by Steve Brewer
Marlin moved forward to help smother the flames, but Luis had something else in mind. He streaked out the door and ran downhill toward the Pedernales River.
In sparse moonlight now, Marlin felt around on the dirt floor for the gun and finally found the cool metal grip. “Grab your clothes, Becky!” he said. She was already pulling on her jeans.
He took her by the arm and they ran out the door of the cabin, only to see a big white Cadillac lurking in the moonlight twenty yards away, pointing directly at them. An instant later the headlights of the Cadillac bathed them in light.
Marlin’s mind raced. The occupants of the Cadillac, by any stretch of the imagination, couldn’t be anything but enemies. Marlin’s cruiser was a mere twenty feet to his left, but he had no idea whether the keys were even in it. Worst of all, the cabin sat in an open clearing; the nearest woods were fifty yards away, precluding a run for cover. In this brief pause, while Marlin was trying to decide what to do next, his decision was made for him. Marlin, struggling to see past the powerful headlights, heard a car door open. And then he heard the familiar sound of a shotgun being racked. A voice—that of the beefy American—said, “Drop the gun and stay where you are.”
Bitter disappointment flooded every nook and cranny of Marlin’s brain. They had been so close to freedom…and to lose it again so quickly was almost more than he could stand. He glanced over at Becky, who was now holding her blouse self-consciously over her breasts.
Marlin let the gun fall to the ground and stepped in front of Becky, shielding her from the light. “Pull your blouse on. And hold on. I promise I’ll get you out of this yet.” Marlin knew it was a shallow promise. He had no idea what he was going to do. But if he had to sacrifice himself to gain her freedom, that’s what he would do. “Listen, I have an idea…I’m going to make a run at the car, try to distract them…and when I do, I want you to run to your left. There’s a dam over there that leads…”
“Forget it, John,” she said. “No way. They’ll shoot you for sure.”
“It’s the only way—”
“I won’t do it.” She looked him hard in the eyes. “We’ll get out of this together.”
Inside the Cadillac, Oscar was livid. Once again he had been failed by incompetent help. Oh, how he wished everyone in this world could be as trustworthy as himself!
As they had approached the cabin moments earlier, they were surprised to see the door standing open, with light emerging from the inside. Oscar had ordered Julio to coast quietly to a stop with the lights off. Seconds later, they were dumbfounded to see Luis dashing out of the cabin with his upper torso on fire. How he had managed to get himself into that kind of predicament, Oscar had no idea. Luis was nowhere to be seen now. Probably floating facedown in the river, if he had made it that far.
Tyler held the game warden and the woman at bay with the shotgun while Oscar tried to figure out his next move.
Julio, still in the driver’s seat, broke his usual silence and offered his grim opinion. “We must kill them.”
“Quiet!” Oscar ordered. He needed time to think. Killing a civilian, like the man who had snapped Oscar’s photo from the hedges, was one thing, but killing an American officer of the law…well, that was bound to cause serious complications. On the other hand, there was really no way around it. They had to make a clean getaway, and they couldn’t allow the lawman to give them any more trouble. The girl, she would be an unfortunate bystander.
In the silence, frogs on the riverbank began a shrill chorus. It almost seemed to Oscar as if they were mocking him, urging him to make a decision.
The deer were waiting. Oscar could have the drugs back in his hands in a matter of hours. Then he could simply fade into the background, find another buyer among his extensive network of contacts, and return home. Perhaps Julio was right this time. Oscar himself acknowledged that he didn’t always make the wisest decisions under pressure. Trusting that idiot Roy Swank, for instance. He should have dealt with that man much more firmly several days earlier. Should have made him pay cash for the drugs and figure out the distribution on his own. The man was a novice and a fool. However, Swank knew nothing of the hostages. Killing them here, with Swank’s own shotgun, would likely put Swank in prison for years. That appealed to Oscar at this point. It was also the quickest, easiest way out. “Shoot them!” he called out to Tyler.
