by Steve Brewer
“You got men out looking for him?”
“Naw, not yet. More’n likely he’s just out hound-dogging some poachers. Could be his radio’s busted. Or maybe he’s spending some time with a lady friend.”
“I think it’s more serious than that. I think John’s in trouble of some sort.”
“Well, now, I wouldn’t worry about him too much just yet. Marlin’s a big boy, he knows how to handle himself. I’m sure he’s just keeping busy, what with deer season coming up.”
“Yeah, I know he’s not exactly gonna be hanging around the Dairy Queen,” Colby said, putting a little attitude in it. “But I’ve been trying to reach him since yesterday evening. He’s not at home, nobody at Parks and Wildlife has talked to him since the meetings yesterday.” Colby was reluctant to jump right into the heart of the matter, the whole issue with Swank, the drugs, Marlin’s letter to the attorney general. He wasn’t sure if he should even bring that stuff up at all. That was the whole problem with this situation: He didn’t know if Mackey could be trusted. “In any case,” Colby continued, “I want to file a missing-persons report.”
The sheriff looked at Colby with indifferent eyes for a moment, then spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the empty Mountain Dew can. “Oh, come on now. Just give it a little time. Marlin will show up.”
Colby could tell that Mackey truly didn’t care if Marlin was missing or not. So he dove in headfirst. “There’s something else you need to know. Something weird is going on out at the Circle S Ranch and Marlin knew about it.” Colby then laid out the facts as he knew them, most of which he’d learned from Marlin’s letter. He told Mackey about Marlin finding the white powder on Thomas Stovall’s ranch, about the powder getting stolen from Marlin’s cruiser. The deeper he got into the story, the more foolish he felt. It all sounded pretty ridiculous. The only good thing—as he told the story, Mackey’s face seemed to be getting a little flushed, the smug look was slowly evaporating. Colby finished the tale and laid the copy of the letter on the desk in front of Mackey. “It’s all right there, in a letter Marlin wrote to the attorney general. And, of course, you already know about the guys that busted into my shop and put me in the hospital. They were after Buck…one of Swank’s deer. The one that was acting so crazy that night when Marlin tranquilized it. Marlin—and I—think that deer still had drugs in it. That’s why it was acting so wild.”
Mackey shook his head, but without much enthusiasm. “How do you know they were after the deer? I thought you didn’t remember anything about that night. That’s what you told my deputy after you woke up.”
Colby clenched his teeth. “I just know. What else would they have been there for? They didn’t steal anything.”
Mackey picked the letter up and looked at it like it was a dog turd. He read through it quickly. Then he stood, shut the office door, and sat back down.
“Did Marlin send this letter yet?” he asked.
“Hell, yes! I found it in his e-mail out-box,” Colby lied. Now Mackey had to act.
Mackey leaned back in his chair and looked like he was trying to regain some of his composure. “Well, I’d say Marlin’s really fucked himself this time. See, son, in my line of work you got to have a little something called evidence. Don’t sound to me like Marlin has any evidence at all. If he’d been able to hang on to that powder—assuming it was drugs, and that’s a big ‘if’—then maybe we’d have something. But without it, all you got is a lot of suspicions. And Roy Swank of all people? Come on! The man is a leader in this community. Hell, he does more for this county than most of the rest of the citizens combined. What in the world would he be doing with drugs? Sounds like a goddamn fairy tale to me.”
Colby felt his heart pounding, his forehead beginning to bead with sweat. He battled an incredible urge to lean across the desk, grab Mackey by the collar, and drive a fist into his face. He slowly grabbed the letter from the desktop where Mackey had placed it. “So, what’s your plan, then? You’re just gonna sit on your fat ass and do nothing? Not even look for Marlin?”
“You’d best watch your mouth, son. You’re speaking to a man that can have you picking cotton for a year.”
Colby decided it was time to leave…before he did something stupid.
Mackey spoke to his back: “Whyn’t you leave that letter with me? I’d like a copy for my files.”
Colby looked him in the eye. “Fuck you. This stays with me.”
