by Rehder, Ben
Moe, Larry, and Curly, right here in Blanco County.
Buford was tempted to take a closer look, but he figured the safe must be empty, which was what the hoopla was all about. Plus, he didn’t want to leave Colby inside for that long by himself. He stepped back into the cabin.
Marlin could hear Darrell calling his unit number over the radio, so he stepped to his truck and keyed the microphone. “Go ahead, County.”
“Yeah, John, we just had a call about a possible explosion over near Wade Morgan’s hunting cabin.” Darrell sounded skeptical.
“You’re thinking a rifle shot?” Marlin asked.
“Ten-four.”
Poachers, most likely. There had been trouble over there in the past. “I’ll check it out.”
He glanced at Tatum, who said, “I don’t want to leave this place unmanned. Not until we search.”
“Yeah, Darrell,” Marlin said, “I’ll be en route momentarily. Meanwhile, can you send someone over to spell Bill Tatum?”
“Ten-four.”
“Why are you sweating?”
“I’m not sweating,” Colby replied. But he could feel the dampness on his brow. The plank above the rifle hadn’t seated flush with the other floorboards. It was higher by an inch or so.
George stared at him long and hard. “Thought those guys were your ticket outta here, didn’t you? Got you all worked up.”
Colby nodded, looking anywhere but the plank.
“Well, they’re long gone,” George said.
“What was the explosion?” Colby asked.
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
Yeah, but it might be something for you to worry about, Colby thought. Because it was loud enough, someone was bound to call it in. Especially after what had happened at Lucas Burnette’s house.
George took a seat on the couch, but he didn’t look comfortable at all.
Marlin kept it at a steady eighty miles per hour heading north on Highway 281. No sense in getting in a wreck over a poaching call. Seemed like small potatoes after what he’d just been through at Pritchard’s house.
He turned west on Miller Creek Loop and goosed it to forty. Passing the entrance to the Circle S Ranch, he decided he’d make a quick stop to check on Phil after he had a look at Wade Morgan’s cabin. Then he’d go to the hospital to see how Nicole was doing.
Three hundred yards farther, Marlin slowed to take a right, noticing that the bluestem grasses in the driveway had recently been trampled by tires. Yeah, poachers. Probably come and gone.
George stood and paced the floor, stopping to look out the front window. Colby could tell he was nervous, maybe thinking about abandoning the cabin.
“There are shots out in this area all the time,” Colby said. “Poachers usually. Happens so often, I doubt anyone even noticed.”
“Shut the hell up.”
George stepped to his right and peered out the side window. His left foot was inches from the raised plank.
“The game warden around here is pretty lax,” Colby said. “He might make a pass down the county road, but he won’t pull in here.”
George turned toward him. “I said shut up!”
That’s when it happened. The plank, now under George’s foot, fell into place with a thump. George looked down at the floor. “What the hell?”
He slowly dropped to one knee for a closer look. His hand skimmed the surface of the floor and found the raised nail.
Then Colby heard it again. An engine. A vehicle coming up the driveway. But this engine sounded completely different than the one before. He recognized it.
“Maybe I was wrong,” he said.
George stood abruptly and returned to the front window. Then he faced Colby. “Just like last time!” he roared. “You make any noise, this guy is dead!”
32
MARLIN SAW SPORADIC tire marks across the caliche, but no vehicles. The cabin was tucked behind some oak trees, looking as peaceful and empty as usual.
He grabbed his microphone. “Seventy-five-oh-eight to Blanco County.”
“Go ahead, seventy-five-oh-eight.”
“Darrell, I’m here at Wade Morgan’s. Everything looks quiet, but I’m gonna have a look around.”
“Ten-four.”
Marlin maneuvered the remainder of the rutted driveway and parked in front of the cabin. He killed the engine and stepped from his truck.
He listened.
Nothing out of place.
Birds in the trees. The faint sound of traffic four miles away on the highway.
But there were shallow tire tracks all the way up here, leading around the side of the cabin.
He noticed that his heartbeat had picked up. Still rattled from the encounter with David Pritchard. He stepped gingerly to the edge of the front wall and glanced around the side of the structure.
Nothing.
Except more tire tracks.
He followed them, moving slowly, his palm resting on the butt of his revolver.
Maybe kids had been up here, merely exploring. Or a poacher had driven in, looked around, and left. Whoever it was, it wasn’t anything to get nervous about.
Marlin was to the side of the cabin, moving toward the rear. He took another step forward, and then a bumper came into view. Another step, and now he saw the back end of an old Cadillac convertible.
A man wearing a Stetson stepped from behind the cabin.
Marlin instinctively unsnapped his holster.
“Whoa. Take it easy,” the man said, smiling, holding up both hands. “Got hit with a sudden urge, if you know what I mean. Had to find a place to go to the bathroom.”
Marlin stepped closer. “You shouldn’t be up here, sir.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, still grinning. “But you know how it is when nature calls.”
Marlin walked to within five feet. “I’d like to see some identification, please.”
“I don’t blame you a bit.” The man’s eyes fell to the small name-plate on Marlin’s chest, and his expression changed. “Marlin, huh? Like the fish, I guess. Or the rifle.”
