about what’s going to happen in an hour or in the next ten minutes, all you can do is concentrate on what’s happening right now. I’d say we’re in pretty good shape at the moment.” She took another small nibble.
Marlin liked her sense of confidence.
“For one thing,” she continued, “I don’t think Luis would have given us these sandwiches if he were planning on doing anything to us. And he definitely wouldn’t have told me his name.”
“Oh, I see I have a regular criminal psychologist in my presence. What makes you think that?”
“Once you relate to a victim on a personal level, you feel more empathy for them. Something I’ve learned through nursing, because it’s also true of patients. You can’t help but become attached to some of your patients, especially the kids. But it makes it that much harder to take if something happens to them. Sometimes, to keep your distance, you find yourself calling them ‘Mrs. Whoever’ or ‘Mr. So-and-so’ instead of calling them by their first names. It’s a strange thing in the hospital…if you hear a nurse getting chummy with someone, you can be pretty sure that person is going to be okay. Kind of sad, when you think about it.”
Marlin knew exactly what she was talking about. He tried not to get too friendly with local poachers, even though many of them were very likable, because it made it tougher to write citations. Marlin already thought he was too much of a pushover at times. “I think you’re right,” he said. “Seems like these guys are just holding us…waiting for something…or someone. My guess is that they somehow figured out how much I knew, so they want me out of the way for a while. Maybe until they can cover everything up.”
“Did you tell anyone about your suspicions?”
“Just Bobby Garza,” Marlin said.
“Bobby sure is popular this weekend, Phil, but he’s not here. He went fishing. It’s his day off, you know,” Vera Garza said. Colby was on her doorstep, a copy of Marlin’s letter to the state attorney general in his pocket.
Colby was surprised. Judging from Marlin’s letter, Garza knew as much about the situation at the Circle S Ranch as Marlin did. “Wha…When did he leave? Where did he go?” Colby finally managed to respond.
“You sure you don’t want to come in for some iced tea?” Vera asked again.
Colby shook his head, looking a little worried.
Vera eyed him with concern, but decided not to pry. “He took off this morning. He was headed up to Lake Buchanan, meeting a friend from Burnet up there.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Sunday evening. You know, he always likes the lake on opening weekend of deer season ‘cause it’s so quiet. Then he hunts deer later in the season—after all the amateurs are outta the way, he says.”
Colby was momentarily at a loss. He was hoping to pump Garza for information, tell him that he couldn’t find Marlin. He wanted a cop on his side…and not Sheriff Herbert Mackey. That guy was as a crooked as a pig’s tail.
“Sweetheart, is something wrong?” Vera asked in her comforting Texas way.
Colby forced a weak smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. Is there any way I can reach Bobby? Is he staying at one of the cabins up there?”
“No, they always camp out. You can try his cell phone, but you probably won’t have much luck. Just like I told the other guy.”
“There was a Mexican cop ‘round here earlier, saying something about needing to talk to Bobby. Seemed kinda weird to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said he was from Mexico City and he was suppose to talk to Bobby about how country cops do their jobs. What would a Mexican cop care about how we do it here in Blanco County?”
Colby sat in his truck for a long time and thought things over. He knew that his best friend appeared to be missing, but he was having a tough time believing it. Speaking of unbelievable, the letter Marlin had written to the attorney general seemed outrageous. Deer acting as carrying cases for drugs? On the other hand, Colby knew Marlin wasn’t one to go off on wild tangents or to jump to conclusions. The letter didn’t offer up any firm proof, but Colby figured that Marlin must have some. And if anybody was capable of participating in such a ballsy scheme, it was Roy Swank. Swank also had the connections to get as many deer across the border as he wanted, without the usual quarantining procedure. He probably had friends at all levels, guys who could sail the deer through with a minimum of paperwork and without a proper inspection.