Waiting in the beam of the headlights, Marlin had an uneasy feeling that a decision was being made. He knew that now was the time to act if he was going to act at all. Maybe he should grab Becky and take off toward the dam. It would be tricky in the dark, but what other choice did he have? The dam was very narrow and probably under a foot or so of water, with so much rain lately, but he knew he could find it by sheer instinct. The teenager in him would take over and find it. His pursuers would probably think the entire river was at the same depth and just plunge in at a closer point on the bank. They’d find themselves in five feet of water while Marlin and Becky ran for safety.
He could see the silhouette of the man with the shotgun, but he couldn’t make out any features. Marlin could tell that the shotgun was aimed at him, not Becky.
“Get ready to run,” he whispered to Becky. “We’ll both go.”
“You sure?”
Before Marlin could respond, he heard a horrifying command from the interior of the Cadillac: “Shoot them!”
The man with the shotgun immediately fired a blast.
33
MARLIN INSTINCTIVELY LEAPT sideways to the ground, dragging Becky with him. He was aware of a severe burning in his left arm. He felt defeated, cowardly, waiting to hear a second blast that would silence all sound forever. Then he heard something much sweeter. The shouting of a familiar voice, with a smooth-as-honey Central Texas accent.
“Freeze, you son of a bitch, or I’ll cut you in two where you stand!”
Phil Colby was out there somewhere in the darkness.
Marlin looked over at the shotgunner and saw him nervously pacing in front of the Cadillac, peering into the darkness, trying to get a fix on Colby’s location.
“Put the gun down!” Colby yelled. With the babbling river’s noise, even Marlin couldn’t tell how far away Colby was.
Marlin realized that the large American was now focusing on Colby, not him and Becky. He glanced over at the gun he had dropped moments earlier.
A string of insistent Spanish came from the Cadillac.
In response, the shotgun kicked again as the man fired a volley of buckshot in the direction of Colby’s voice.
In one fluid motion, Marlin dove to the ground, grabbed the pistol, and came up on one knee, firing.
The man with the shotgun dropped his weapon and looked down at a rapidly darkening patch on his muddy shirt. He placed his palm flat on his chest as if to stem the flow. Then he crumpled to his knees.
“Get out of there, John!” Colby yelled.
Marlin grabbed Becky’s arm and immediately ran toward the sound of Colby’s voice. He heard another shot and glanced back at the Cadillac. Two more men had jumped out and the one on the driver’s side, a guy with a droopy mustache, was firing a handgun. Out of the glare of the headlights now, Marlin could see Colby crouched on one knee in the darkness, returning fire at the Cadillac. Marlin and Becky ran to him.
“I’m out of bullets,” Colby said as Marlin and Becky squatted beside him. They all flinched as a round whistled over their heads.
Marlin looked at Becky. “You okay?”
She nodded.
“Take her to the trees,” Marlin whispered to Colby. Then he turned and fired from instinct, without even checking the sights. The armed man flinched and ducked behind the fender of the car.
Marlin couldn’t see the other remaining man, but then he heard the engine turn over in the Cadillac. The car immediately lurched forward, spun a 180 in the dirt and silt, and headed back the way it had come, back up the hill. The entire time, the armed man tried fruitlessly to climb back into the car—but the drive
r was leaving him behind! Marlin watched in disbelief as the man fired two shots at the departing vehicle. The car roared away, leaving nothing but darkness.
Aiming at a memory of the man’s location, Marlin unleashed four rounds, emptying the gun. He moved to his right in case the man returned fire at Marlin’s muzzle flash, but there was no response. Ten seconds later, Marlin heard frantic splashing as the man plunged into the river fifty yards away. Then the hills became silent once again.
In the moonlight, under the big Texas sky, Marlin hugged his best friend. “Damn, am I glad to see you.”
“Jesus, that was spooky, John! You nailed that guy with the shotgun! Who the hell were they?”
“I’ll tell you the whole story later, but right now, let’s just get out of here.”
“Wait a second. At least tell me who this young lady is.” In the darkness, and with Becky out of her nurse’s uniform, Colby hadn’t yet recognized her.
