by Steve Brewer
“Oh my god,” Swank gasped. “Turn it off.”
“Hold on there, Roy,” Marlin answered, with a huge smile. “We’re not even sure it’s yours yet.”
On the screen, Roy Swank entered the frame—and began to dress the deer carcass in women’s lingerie.
Geis looked over at Swank like the fat lobbyist had just farted. “Jesus, Roy, what the hell is this all about?”
“Turn it off!” Swank shouted, and rose to approach the VCR.
Garza stepped in his way.
Marlin said, with plenty of sarcasm, “Oh, so it is your property. Glad we got that cleared up.”
“Always nice to help out a victim such as yourself,” Garza said.
“Do something!” Swank yelled at Geis, who just shook his head.
Onscreen, Swank was beginning to strip off his clothes.
“Of course,” Marlin said, “this is evidence in a case, so Deputy Garza can’t return it right away.”
Swank began to cry now, huge sobs that made the other men turn away in embarrassment. “For the love of Christ, stop it!” Swank bawled. “Just tell me what you want! What do you want?”
Marlin hit the PAUSE button, freezing the image of Swank with his pants down to his knees. “Let’s see…Where do I begin?”
An hour later, a well-dressed Hispanic gentleman approached the main bridge in Laredo, intending to cross over into Mexico. He was driving a late-model Cadillac with a rental sticker on the bumper. Larry Blackwell, a border guard for seventeen years, decided to check it out. Too many stolen cars were crossing the border nowadays.
He motioned the driver over to the side and rapped on the driver’s window.
The window came down and the driver gave Blackwell a big smile. “Yes sir, Officer?” he said with a thick accent.
“May I see some identification, please?”
The man handed him a passport. Humberto Moises Rivera, it said, and it appeared legitimate. A naturalized American citizen.
“Mr. Rivera, may I see your rental papers for this automobile?”
“Oh, yes sir,” Rivera said eagerly, handing the guard some additional papers.
Everything looked to be in order, Blackwell thought, but you could never tell, with computers and printers as advanced as they were these days.
Blackwell handed the documents back to the Hispanic man. “Where are you traveling today?” he asked.
“Going to see my family in Monterrey. Beeg family reunion.”
“Reunion, huh? That sounds nice. What are their names?” Blackwell asked.
“Perdóneme?”
“Your family members…what are their names.”
“Well, there ees my brothers, Javier, Rafael, and Raul. My sisters, Isadora and Maria…” The man noticed the guard had a pad out and was writing the names down.
“Any aunts and uncles there? Maybe some cousins?”
“Sure,” Rivera replied, and continued to list names. After he had provided a dozen or so, Blackwell motioned that he could stop.
“Please wait here for a moment, Mr. Rivera,” he said, and returned to the small guard station.
Blackwell simply sat for five minutes, drinking coffee. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Ask some questions, wait a while, then ask ‘em again, see if the answers matched up.
Blackwell exited the guard station and approached the car again.
“Okay, Mr. Rivera, we’re almost done here and then you can be on your way. Just tell me again…what are your brothers’ names?”
The man’s smile evaporated. “Why for you ask this again? I have already given you those names.”
“The names, sir.”
The man looked through the windshield at the bridge ahead of him. “There is Javier…and…”
“Who else?”
“And…I am a busy man! I must be on my way!”
Blackwell placed his palm on the butt of his gun. Then he said, with an edge in his voice, “Step out of the car, sir. Right now.”
Moments later, Oscar stood to the side and watched in amusement as several men searched the interior of his car. These fools, he thought, they will find nothing. There is nothing to find. He had tossed his handgun out on the road many miles back. As far as his fictitious family, so what if he could not remember names on a list? In the U.S., they could not hold him for that. In Colombia, yes, but not here.
He watched as the one named Blackwell removed the keys from the ignition, walked to the rear of the car and popped the trunk.