Colby lifted the plank again and stretched as far as he possibly could. His fingertips grazed the edge of the rifle, but he couldn’t get a grip. Son of a bitch!
There was nothing he could do except wait for a gunshot. Or, if things went well for George, Marlin would simply give up his gun. Then they’d both be stuck in here, chained to these stupid eye-bolts in the floor.
Oh, Christ. The eyebolts. Now the answer was obvious. He’d been too exhausted and shaken up to realize it. All he had to do was walk in a circle, unscrewing the eyebolt out of the floor. The same way George had sunk the bolt into the floor, but in reverse. He couldn’t have done it with George watching, but there was nothing to stop him now.
Marlin held a palm out. “Your driver’s license.”
The man didn’t move. “You must be Wade. I’ve heard about you.”
Wade? Why did he call me Wade? Marlin felt an overwhelming urge to pull his weapon, but he didn’t understand why. The man didn’t appear threatening. He was just standing there, a lazy smirk on his face. Now he was reaching into his back pocket for his ID.
He called me Wade. Just like Phil did. Because Phil was sending me a message!
Marlin pulled his .45 out of its holster, but the man’s hand quickly reappeared with a small revolver, which he aimed directly at Marlin’s face.
“Slow down, partner,” the man said. “I want you to drop your gun on the ground. Right there at your feet.”
Marlin hesitated.
“Drop it!” the man barked. “Now!”
Marlin bent slowly to one knee, placed his revolver on the ground, then stood up. He sensed movement directly behind the man.
“Now remove your handcuffs from your belt.”
“My handcuffs?”
“Give ‘em to me.”
“Before I do that,” Marlin said calmly, “you should know that Phil Colby is right behind you. And he’s pointing a rather la
rge rifle at your shoulderblades.”
The man’s expression froze for a split second, but then he smiled. “Bullshit.”
There is a condition known as “buck fever,” and it’s the scourge of hunters around the world. It happens this way: A hunter dreams all season long—if not for his entire life—of getting a shot at a humongous trophy buck. He adjusts his hunting tactics to make such an encounter as likely as possible. He’ll monitor the phases of the moon. Try different deer calls and antler-rattling techniques. Experiment with every type of deer attractant or food source that comes on the market. Mask his scent with everything from cedar shavings to skunk piss. And then…it happens. The planets line up right, or Orion smiles, or all that planning and strategizing actually works, but it happens. One fateful day, a buck—not just any buck, but the kind of massive, strutting animal that the hunter has heretofore seen only on videotape—emerges out of the brush like a ghost.
And the hunter immediately becomes a quivering mass of jelly.
His breathing becomes labored. His ears ring. His fingers turn into numb, useless stubs. The scene before him takes on a surreal, dreamlike quality, one in which he seems to be watching from above, or behind, or anywhere except his own treasonous body.
That’s how Phil Colby felt.
This would be the most important shot of his life, and he didn’t know if he could do it. His arms were clumsy and heavy. His vision was patchy and indistinct. The rifle felt foreign in his hands.
Was there even a round in the chamber? He hadn’t had time to check.
Marlin slowly took a step back from his handgun.
“Quit moving!” the man yelled.
“Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
Again, Marlin bent and dropped one knee to the ground, then the other. Then he laid flat on the dirt.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Just getting out of the way,” Marlin said. “Bullets have a nasty way of going through people.”
Now there was genuine concern on the man’s face. His eyes darted to the side, but he still didn’t glance backward.
“Stand the fuck up!”
Marlin ignored him. All was quiet for a few seconds as the man pondered this strange turn of events.
Then Phil Colby jangled a length of chain that appeared to be attached to his wrist. “Hello, George. Forget about me?”
The man called George was rigid now, defeat in his eyes. But he still did not turn. He aimed his gun at Marlin. “I’ll shoot him.”
“And then I’ll blow you right in half.”
Marlin and George stared at each other for an eternity.
Then the grin returned to the man’s face, and Marlin knew it was almost over.
He’d drop the gun, or he’d try to wheel and shoot it.
Five seconds.
Ten.
It happened fast. The man twisted his torso, leading with the pistol.
But he wasn’t quick enough.
The rifle in Colby’s hands roared.
Back at his trailer, Red studied the contents of the envelope.
“Negatives of what?” he asked again.
Lucy was sitting at the kitchen dinette, her head hanging low. “Nothing. They’s worthless. At least, they are to me. I’m done with it.”
“Done with what?”
She didn’t answer, just took a big swig from the can of beer on the table.
Red held one of the negatives to the light and studied it closely. Couldn’t make heads nor tails out of it. Might be a couple of people in the photos, maybe a guy wearing baggy white shorts. Then again, maybe it was a couple of monkeys at the zoo. Impossible to tell.
He tossed the negatives onto the table. “What about the damn money?”
Lucy snorted. “He musta burned through it all.”
“Scofield?”
Lucy glared at him. “Yeah, Scofield. Who the hell else would I be talking about?”
Red felt the trailer shift as Billy Don struggled out of the recliner in the living room and walked into the kitchen. He eyeballed Red for a few seconds, then Lucy. “I’m hungry. Anybody else hungry?”