Marlin was at a loss for words. His best friend had just saved his hide and here Marlin was with the woman Colby intended to pursue.
“You already know me, Phil. Nurse Cameron.” She stepped forward and hugged Colby. “Thank you. Thanks to both of you. That was unbelievable.”
Colby remained silent for a moment. Then he turned to Marlin and said, “Well, hell…you beat me to the punch, pardner. I don’t blame you.”
Even in the dim light, Marlin could see Becky give him an inquisitive glance. Marlin deflected it by changing the subject. “Let me go see if the keys are in the cruiser. Y’all wait right here. If nothing else, I can radio for help.”
Marlin returned a minute later in the cruiser. “Hop in. Let’s get out of here while we can.”
“Let me look at your arm first,” Becky said.
Marlin felt the warm, sticky blood on his bicep. “I think I took a piece of buckshot, but it’s fine.”
Becky objected, but Marlin convinced her that his wound could wait. They began the long drive up to the ranch house. Along the way, Marlin told Colby about being abducted by the Colombians, who, they both agreed, had to be Swank’s suppliers. Colby told Marlin about finding his letter to the attorney general, coming to the ranch, and then deciding to check out the old rock cabin. He also told Marlin his theory about the deer in the five-acre pen. “Those have to be the drug deer, John. He couldn’t just let ‘em roam the property or he’d never figure out which was which.”
Marlin agreed, clapping his hands together. “The DEA will nail him, then. The deer will be just waiting there. All they gotta do is open one up.”
Colby cleared his throat. “Well, we may have a little problem there, old buddy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I kinda let them go.”
“You what? Are you out of your mind?”
“Calm down for a minute and think about it, would you? It’s better this way. First of all, I had no idea what was going to happen down here. It might not have turned out as well as it did. Then what would have happened? Those deer could have stayed in that pen for years and nobody would have been the wiser. So I had to let ‘em go just in case. Remember, the hunters are going to be in the blinds bright and early tomorrow morning. With all those trophy deer running around, what do you think’s going to happen?” Colby gave Marlin a sly smile.
Marlin was warming to the idea. “Damn, you’re right. We just need to make sure they have the right audience when it all comes down. I’ll need to make a few calls.”
“There’s something we need to do first, though.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Buck, John. I saw him. He’s still up in the pen.”
Deputy Bobby Garza had been disappointed to cut his annual fishing trip short, but there was no way around it. Three hours earlier, when he had checked in with his wife, she told him about the two visitors she had had: First, some guy identifying himself as a Mexican cop, and then Phil Colby. She said that they both had seemed nervous and both were asking for him. Instinct told him it had something to do with Marlin’s theory about Roy Swank’s deer. Sure, Marlin had left that message about Thomas Stovall’s practical joke. But for some reason, Marlin’s voice-mail just didn’t sit right. He had sounded a little peculiar.
On the drive home, Garza had used his cellular phone several times to call Marlin, but got no answer. Same thing with Phil Colby. He called Herbert Mackey to check in, but the sheriff said that everything was quiet. Garza played it cool and told Mackey the fish weren’t biting so he was heading home.
Garza knew all he could do at this point was wait. It was past midnight now, and he was on Miller Creek Loop nearing his house. On a straightaway, he saw headlights from an approaching vehicle. Damn, Garza thought, they are really moving. Probably teenagers out with their daddy’s pickup. Garza’s unmarked cruiser was equipped with radar, so he flipped it on. Ninety-seven miles per hour. Garza pulled onto the shoulder and waited. In a flash, the vehicle roared past him…a battered red Ford truck that looked just like Red O’Brien’s.
Garza cursed silently. He was tired and just wanted to hit the hay. At eighty, eighty-five, he would have let them go. But ninety-seven, that was just too much. He wheeled his Crown Victoria around and headed after them.
“Shit, Red, that was Bobby Garza!” Billy Don whined, bracing himself against the dashboard. “Slow the fuck down!”