In an instant, Oscar’s world came crashing down. From ten feet away, Oscar could clearly see the contents of the trunk—and he realized with great despair that he had fallen victim once again to another man’s incompetence. Tyler had not done what Oscar had asked. He had not disposed of the body of Barney Weaver, whose corpse grinned lifelessly up at the border guards.
EPILOGUE
PHIL COLBY STOOD on the bed of his truck and drove the last in a long line of eight-foot T-posts, then looked back at his work. Large rolls of horse-fence were waiting in a nearby trailer. He’d have the fence finished tomorrow, then he could let Buck out of the barn, free to wander. Colby sat down on the tailgate just as Marlin came bouncing up the driveway in his truck. Becky Cameron was in the passenger seat.
“Fence is looking good, Phil,” Marlin said as he climbed out of the vehicle.
“You really think five acres is enough?” Colby asked, surveying the area to be enclosed by the deerproof fence.
“Aw, yeah, don’t worry. Maybe we can leave a gate open, let a couple of good-looking does in.”
“A couple?” Becky said with a grin. “What does he need more than one for?” Before either man could reply, Becky said, “You look worn out, Phil. I’ll go grab us all some iced tea if you’ve got any.”
“How ‘bout a cold beer instead? There’s a six-pack in the fridge,” Colby replied.
“Be right back,” she said.
Both men watched her walk away in her khaki shorts.
Marlin figured it was as good a time as any. “Listen, Phil, I wanted to talk to you about Becky.…”
Colby held up his hands, palms out. “Hey, don’t worry about it.”
Marlin shook his head. “I just want you to know that I didn’t plan it this way. I know you were interested in her, but…”
Colby cut in. “You think if I was the one holed up in the cabin with her, I wouldn’ta done the same thing?”
Marlin didn’t know what to say.
“She’s a great gal, John,” Colby said. “Quit moping around about it and just enjoy yourself.”
Just like that, Marlin knew why he had been friends with Colby for so long.
“But about this fence.” Colby changed the subject. “It just doesn’t feel right, to keep him in a pen this small.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but what about next season? And even in between seasons, there are always poachers around. I imagine Buck will hang around the house here for the most part, but you know he’s gonna wander off sometimes.”
“What if he had four thousand acres to roam around on?” Marlin said, barely able to contain himself.
Colby gave him a sidelong glance. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your ranch, Phil. It’s gonna be yours again.”
Colby’s lips moved, but nothing came out.
“I just came from a meeting with Roy Swank,” Marlin continued. “Just me and him. No lawyers. We made a little trade—a rather disgusting videotape, for the ranch. I told him it was a funny thing, tapes like that had a way of ending up on the Internet. He was all too happy to make a deal.”
Colby started laughing, the kind of laughter accompanied by tears of joy. He came over to shake Marlin’s hand, and the handshake turned into a hug.
“Jesus, John. You don’t know what that means to me.”
“I know. You got Bobby Garza to thank, too. He bent the rules a little bit. As soon as Swank deeds the property bac
k to you, Garza is gonna give him the tape, no questions asked. Red and Billy Don gave Garza that tape so he wouldn’t nail ‘em for theft and DWI and speeding and…”
“Gaw-damn, I’m gonna have to buy those rednecks a beer sometime,” Colby said. “On second thought, maybe I’ll hire ‘em to work the ranch.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Marlin couldn’t tell if Colby was serious.
“Hey, what better way to keep ‘em from poaching the property?”
Marlin smiled. “You know, you may be right.”
Marlin and Colby sat down on the tailgate and watched the sun begin to dip behind the oak trees.
“What about the smuggling, John? Isn’t Swank gonna get nailed for that?”
“Man, I hope so. He’s still gotta deal with those charges, but I don’t know what kind of case the feds can put together. Tim Gray and two of the Colombians are dead. The leader, this guy Oscar, is in jail and hasn’t said a word yet. I doubt he ever will. Mackey has admitted to taking some bribes from Swank, but it sounds like he didn’t really know what was going on out there. In any case, Mackey’s gonna be out of a job, and I know a fine young deputy named Garza who’s just dying to take his place. So, to be honest, I figure if Swank hires enough Austin lawyers, they can get a jury to believe just about anything. Swank could walk away with probation, or maybe even get off scot-free.”