But what did this Mexican cop have to do with everything? Could he be a Mexican drug agent, also working to shut Swank down? That seemed unlikely, considering the drugs were leaving Mexico rather than coming in. Colby figured that Mexican cops—like their American counterparts—would be far more concerned about imports rather than exports. No, it was entirely likely that the guy wasn’t even a cop.
Colby had tried Bobby Garza’s cellular phone several times with no luck. Either he was out of range on the middle of massive Lake Buchanan, or he had turned his phone off for the weekend. That left Colby with limited options. What if Marlin’s letter was all speculation and he had no evidence against Swank? In the letter, Marlin had said he was in the process of putting together some evidence. That didn’t sound like he had anything solid at the moment. If Colby went to the DEA, Marlin could end up looking like an idiot. Might even cost him his job. On the other hand, what if he was in trouble and Colby did nothing?
The more Colby thought about it, the more he realized he really had only one alternative: As much as he hated to do it, he’d have to talk to Sheriff Herbert Mackey. He dreaded the thought of it, but even Mackey wouldn’t be dumb or dishonest enough to just dismiss Colby. In his wildest imagination, regardless of the sheriff’s other moral shortcomings, Colby couldn’t picture Mackey being involved with drug smuggling. The man was about as backcountry conservative as they come, always spouting on hypocritically about God and country, preaching eye-for-an-eye justice to anyone who would listen. Of course—according to local rumor—that never stopped Mackey from squeezing money out of the criminals unfortunate enough to find themselves under his meaty thumb. Colby knew this particular type of redneck well, the kind of person who thinks criminals are no better than stray dogs…dogs who need a well-placed kick on occasion to keep them in line. But to protect a drug smuggler? Colby didn’t think there would be a bribe big enough to sway even a greedy opportunist like Mackey—and Marlin’s letter hadn’t mentioned Mackey being involved. If Colby approached Mackey on a professional level, right in his own office, he’d have to do something. Wouldn’t he? And hell, Mackey might surprise Colby and know exactly where Marlin was.
On the other hand, if Mackey was working with Swank, this would be a good way to rattle Swank’s cage a little, make him realize that people were becoming suspicious of him. That might help Marlin in the long run.
So that was the plan. Go speak to Mackey. Keep it local. Try to track down Marlin…at least give it another day…before calling in the feds.
28
THE FIRST OF the hunters began showing up at the Circle S Ranch at one o’clock on Friday. A cold front had come through and now it was a crisp, partly cloudy afternoon, temperature in the high fifties, a light northerly breeze…ideal weather for deer hunting. But Roy Swank’s thoughts were miles away from the big hunting extravaganza he was hosting over the weekend. He was eleven hours away from a gruesome deadline. Oscar and his men were bound to come calling at midnight, just as Oscar had promised, and the deer situation would be no different than it was now. Tim Gray was dead, there was no getting around it. And without him, there was absolutely no hope of getting the drugs out of the deer…at least not while they were alive. Swank had already resigned himself to the fact that he was going to lose some big money on the remaining deer. Oscar and his men would simply kill them, splay them open and get the goods. They had no concern for Swank’s hunting operation, no respect for a herd of bucks that would make the average hunter’s eyes bulge and heart race.
Roy Swank remained isolated in his den, watching the hunters arrive, from behind the large, leaded-glass windows. At the moment, Swank wasn’t concerned about being a good host, rushing out to greet his visitors. He was worried about keeping these two separate worlds—the Colombians and the hunters—from colliding. My god, there were senators and congressmen coming! What would they think if they saw these dark-skinned thugs lurking around the property? Swank couldn’t dismiss them as ranch hands because they were all dressed like Cubanos out for an evening on Miami Beach.
Then, inevitably, Swank came to grips with what he had to do. Go to Oscar…tell him the truth. The veterinarian was dead, the drugs were still in most of the deer. Ask Oscar to leave, come back late, when his guests were asleep, and take the drugs out of the deer however he needed to do it. But please, do it quietly. Swank would even give him a couple of tranquilizer guns. That way, at least, Swank could walk out of this thing with his dignity, not to mention his freedom. He’d take a big hit on the lost deer, but there simply was no other choice. Frankly, Swank had been surprised that Oscar had waited as long as he had. He couldn’t see why Oscar wouldn’t go for it. That was it, then. Finally, a plan that would end this fiasco. Not with the greatest results, but the best that could be hoped for.