Mackey stood abruptly, one hand on his holstered handgun. “I’m warning you, boy. Don’t talk to me that way unless you want to spend some time in lockup.”
But Colby was boiling over now and couldn’t help himself. He gave in to the sweet temptation that lures a man to lose control. “Know what I think, Mackey? Swank paid you off to keep your mouth shut. You’re just a lowlife yes-man who would do anything for a buck. You can take that tin star off your chest and cram it up your ass.”
Mackey moved quickly despite his size. He came around the desk and popped Colby in the jaw before Colby could even prepare himself. Colby saw Mackey’s big right fist arching back for another shot…but Colby beat him to it. He drove a left hand straight into Mackey’s throat, feeling the windpipe give under the blow. Colby’s father had always told him that nothing ends a fistfight like a punch to the balls or the throat…and he was right. Mackey staggered back and sat roughly on his desk, a confused expression on his face. His breath wheezed in and out like a fireplace bellows.
Colby didn’t know whether he should run for help—or just plain run. He yanked the door open and saw that the young deputy, Ernie Turpin, was already standing outside the office door, obviously concerned by the sounds of the skirmish.
“Mackey’s having a heart attack,” Colby blurted, just to buy some time, and then hurried out of the building.
29
DIGGING A HOLE in Central Texas is never an easy undertaking. Typically, you go through about six easy inches of topsoil before hearing the shovel bite into a stubborn layer of limestone. From then on, it’s a sweaty, bone-jarring nightmare. It’s best left to professionals equipped with power augers and dynamite.
Red and Billy Don finally finished their gruesome task at five o’clock.
Both men had dug their share of holes before, for fence-posts, underground power lines, and the like, but digging a grave…that was an entirely different proposition. Swank had told them to go at least six feet deep. But as the afternoon wore on and each inch of earth seemed incrementally more difficult to excavate, the men quickly agreed that four feet—well, maybe it was really more like three—was just fine.
They lowered the tailgate, removed the tarp, and stared at the corpse underneath. Red looked at Billy Don. Billy Don looked at Red.
“Go ahead and grab hold,” Red said.
“Why do I always get the nasty jobs?” Billy Don fumed.
“All righty, we’ll do it together.”
Both men reached slowly for Tim Gray’s body, stealing glances at each other like men looking over their shoulders during a duel. Then they each grabbed a leg.
“Fuckin’ gross, man,” Billy Don said. “He’s even stiffer than before. Stinks, too.”
“Just think of him as a big white-tail buck,” Red advised.
They dragged the corpse from the truck bed, keeping their heads leaned back as far as possible. Then they plopped the ex-veterinarian unceremoniously into the shallow pit and slowly shoveled the dirt and rock on top.
Afterward, they stepped back and took a look at the small mound of rubble.
“Don’t exactly look like the graves out at Miller Creek Cemetery, does it?” Red said.
Billy Don leaned on his shovel, out of breath. “I don’t even know the guy, Red, but this don’t seem right.”
Red grabbed two cold beers from a cooler in the truck and handed one to Billy Don. After a long silence, Red said, “Maybe we should say a few words. Ya know…Bible kinda stuff.”
“I ain’t read much of the Bible,” Billy Don replied.
&n
bsp; So Red stepped tentatively up to the grave, removed his cap, and held it over his heart. “O Lord…we’re gathered here today to unite…No, wait, that’s the marriage deal. Uh, O Lord…please accept this good man into your divine flock up there. Grant him forgiveness for his sins and treat him good, please, and even though he walks through the valley of the Sodomites, he fears no evil. He’s walking tall, Lord…and carrying a big stick. Please embrace him, in the name of Jesus and the holy smokes. Amen.”
“Amen,” Billy Don echoed.
Red glanced around furtively, as if to make sure nobody had seen the little religious ceremony. Then he poured the remainder of his beer onto the grave. “Drink up, Bubba. It’s the last one you’re gonna git.”