Colby sighed. “That just ain’t right.”
“On the other hand,” Marlin said, “if Luis gets out of the burn unit and decides to save his own skin—no pun intended—he could put Swank away for a long time.”
Colby nodded. “John, you said something yesterday that I meant to ask you about. When we were still at Swank’s, you were talking to that lawyer, Geis, and you said something about finding another tape…”
Marlin nodded. “Several years back, Cletus called in about some shots fired on the Circle S. I went over there and found a doe all prettied up like the one on the tape we saw. There was a video camera set up, but the poacher had taken off. Now, looking back, I realize it wasn’t a poacher, it was Swank.”
“Did you look at the tape?”
“Hell, yes. Nothing on it, though.”
Colby shook his head. “That guy is one sick puppy.”
The men heard Colby’s screen door slam and Becky returned with three longneck bottles.
They drank in silence for a moment, enjoying the last light of the evening.
Just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, they heard a deer snort beyond the fenceline. A large buck emerged from behind a grove of trees and stared at the trio.
“It’s gonna be a great season, John,” Colby said, as the graceful animal snorted again and bounded off into the brush.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ben Rehder lives with his wife near Austin, Texas, where he was born and raised. His Blanco County mysteries have made best-of-the-year lists in Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, and Field & Stream. Buck Fever, the first in the series, was nominated for the Edgar Award.
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
BEN REHDER’S
BONE DRY
On the morning of Saturday, November 5—opening day of deer season—a statuesque blonde beauty strolled out of the trees, pulled down her khaki shorts, and peed beneath Cecil Pritchard’s deer feeder.
“Well, suck a nut,” Cecil said to himself, sitting in his deer blind a hundred yards away. He looked down at his coffee mug, blinking dumbly. Maybe he’d added a little too much Wild Turkey. And this was his fourth cup. But when he looked up again, the Nordic goddess was still there, hiking up her shorts. His brother-in-law would never believe it.
The day had started normally enough. Cecil climbed out of bed at four A.M. sharp, pulled on his camo coveralls, and brewed a pot of Folgers. Nothing gets you going like the smell of fresh coffee, Cecil thought, whistling happily. He would have loved a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon on the side, and a basketful of biscuits, but Cecil wasn’t much of a cook, and his wife, Beth, was still drowsing in bed. Goddamn woman was as useless as a negligee on a nun. On weekdays, when he’d come home from the machine shop at lunchtime, he’d usually find Beth staring at the soap operas or Jerry Springer on TV, and Cecil would be left to make his own lunch. The way Cecil saw it, that was a serious infraction of the marriage vows. So, as he had prepared for the morning hunt, Cecil made sure to stomp around the mobile home as heavily as possible, kind of get the whole floor vibrating. It’d serve her right if she couldn’t get back to sleep after he left.
He met up with Beth’s brother Howard at the ranch gate at five in the A.M., just as planned—plenty of time to reach the blinds before first light. Seeing as how they had a few minutes to spare, Cecil took the opportunity to remind Howard what a lazy, good-for-nothing sister he had. Howard heartily agreed while munching a breakfast taco his own wife had prepared for him. Sorry, I ain’t got but one, Howard said around a mouthful.
The men split up and Cecil proceeded to his elevated tower blind, a beauty he had ordered from the Cabela’s catalog last spring. Once inside, Cecil readied himself for a long, relaxing morning hunt. He loaded his Winchester .270, double-checked the safety and leaned the rifle in the corner. He pulled out his binoculars and gave the lenses a good cleaning. Then he poured a hot mug of java, added a generous dose of bourbon, and waited for sunrise.
The black night slowly gave way to gray, and then the rolling hills of central Texas started to take shape. The birds began chirping tentatively and then went into full chorus. Cecil leaned backed and soaked it all in. He was sitting twelve feet up with a view that God himself would appreciate. Man, this was living. Cecil waited all year for this morning, and he just knew there was a big buck somewhere in the woods with his name all over it.