Red glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing nothing but darkness now. His old truck still had plenty of life left in her. Let the cop try and catch up. “Can’t do it, man. I’ll take the old Kerrville highway. He’ll never find us on that old road.”
Red banked clumsily around a curve, then began to brake hard to make the turn just ahead.
But the turn was coming up much too quickly. The brakes wouldn’t bite and the truck began to fishtail. Red oversteered and the truck straightened again, but they were off the road now, bouncing over the bar-ditch. Red covered his face as one particularly large oak tree rushed toward the windshield.
When Garza came around the curve, dust was still floating in the air. He saw plowed earth leading to taillights at the base of an oak tree, so he braked gently, knowing the chase was over.
After pulling to the side of the road, Garza grabbed his portable radio. “Jean, you there?”
“Ten-four.”
“We’ve got a ten-fifty on Miller Creek Loop. About three miles east of the Circle S. Need an ambulance, over.”
“Ten-four. On the way. Over.”
Garza grabbed his flashlight, jumped out of the cruiser, and trotted over to the red truck. Just as he had suspected, it was those two local rednecks, Red O’Brien and Billy Don Craddock. Garza had dealt with them plenty of times in the past, mostly for minor offenses, and he actually kind of got a chuckle out of them. They were like Andy Griffith’s Otis.
Billy Don appeared to be unconscious and Red was moaning gently. Both men were bleeding from the head. That’s what you yokels get for not wearing seat belts, Garza thought. How many times had he written them up for that one?
Neither of the men was bleeding profusely, so Garza decided it was best to let them remain in the truck until the medics arrived.
“Red, you okay?” Garza asked.
“Aw, man,” he moaned softly. “My fuckin’ truck.”
At that point, Billy Don stirred, looked over at Red and said, “Gimme a beer.”
Garza had to smile. Both men seemed to be okay.
“Screw your beer, man!” Red said, clawing for the door handle. “I just wrecked my truck!”
Red pushed on the door, but it wouldn’t give.
“Red, why don’t you just stay in the truck?” Garza said gently. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
“I want out,” Red said, slurring. He either had a mild concussion or had had a few too many, Garza decided. Red tried again, this time using his shoulder, and popped the door open.
A videocassette clattered to the ground at Garza’s feet. Garza picked it up and looked at the label. “Look
s like you boys been havin’ an interesting evening.”
34
JUST AT SUNRISE, Clyde Webster pulled on his overalls and headed out to his barn to collect eggs like he did every morning. He wasn’t sure if the rooster had begun crowing yet, because Clyde was getting on in years—nearly eighty-five now—so he couldn’t hear quite as well as he used to.
A significant portion of his hearing loss had occurred during World War Two. “The Big One,” that’s the only thing he and his friends would call it. If you’d been there, Clyde would tell people, you’d call it the Big One, too. He’d been in the middle of some damn nasty maneuvers, where mortars lit up the night like the Fourth of July…fights where you’d have to pile the bodies up like cordwood the next day, or even worse, you’d have to pick up pieces and put them in a canvas bag.
Despite all the bombing, the gunfire, and the near-constant screams of anguish, there was one sound Clyde remembered more grimly than all the others. The sound of a round hitting an infantryman’s helmet. It was almost the same sound as a raindrop falling into an empty bucket. You hear that sound, brother, you know right off someone’s dead. He still shuddered when he heard anything like it.
Whenever Clyde thought about the war, which wasn’t too often anymore, he considered himself pretty lucky. Sure, he had seen some horrific things—once saw a man cut clean in two by a mortar—but all Clyde got was some damage to his eardrums, thanks to a Jap land mine. He was almost too embarrassed to explain his injury to anyone who asked about his Purple Heart. Didn’t seem right that some guys had to lose an arm or a leg or maybe go blind to get theirs.
It was the damnedest thing with the hearing loss, though…he could hear low notes and high ones, it was just a few mid-level tones he lost. There was one Marty Robbins song where Clyde couldn’t hear about half the lyrics. That made him sad in a nostalgic kind of way, but he always shook it off.