At six o’clock, with the sun slipping behind the Central Texas hills, Roy Swank climbed up into the back of a pickup to give a quick speech. He looked out at the crowd—all the guests had now arrived—and was awed by the collection of powerful men surrounding him. He counted four members of the Texas legislature, both of Texas’ U.S. senators, the state attorney general, half a dozen judges, and many captains of private industry. Most of them were sitting at picnic tables in the shade under the towering oak trees next to the large guest house. Some were standing, drinking beer, chatting with old friends, meeting new ones. But the murmur came to a halt when Swank rose to address the crowd.
“Good evening, and thank you for coming,” Swank began, beaming his best smile. “I think I know most of you personally…and most of you know each other. If you don’t, I’m sure everyone will get a chance to get acquainted over the weekend. And what a weekend it’s going to be.”
Red was beside himself. He and Billy Don were finally getting the chance they had been waiting for. When they had gotten back from burying the vet, Swank had given them strict instructions to stay in the house and keep away from all of his guests. With the welcoming dinner and the socializing and bullshitting that would follow, Red figured they had at least a good couple of hours to rummage through the house.
To be honest, though, Red had kind of lost hope that they would find anything worthwhile. Sure, maybe some cash. But whatever was going on with the Mexicans…well, he had no clue about that. The daydream he had had earlier about Swank fiddlin’ with the genes of big deer? No way. That kind of stuff was accomplished by people over in Germany and Russia and Houston.
But still, it would be good to look around. You never knew what you might find.
As Swank continued with his speech, he began to feel the adrenaline kick in. He was a smooth talker, at his best in the spotlight, and he had used his natural advantage for years in social settings such as this. As a lobbyist, he had gotten more accomplished over toasts and informal addresses than most congressmen did in years of House debates and committee meetings. Up in the truck bed, it felt great to have all eyes on him, and this sense of control yielded the first traces of optimism that he had felt in weeks.
“I’ve managed, through some kind input from state biologists and God’s good grace, to grow some wonderful bucks on this humble ranch of mine,” Swank said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “And I’ve got a feeling several of you will be seeing them through a rifle scope real soon.”
Many of the men nodded and smiled, no doubt picturing a Boone & Crockett deer in the crosshairs. Swank was buoyed even further by their enthusiasm. Yes, he thought, things were finally getting back on track. Oscar and his men had agreed to Swank’s proposition. They had left just minutes ago, and Swank thought he could still see the dust lingering in the air from their departure. They would come back at midnight, take the deer with tranquilizer guns, and be gone—all while his guests slept. His worst troubles were almost behind him.
“You find anything yet?” Red was in Swank’s master bedroom, peering into dresser drawers, while Billy Don was investigating the gigantic walk-in closet. Red had read somewhere that most people hide their most valuable possessions in the master bedroom.
“Just a shitload of boots,” Billy Don hollered back. “Must be fifty pair of Tony Lamas in here. Gen-yoo-wine ostrich and lizard, too.”
Red appeared in the closet doorway and saw that Billy Don was on the floor pulling on a pair of alligator skins. “Forget the damn boots, wouldya. We ain’t got time for that shit. Keep looking.”
Red went back into the bedroom and looked under the oak-frame king-sized bed. Nothing but luggage. He jostled a few of the bags. Empty.
Swank was ten minutes into his speech, rambling on about the three key factors that dictate the growth of a whitetail—genetics, environment, and age. His audience didn’t seem too fidgety yet, so he pressed on.
“I’ve got some beautiful four-and-a-half-year-olds out here, but those deer still have some growing to do. So try to hold out if you can. Wait for the big boys.” Swank made eye contact with an old friend. “And Senator Thomas: Try not to shoot a cow this year.” The crowd chuckled in delight.
“Hey, Red, take a look at this.” Billy Don emerged from the closet holding a cardboard box, a big smile on his face.
Red was on his knees going through a cedar trunk at the foot of the bed. “What is it?”
Billy Don reached in and held up a videotape cassette. “Skin flicks. There’s gotta be twenty or thirty in here. This one here is called Blow White and the Seven Dwarves. Looks like a real freak show.”