That’s when Cecil heard a car rambling along the gravel county road that paralleled the ranch’s eastern fence line. Weeks ago, Cecil had considered relocating his blind, but the road saw such little traffic, he had decided to leave everything as is.
Looking through his binoculars, Cecil saw a rusty mustard-yellow Volvo easing down the road. It disappeared behind some trees and then the motor faded away. Cecil had thought the occupants were gone for good. But apparently, he was wrong.
Now, Cecil was staring slack-jawed at the blonde trespasser, knowing that all his pre-season plans and preparations were wasted. He was furious. The woman might as well have erected a flashing neon warning sign—DEER BEWARE!—because no self-respecting buck would come within a thousand yards of so much human scent.
Finally, Cecil managed to get over his astonishment and do something. He stuck his head out the small window of the deer blind and yelled, “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass away from there!”
The tall blonde casually buttoned her shorts, smiled, and flipped Cecil the bird.
Cecil decided enough was enough, and rose to go give the woman a serious tongue lashing, maybe escort her back to her damn rattle-trap of a car. But as he stood, he spilled his coffee, dropped his binoculars to the floor, and—goddamn it all!—banged his riflescope against the side of the blind. Cussing loudly now, Cecil opened the blind door and began to climb down the ladder—only to hear a car door closing and the Volvo gently puttering off into a fine Texas morning.
At nine A.M. on Saturday, November 5, a thick-chested man with crow’s feet, jowls, and graying hair was throwing a hump into his live-in Guatemalan housekeeper—but his mind was elsewhere and his erection was starting to droop. The distraction was laying right there on her nightstand: the Travel section of the newspaper. He could see an ad that said: Barbados, from $549! Call your travel agent today!
Shit, if it were only that easy. But Salvatore Mameli—formerly known as Roberto “The Clipper” Ragusa—couldn’t just pick up and go like normal people. His life was way too fucked up for that.
A few months back—maybe it was more like a year now—Sal had forced himself to take stock, to figure out how he wanted to spend his gol
den years. After all, he probably still had a couple of good decades left. He was only fifty-seven—knock wood—way past the average age of most men in his former line of work. So what is it, he had asked himself, that I really want out of life? It boiled down to this: He wanted to live his life in peace, away from the Feds, in some distant country where he wouldn’t have to worry who was waiting around the next corner. He wasn’t asking much, really, but it would require a lot of dough.
The irritating thing was, Sal still had plenty of money from the old days—a small fortune that the government couldn’t seize because Sal had actually earned those particular assets through legitimate businesses. But those accounts were eye-balled like a stripper at a bachelor party. If Sal tried to make a sizeable withdrawal—especially in cash—red flags would go up and he’d be surrounded before he made it to the airport.
No, what Sal needed was fresh money that could be easily concealed. Lots of it. Then he could make his break.
He could picture the location in his mind: definitely someplace tropical, like this Barbados place. Maybe a small island that had no extradition treaty with the U.S. Better yet, no rednecks, pickup trucks, or country music. He’d had his fill of that shit.
Sal had lived in Blanco County, Texas, for three years now, which was about thirty-five months more than he could handle. And Johnson City, the county seat? Forget about it. You couldn’t find decent Italian food anywhere. You had to own a satellite dish to catch most of the Yankee games. And everyone was so damn friendly, it made his asshole pucker.
For two and a half years, Sal had simply laid low, trying to figure out his next move. Unfortunately, the U.S. Marshals Service always had its eyes on him so closely he could barely take a crap without a marshal there to offer him toilet paper. Just a few more trials, they kept saying, and then you’ll be free to do what you want. Leave the country, we don’t care. But for now, you owe us. With your life. And Sal had to admit that was true. He knew he could be rotting in federal prison right now—assuming some wiseguy didn’t shank him in the ribs out in the yard. All of Sal’s pull from the old days wouldn’t mean shit. Some greaseball would waste him without batting an eye. That’s the way it was nowadays, no respect for men like Sal anymore.