Swank was feeling better, reaching for the phone to call the small guest house, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Skip Farrell, the columnist.
“Mr. Swank?”
The ex-lobbyist put on his biggest smile. “Skip! Come in, come in. Would you like something to drink?”
Farrell accepted a bourbon and Swank’s apologies for being a poor host. “I’m really sorry I’ve been so tied up with some other matters the last day or so. I wanted to show you around the ranch a little bit.”
“No problem. Beautiful place you have here. Cletus gave me a tour, like you asked.” Cletus Hobbs was the current foreman of the Circle S, a loyal, hardworking man. He knew every detail of Swank’s deer-importing operation…except the most important part. The drugs. Swank never saw any reason to clue Cletus in, and he wasn’t sure he could trust him with that kind of knowledge anyway. No, it was just Tim Gray and Swank himself who knew how valuable the deer really were.
Farrell said, “Listen, I ran into a guy down by the small guest house who exposed the film in my camera. Kind of rude, really.”
Swank gave him a concerned look. “What’d he look like?”
“Big guy, like a Marine.”
Swank pulled a lie out of the air. “Oh yeah, that guy works for me. Doesn’t like to have his picture taken—some kind of religious deal. To tell the truth, he’s a little strange. Best to keep your distance.”
“I got no problem with that,” Farrell replied.
“All right, then, let me tell you about this weekend.” Swank ran down the guest list with Farrell, along with the daily agenda. Big welcoming dinner tonight. Hunting all day Saturday and Sunday morning. Then a celebration barbecue Sunday afternoon, when Swank would award a trophy to the hunter with the biggest buck. There might even be a few TV crews here for that. Plenty of photo ops for Farrell’s article. “I can set you up in a blind with one of the hunters, if you’d like,” Swank said.
Farrell beamed. “That’d be great. I could get some nice shots of deer coming to the feeders.”
<
br /> “How ‘bout I put you with Tony Morales tomorrow morning?”
“The Speaker of the Texas House?”
“That’s him.”
Farrell smiled and raised his bourbon glass. “I can drink to that.”
Phil Colby walked into the cramped Blanco County Sheriff’s Department at lunchtime, when things would be quiet. The “department” consisted of a small windowless room with fluorescent lighting, and one drab office at the back of the room. Mackey’s office.
Colby recognized a young deputy poring over paperwork at a small metal desk against one wall. He saw Darrell Bridges, one of the dispatchers, on the phone at a switchboard against the other wall. Three other desks sat empty in the middle of the room. Pretty quiet. But then, law enforcement in a county with fewer than seven thousand residents did not require much manpower.
Colby stood just inside the front door, waiting, wondering what, exactly, he was going to say when he found the sheriff. Then he took a few steps to the right and saw Mackey sitting at a massive wooden desk inside the single office. He was stuffing his face with what appeared to be a ham sandwich. Colby meandered through the desks and file cabinets and rapped on Mackey’s open door.
Mackey glanced up from a magazine but didn’t say anything. A real people person.
“Sheriff Mackey, you got a minute?” Colby asked, hating to be in the same room with this man.
“Just finishing up my lunch,” Mackey said, popping one last humongous bite into his mouth. “Hab a seed,” he said with his mouth full.
Colby walked in front of Mackey’s desk but didn’t sit in the ugly, armless chair worn shabby by the posteriors of burglars, thieves, poachers, speeders, and other assorted lawbreakers.
Mackey drained the last of a Mountain Dew, stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek, then looked up at Colby.
“You seen John Marlin lately?” Colby asked.
“Nobody has. We haven’t been able to reach him on his radio since late last night. Jean told me about it this morning.”