Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy

by Rehder, Ben

  As Marty got closer, he heard a loud buzz. In seconds, big blue flies were swarming around his head. He peeked into the Dumpster.

  And he almost vomited.

  He saw a shining, bloody pile of bones and hides, dismembered deer legs with hooves poking skyward, an occasional deer head, the eyes dull and flat, and twisted gray entrails. The stench was nearly unbearable.

  Marty covered his mouth and stared at Barstow. The snake over the old man’s shoulders stared back.

  “Dig through there,” Barstow said. “You can find all the antlers you want.”

  18

  “YOU’VE LOST YOUR mind,” Ernie Turpin said, studying Marlin’s face for any sign that he was joking.

  “If it’s not a jackal,” Marlin said, “then I don’t know what the hell it is. Nothing native, that’s for sure.”

  Jessie was whining, straining toward the stable door.

  “I’ll hold her,” Marlin said, taking the leash with one hand, holding his 30/30 with the other. “Go take a look.”

  Turpin continued to eye Marlin while taking the flashlight off his belt. “Now if it’s some damn coyote in there and it comes running after me…”

  Marlin shook his head. “I’m not bullshitting you, Ernie. Promise.”

  The deputy stepped quietly to the stable door and eased it open. He played his flashlight around the interior. After a moment, he sucked his breath in. “Whoa!”

  “Still in the crate?” Marlin asked.

  “Yep. Staring right at me. Growling.” Seconds later, he said, “I got a clear shot.” Turpin swung the tranquilizer gun off his shoulder. He glanced back at Marlin.

  “Take it.”

  They used Turpin’s cell phone to call Trey Sweeney, and he was on the scene in thirty minutes. The wildlife biologist was as excited as Marlin had ever seen him, eyes wide behind his thick glasses, speaking loudly, rubbing his hands together.

  They had already transferred the jackal—and indeed it was a jackal: a silver-backed specimen, to be precise—to a cage in the back of Sweeney’s truck. Jessie had finally calmed down and now was sleeping in the cab of Sweeney’s truck.

  The three men were inside Kyle Dawson’s stable, inspecting the three crates. With the overhead lights on, it was much easier to see the interior of the stable.

  “When was the last time we saw illegal imports in Blanco County?” Sweeney asked.

  “Other than some whitetails from Mexico,” Marlin replied, “I can’t even remember. Years.”

  Sweeney bent low and studied the jackal’s crate, picking through the hay bedding. “He felt safer here. Came back when he got shot.”

  The bullet had grazed the front of the jackal’s chest, leaving a bloody, though nonfatal, gash.

  “What was he doing running loose?” Turpin asked.

  Marlin said, “He probably got away before they could shoot him.”

  The deputy was confused. “They hunt them? Who in the hell would want to shoot that ugly thing?”

  Sweeney muttered, “Doesn’t matter what kind of animal it is. If it’s alive, some idiot somewhere wants to kill it. Mount it on his wall.”

  “But why three of them?” Turpin asked, gesturing at the other crates.

  Neither Marlin nor Sweeney answered. Marlin knelt in front of the middle crate. He shined his flashlight through the hay and spotted some hair. It wasn’t the same color as the jackal’s fur. “One jackal is all we know for sure,” Marlin said. “We don’t know what the other two animals were.”

  “Might even be more than three animals,” Sweeney said, “if they kept more than one in a cage. Could be something smaller. But who knows?”

  “Think they’re loose, too?”

  “Good chance,” Sweeney said.

  “No real way of knowing, though,” Marlin replied, “until we talk to Dawson.” And probably Duke Waldrip, too, he thought. Then he rebuffed himself for jumping to conclusions. It could be that Waldrip wasn’t involved at all. Dawson might be allowing other guides to use his ranch, or he might have been importing the illegal animals himself. Best to wait and see.

  Sweeney walked outside to his truck and returned with a camera and several small plastic bags. He began taking photos while Marlin used a pair of tweezers to place hair samples and fecal specimens in the bags.

  “We’ll send these to the lab in San Marcos,” Marlin said to Turpin. “They’ll tell us exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “You mind checking the house again?” Marlin said as he moved to the second crate.

  The deputy nodded and exited the stable.

  The two men worked in silence for a couple of minutes, the air stuffy inside the stable even though it was cool outside.

  “This is fucked up, John,” Sweeney said. Marlin knew the biologist was seriously pissed off. Rarely did Trey use a harsh word beyond damn or hell.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I mean, what’s the point of this? They haul them out here in a cage, probably dope ’em up, and then shoot ’em with high-powered rifles? It’s ridiculous.”

  “No argument here.”

  Sweeney fumed some more as he shot photos. “Who’s the guy that owns this place?”

  “Kyle Dawson.”

  “What’s his story?”

  Marlin moved to the last crate. “Well, they do some hunting out here, but it was all whitetail, as far as I knew. Never had any reason to think otherwise.”

  “How would you? It’s pretty secluded out here.”

  Marlin stood and closed the plastic bags. Then he placed the empty food and water bowls inside large paper bags. The wire gauge of the crates was too thin to hold fingerprints, but the metal bowls might.

  Sweeney said, “This might explain the chupacabra, huh?”

  Marlin smiled. Sweeney sounded positively crestfallen. The biologist had probably been holding out hope of some breathtaking new species of animal. “Yeah, I guess so,” Marlin said as they walked out the stable door. “You were right, by the way.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The tracks we saw last weekend. They weren’t a coyote or a dog. Must’ve been this guy.” He gestured toward the cage in the back of Trey’s truck.

  Trey said, “Or something from one of the other crates.”

  Turpin returned, shaking his head. “Nobody home.”

  Terry Hobbs was wearing nondescript clothes and had his collar turned up to mask his profile as much as possible. Sunglasses and a baseball cap completed the outfit. He even had a wig on the seat beside him, ready to go—just in case there really were video cameras.

  He’d done some thinking, and had decided he’d take the Lotus back to where he’d boosted it. If he was lucky, he’d get the same parking spot, or at least close. Maybe the owner wouldn’t even know it had been gone for a handful of hours. That way, nobody would have any reason to check the video from the cameras.

  If he just left the car on an isolated street or in another crammed parking lot—which was his first inclination—the car would be reported stolen and they’d go straight to the video. Terry had already removed the LoJack tracking device, but there wouldn’t be any beating the video.

  Damn, why had he gotten into this mess! Acting like a freaking amateur. You don’t ever pull a job unless it’s carefully orchestrated, he told himself. Remember that!

  He swung onto the highway and headed north, enjoying the smooth ride of the Lotus. Hell, he had enough money to buy one of these babies with cash, so taking this chance was downright unforgivable.

  Up ahead, traffic was moving slowly—which, in Houston, meant everyone was merely sticking to the speed limit rather than going ten or twenty miles above it.

  Terry moved into the fast lane, behind a few other impatient drivers, and began to ease past the knot of cars. Then he saw why everyone was being so cautious.

  There was a patrol car in the middle of the pack, gliding in the middle lane. