by Rehder, Ben
At lunchtime, he drove back into Johnson City and stopped at a pay phone. The dispatchers and some of the deputies were always after him to get a cell phone, but he hated the damn things. He dialed a number, and Phil Colby answered on the fourth ring.
“Wanna get some lunch?” Marlin asked.
“Who the hell is this?”
“Funny.”
“Well, I’ll be. Is this John Marlin? I thought maybe you’d already moved to San Antone.”
“You crack you up,” Marlin said, but he was glad that Colby was in a good enough mood to be a smart-ass. “You wanna get some lunch or not?”
“Wish I could, but I’ve gotta run some culls up to Lampasas later this afternoon.”
“Need some help loading up?”
“Naw, I already got ‘em penned. I’ll be back late tonight. I’ll catch you later this week, all right?”
By early afternoon, Red couldn’t stand it anymore and he went behind a cedar tree to throw up. His sweat smelled like stale beer, and his head felt like someone was inside with a pickax trying to get out. Jesus, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hung over. The fact that he was operating a bone-rattling hydraulic T-post driver didn’t help matters much. He’d heard about prison work that was easier than this crap.
Normally they used a tractor-mounted post driver—a big son of a bitch delivering more than seventy thousand pounds of force with each blow. But they were working in a ravine, down low in some rough country where the tractor couldn’t go. They were having to do it all by hand.
Good thing Jack Chambers had made a run into town, so he couldn’t complain if the unofficial captain of the work crew called a little break. Red took a seat on the ground in the shade. Billy Don dropped down beside him. Jorge, the wetback, shook his head at them and kept working.
“God Almighty,” Billy Don said, rubbing his temples, “if I could work up the strength, I’d shoot myself.”
Red didn’t reply. All he could think about was his soft, comfortable bed, and the fact that they’d be finished with this job before sundown. He was going to sleep for about three days when he got home. He’d drink a gallon of water, curl up, and wait for the demons to quit howling.
Despite the way he was feeling—pounding skull, trembling hands, and bowels that were churning with a liquid ferocity—Red couldn’t help but smile on occasion.
Lucille.
Even the name alone was enough to lift his spirits. There was something special about her, and any moron—including him—could spot it from a mile away.
“So…you gonna call her or what?” Billy Don asked, grinning. The look on Red’s face must’ve given him away.
They hadn’t discussed her yet. Red had been putting it off. He wasn’t sure how Billy Don would react. “She’s a handful, ain’t she?” he said.
“Shee-yit,” Billy Don said. “She’s just like Loretta, only more so.”
Red didn’t see how Lucille could be more like Loretta than Loretta was, but now was not the time for an argument. So he said, “Well, speaking of Lucy, there’s something we need to talk about.”
“Hell, she likes you better’n me, Red. I can see that. Y’all have your fun.”
“I appreciate that, Billy Don, but that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s something more important.” Red removed his baseball cap and used it as a fan, trying to generate a small breeze to fight the humidity. “See, Lucy’s got a little problem. Something to do with one of her patients. And I came up with a way to help her out of it. Turn it from a challenge into an opportunity. A real moneymaker. But she needs our help.”
Actually, Lucy had said she needed Red’s help, but Red had made it clear last night that he wasn’t getting involved without his partner. She’d said, yeah, sure, that’s fine. So she and Red had figured out a doozy together, and now all Red had to do was get Billy Don on board. Which wasn’t always easy.
The big man eyed Red with suspicion. “What now?”
“Now see,” Red said, “how come you’re always so negative about everything? I haven’t hardly opened my mouth yet, and you’re already looking for problems that ain’t there. How come you can’t give me a little credit now and then? I mean, I know some of my ideas don’t always work out, but some of them are pretty damn good. Least you could do is say thank you ever’ once in a while.”
Red could tell that Billy Don was about to deliver some kind of smart-ass answer, but he must’ve changed his mind. He simply said, “All right, then, let’s hear it.”
“That’s more like it,” Red said, forgetting his hangover for a second, getting excited about the possibilities. “Before I get into all the little details, let me ask you something: How would you feel about impersonating a plumber?”
15
BUFORD WAS HAVING second thoughts. Hell, he was having third thoughts by this point. Was this the best plan they could come up with? Something about it didn’t feel right.
“I feel like a horse’s ass,” he muttered, with Little Joe lying right beside him. “What kind of clothes are these for a man, anyway?”
“You don’t like camo?” Joe asked.
Buford didn’t answer. He thought he heard the drone of an engine in the distance.
“Camo’s kinda cool,” Joe added. “College kids are wearing it all over the place nowadays. I’m gonna keep mine.”
Buford checked his watch. Not yet four o’clock. They still had plenty of daylight. He looked through the rifle scope one more time. Rock steady and clear as a bell. He could almost read the note they’d taped to the front door. But the rifle itself? It was one of Colby’s, so if it wasn’t sighted in—accurate as hell at two hundred yards—that was Colby’s own fault. They’d stolen it from the man’s gun safe just an hour ago. Joe got a kick out of smashing the glass, wanting to grab a bunch of other weapons, but Buford just wanted to get in, get one decent firearm, and get out. Buford prided himself on being prepared for all sorts of shit, but in this case, he hadn’t foreseen the need for a high-powered rifle. He hadn’t brought one, but now they had a good one. A Sako .270. Made in Finland, of all places. Buford couldn’t imagine what they needed a long-range rifle for in Finland, except maybe target practice on baby seals.
Joe started to say something else, but Buford held up his hand. Yeah, now he could hear it. Definitely an engine. Getting closer.
“It’s gonna work, smooth as a baby’s ass,” Joe whispered. “Just you wait and see. Hell of a lot better’n a paintball gun.”
Phil Colby ran a typical cow-calf operation, with a hundred and fifty brood cows, all Black Angus. Seven bulls got the job done breeding his herd in the spring, and the cows dropped their calves the following winter. Colby would sell the calves the next fall, well after they’d been weaned, wormed, vaccinated, and branded.
Today, he was auctioning some of his older cows, culls that were unlikely to produce in the future. Late last year, he’d debated wintering them, wanting to avoid unnecessary expenses. But he’d had an intuition that prices would be up in the spring, and he’d been right.
Colby had six head in a small pen, ready to load. He worked them through the crowding alley, then through the loading chute and up into the livestock trailer. Everything went smoothly, and just before four o’clock, he was ready to hit the road for Lampasas. Tomorrow’s auction began at sunrise, and check-in for the livestock ended tonight at seven.
He dropped his truck into gear and drove back to the ranch house, wanting to change into a fresh shirt and grab a cold drink for the ride.
He parked out front and hopped from the truck, and as he walked toward the front door he spotted a note taped to the small inset window.
But when he got closer, he was confused by what the note said.
BACK OFF!
That’s all. No signature, no explanation, nothing.
What the hell is this all about?
He didn’t recognize the handwriting. Who would have left this? Someone playing a weird joke?
He pulled the note from the glass, and he was reaching for the doorknob when the window exploded, shards of glass flying everywhere, followed a millisecond later by the roar of a high-powered rifle.
Colby’s entire body flinched, and as he scrambled inside the house to safety, he was acutely aware that a bullet had just missed his head by inches.
Blackie climbed into the Dumpster at ten minutes past four, because he knew that the nice clerk—Blackie didn’t remember his name—came on duty at four. The other guy, the one with the earlier shift, he was a hard case, and he chased Blackie away as soon as he saw him. But not the nice one. He was more of a live-and-let-live sort. Even gave Blackie a few bucks one time, asking him not to spend it on booze.
Blackie nearly always found some decent stuff in the Dumpster. Stale bread. Half-eaten doughnuts. Maybe part of a burrito or a slice of pizza. Sometimes he even found things that didn’t come from the store. People dumped their own personal garbage into the Dumpster. Everyday trash usually, but sometimes tattered clothing or old books. Junk like that. Things that could just as easily go to a charity, where they’d do some good.
Today he hit paydirt. With just a little digging, Blackie found a box of old magazines. People. Time. Popular Mechanics. Blackie leaned out of the Dumpster and dropped the box into his shopping cart. Yessir, he’d take those back to his tent. Give him something to do with his time. Or maybe trade them for cigarettes.
Next, he rooted around under some cardboard boxes and came up with a gallon jug of Gatorade, still half full with the orange-flavored stuff. He took a long swig, and boy did it taste good, even though it was kind of warm. He replaced the cap and gently dropped the bottle into the cart, next to the magazine box.
Then he found something else, and for a second he didn’t know what it was. He’d never actually held one in his hand before. Just a small, black, rectangular object. Hard plastic, rounded corners. Then he realized it was designed to unfold, so he unfolded it. Well, hot damn. It was a phone, that’s what it was. One of those portable jobs. He remembered they were calling them cell phones nowadays. He saw people using these things all the time. Like when Blackie stood at an intersection, holding a sign, asking for spare change, a lot of the drivers sat there, waiting on the light, yakking on their phones. Eyes straight ahead, a good reason to act like they didn’t even see Blackie. Too damn busy and important talking on their phones.
The thing was all lit up now, ever since Blackie opened it. Almost like it was asking him to dial it. But there was nobody to call. Blackie’s brother back in Indianapolis, if he was still alive, wouldn’t want to hear from him. What had it been, nineteen years? There was nobody else, either. Everybody Blackie ran around with, well, they damn sure didn’t have phones.
Blackie decided he’d trade it, too. Then something else occurred to him. Whoever owned this phone was probably looking for it. They were bound to call their own number eventually. And they’d probably offer a pretty good reward to get it back.
“Hell of a shot,” Joe muttered, both of them still hunkered down between some cedar trees.
“It did the job,” Buford replied, satisfied with himself.
Originally, Joe had asked if he could do the shooting, but Buford had decided against it. He figured Joe might’ve ended up shooting Colby in the leg or something on purpose, just out of pure spite.
Now the plan was to watch the house for a while. If Colby tried to leave, or if he showed his face in a window, Buford would lob another round at him. Get the man good and freaked out. Let him know they weren’t fucking around.
The house had a few large, well-trimmed live oaks around it, but no cedar or other brush to block the view. Behind the house, the ground sloped upward to a ridgeline, which could be seen easily over the rooftop. So even if Colby made a run out the back door, they could spot him. Besides, Buford figured, if Colby was scared enough to bolt, that would mean their plan had worked.
Next, they’d just call him up and tell him exactly what they wanted.
“You gonna take out his truck before we leave?” Joe asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“An engine shot?” Joe was getting excited. “Blast one right through the block?”
Colby slammed the door behind him and went straight to the nearest phone.
The line was dead.
He ran to his den and immediately saw more broken glass. His gun cabinet was a wreck. He reached through the empty doorframe and grabbed a Winchester .30-06. From the lower cabinet he grabbed a box of ammo and a pair of 20x60 binoculars.
Staying low, he made his way to the master bedroom. Here he would have a good view out the front of the house. Chances were, whoever had fired the shot was on the edge of the brush line a couple hundred yards away.
He lowered himself to the floor and crept to the window, where he raised the miniblind about six inches—just enough that he’d be able to stick the barrel out the window and still see through the rifle scope. He was lucky; the window itself was already open.
He raised the binoculars and began to scan the trees in the distance. The problem was, there were any number of places where the shooter could be hiding. And if he was wearing camo, or standing in the shadows, Colby would have very little chance of spotting him. Unless he moved. Same thing was true in deer hunting. When a deer’s instincts told it to hold still, it could blend in with the scenery so well a hunter might walk within ten feet of it. But when the deer decided to make a run for it, that’s when it seemed to suddenly materialize out of thin air.