Red didn’t answer. Lucy took another drink.
Billy Don walked to the pantry, removed a can of Cheez Whiz and a box of Triscuits, then returned to the living room.
Red didn’t know what to think. All that effort, for nothing. Well, he did get laid a couple of times, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was worth the trouble.
Marlin had his .45 in his hand now, and he stood over the man. Prodded him with his toe. No movement. No reaction at all. Not even a fluttering eyelid.
He looked at Colby, who was still cradling the rifle. Wade Morgan’s old Krag. Marlin recognized it now. “You all right?”
Colby shook his head. When he spoke, Marlin heard a tremor in his voice. “You saved my ass.”
“I’d say it was the other way around,” Marlin replied. “Why don’t you put that thing down?”
Colby bent and laid the rusty weapon gently at his feet. Then he decided to sit on the ground beside it. Marlin noticed that Colby’s face was ashen and his eyes were glazed. Could be mild shock.
Marlin was feeling sort of lightheaded himself. “I’m sorry if I was a jerk.” He felt better for saying it.
“You? A jerk? Never.” Only Phil could manage sarcasm like that moments after shooting a man. Then, a moment later, he added, “Yeah, me, too.”
Nothing more needed to be said. Marlin stared at the body. “Any idea who this guy is?”
“Not a clue.”
Darrell. Marlin had to radio Darrell. “Wait right here.”
As Marlin walked toward his truck on shaky legs, Colby said, “See how much excitement you’d miss if you moved to San Antone?”
Marlin turned. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” Colby said. “You’d go nuts down there. On top of that, there might actually be a couple of people around here who’d miss you if you left.”
Marlin nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As he rounded the corner of the house, he heard Colby call after him, “Not me, of course.”
Marlin couldn’t help but smile.
33
THE NEXT MORNING, Red woke to the sound of cartoons again. Shit, with cable TV, cartoons were on the air every day of the week. Billy Don’s favorite channel was Nickelodeon, and it nearly drove Red up the wall. The good thing was, hearing those moronic high-pitched voices meant his hearing was almost back to normal.
He opened one eye and saw that Billy Don had taken root in the recliner again and was eating another bowl of Froot Loops.
Lucy, apparently, was still asleep in the bedroom. She hadn’t even given him the option of sleeping with her last night, and—Lord help him, maybe he was turning sissy or something—he hadn’t wanted to. That woman could go from zero to bitch in six seconds flat.
Red swung his feet to the floor and sat up straight. He stood up, still feeling a little wobbly from the explosion, and scratched a few important places. He tiptoed toward the bedroom to check on the Dragon Lady.
The door was open just enough for Red to peek inside.
Lucy was gone.
Marlin intended to remain quiet during the questioning of Chuck Hamm, chiefly because he was afraid he would be tempted to reach across the table and rip the man’s throat out. He wasn’t altogether certain Bobby Garza and Bill Tatum would be able to refrain from such behavior themselves. Time would tell.
Sunday afternoon. They were in the interview room at the sheriff’s department, the four of them around one small table.
Hamm did not appear at ease. But he also appeared cocky. He didn’t know what was waiting for him.
“Mr. Hamm,” Garza said, “we asked you here to talk about…well, hell, I’m not even sure where to begin.” Garza opened a manila folder and placed a photograph on the table. “Let me start by asking if you know this man.”
Hamm picked up the photo, studied it, and placed it back on the
table. “Sorry. Never seen him before.”
“Sure about that? His name is Joseph Taggart. Goes by the name of Little Joe?”
“No, sir. Don’t know the man.”
“He was found dead in his motel room this morning. He’d been shot.”
Hamm shrugged. “Wish I could help y’all out, but I don’t know anything about it.”
“The thing is, when we checked Taggart’s sheet, we saw that he spent some time in jail—just one night, actually—with a man named Buford Rhodes.” Garza cocked his eyebrows. “I believe you know Mr. Rhodes.”
Hamm wanted to deny it—it was plain from the look on his face—but to do so would have been an obvious lie. “My ex-wife’s nephew. Her sister’s boy.”
“You keep in touch with him?”
“Now and again.”
“When was the last time you talked to him?”
“Actually, it was just last week. Talked to him a couple of times.”
“What about?”
“Nothing much. I asked him if he wanted to come out and do some turkey hunting.”
Garza nodded, as if that were a perfectly acceptable answer. “Did he take you up on it? Was he in the area lately?”
Hamm was starting to squirm, and Marlin loved every minute of it. “What’s this all about? You mind telling me that?”
Garza had managed to keep the events of the day before away from the media so far. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your nephew was killed yesterday in a hunting cabin on Miller Creek Loop.”
Perhaps the surprise on Hamm’s face was real—or maybe he was an excellent actor. “Jesus Christ. That’s terrible. What happened?”
Garza let that question hang in the air for a long time. Then he said, “Mr. Hamm, I suggest that you think long and hard about how you want to play this. Now’s the time to be straight with us and minimize the damage you do to yourself.”
Again, Hamm did his best to appear perplexed. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You tell me that Buford’s dead, and then you—”