Red considered it for a minute. “Old man don’t have no wife. Gotta get his rocks off somehow.”
Billy Don grinned like a schoolboy. “Let’s take a look-see.”
Red stood, grabbed the tape from Billy Don’s hand and tossed it back in the box. “Goddamn, how many times I gotta tell ya? We ain’t got time for that. We’re looking for cash or paperwork or something that tells us what’s going on out here. Forget the porno movies.”
Billy Don walked glumly back into the closet and stuck the box back on the top shelf where he had found it. Then he had second thoughts and grabbed one of the tapes for later that evening.
30
AT NINE THAT evening, Sheriff Herbert Mackey fixed himself a stiff drink. The cool liquid would feel good on his aching throat. That Phil Colby was one mean bastard. Talk about a cheap shot…Mackey himself had never even punched a prisoner in the throat. But it was damn sure effective.
All evening, Mackey had considered calling Roy Swank and telling him about Marlin’s suspicions and Colby’s accusations. But then Mackey realized something he had known all along: For his own well-being, he had to remain completely ignorant about what was going on at the Circle S. Swank made generous contributions to the Sheriff’s Department—and some of that money went straight into Mackey’s pocket. The unspoken understanding was that Mackey would let Swank run his ranch however he wanted. That meant Mackey had to turn a blind eye to all the importing violations Swank committed with his trophy deer. But Mackey had been stunned by everything Colby had said. No, it was best to remain out of the loop as far as Roy Swank was concerned. Then, if the shit hit the fan, Mackey could honestly say that he had no idea what Swank was up to. Sure, Colby would tell everyone about his visit to Mackey’s office…but Mackey could dismiss it as wild speculation. Unless John Marlin showed up with some solid proof. Then Mackey would have to act. Then he’d have to nail Swank to the wall.
Mackey wondered whether he had made the right decision about Phil Colby. He could have had one of the deputies pick Colby up on an assault charge. But Mackey had decided to let it go. His instinct had told him that arresting Colby would be a mistake…it would look like Mackey was protecting Swank in any way that he could. So he had let it pass. But he had vowed silently to get revenge on Colby when the opportunity presented itself. And it always did.
Colby hung out at Marlin’s house until ten o’clock. He had been there all day, since his run-in with Sheriff Mackey. He knew that he couldn’t go back to his own house…that would be the first place the deputies would look. And Colby was certain they would be looking for him. You can’t just assault a police officer a
nd get away with it. Worse yet, Colby had no witnesses to the fact that Mackey threw the first punch.
So he had parked his truck behind a grove of cedars, slipped into Marlin’s house through the back door, and tried fruitlessly to figure out his next move.
The house was eerily silent. He kept hoping the phone would ring and he would hear Marlin’s familiar voice. But as each hour passed, Colby became more and more convinced that Marlin had gotten himself into some serious trouble. Colby didn’t like to think about it, but he knew that Marlin might not even be alive. If Swank was really running drugs, then he was mixed up with some serious scum—men who would do just about anything to protect their business.
Colby felt trapped. Regardless of his suspicions, he still didn’t feel confident enough to call the DEA or the FBI or whoever the hell you’re supposed to call in a situation like this. What would he tell them, anyway? They weren’t likely to raid Swank’s home based on Marlin’s letter alone. They would want to talk to Marlin first, see what kind of evidence he had.
And in the back of Colby’s mind, there was still the smallest trace of a chance that Marlin was just fine. If Marlin reappeared and Colby had called the authorities in on Marlin’s behalf, it could be a real disaster for Marlin.
No matter how Colby looked at it, he couldn’t come up with a good solution. He couldn’t trust Mackey. The one cop he could trust, Bobby Garza, couldn’t be reached. It wasn’t time to call in federal agents yet. So that left just one option.
He’d go out to the Circle S and figure things out for himself.
Swank staggered out of the massive guest house at eleven o’clock. He had mingled with his guests all evening, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, playing poker…but most of them had turned in by now. A few diehards were finishing one last drink—which they would regret in the morning—out on the front porch under the stars.