So Colby continuously swept the binoculars back and forth, looking for the motion that would be the dead giveaway.
He waited, but nothing moved. So he waited some more. After twenty long minutes, Colby finally decided that the shooter had taken off.
Then another shot rang out.
“You hit the tire,” Joe said, sounding disappointed. “Did you mean to hit the tire? I thought you was gonna hit the engine.”
“This is better,” Buford replied. “We’ll know for sure he’s out of commission.” He worked the bolt on the Sako and chambered another round. It was one fine-shooting piece of iron. Accurate as hell. Take out two tires, he thought. Then it’ll take more than a spare to get him back on the road.
He swung the scope onto the back tire, held it steady, and squeezed the trigger.
Boom!
The tire flattened on the ground, easy as pie.
Buford chambered another one, more out of habit than anything else. He figured he’d done enough damage. He was turning toward Joe, about to tell him it was time to vamoose, when he heard Colby’s first shot.
He’d never know for certain, but he was pretty damn sure he heard the whine of the bullet passing about an inch from his left ear. He thought he felt a slight puff of air.
Then another shot came. And another.
Things got kind of loose and disorganized after that. Buford was crawling backward on his belly, Joe chattering something at him, wanting to charge the house, Buford saying hell no, and then they finally managed to pull back behind a massive line of brush and hightail it.
Colby was still firing. Buford knew there was no way the man could see them now, but he could feel his butthole tighten with every round.
“Jesus Christ!” Joe shrieked, giggling, sprinting through the trees, apparently amused by the idea he might die of acute lead poisoning at any second. “He keeps it up, he’s gonna melt his damn barrel.”
“Just go!” Buford hollered.
Trailing behind Joe, Buford saw a dark red stain—small, but growing—on the backside of his shirt.
16
“MAMA, I CAN’T find my frosted blue eye shadow!”
Donnelle Parker was in a tizzy. Here she was, going on her first real date since Bubba moved out, and already she was running late. This fellow was a catch, too. Clayton Bassett. He owned his own backhoe.
“For heaven’s sake, Donnelle, take it easy,” her mother said, bustling down the hallway, her t
highs swishing back and forth in rayon pants. Thank goodness Mama had been willing to give up her weekly Bunko night and babysit Britney. She poked her head into the bathroom. “I ain’t never seen you so worked up.”
“But I can’t find my eye shadow!”
“Well, where did you leave it last?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have a problem, would I?”
“Don’t you sass me, young lady.”
“I’m sorry, Mama, but will you just help me look? If I can’t find it I’m gonna have to pick out a whole new outfit. It’s all color coordinated.”
“Why in tarnation are you wearing blue, anyway? It’s wrong for your complexion.”
“Mama! My eye shadow!”
“Okay, simmer down. Where do you keep your makeup?”
“Right here in this drawer.”
Her mother rummaged through various eyeliners, blushes, and mascaras and magically came out with the eye shadow. “Go easy on it, that’s all I’m saying,” she said, then retreated to the living room.
Donnelle spent several minutes getting her face just so, then she hurried to her bedroom to dress. The short black skirt tonight, with the periwinkle V-neck blouse. And the open-toed pumps with the two-inch heels. She’d knock him dead. But first, her undergarments. She had something spicy picked out. It wasn’t as if she was planning on going all the way on the first date, but then, well, you never knew. Damn, it had been so long.
She went to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and realized something was missing. Dadgummit, not now. Clayton would be here any minute. She slipped her bathrobe on and raced to the living room.
“Honeybunch, have you been getting into Mommy’s underwear again?”
Donnelle’s five-year-old daughter was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, watching a strange cartoon that, Donnelle worried, might warp the precious baby’s mind before she even had a chance to enroll in school and do some learning.
“Uh-uh,” Britney said, but her eyes never left the set. Just like her dad, a TV addict. And the stuff she was watching was no better than what he used to watch. The only difference—Britney was eating a bowl of applesauce whereas Bubba used to eat candied peanuts.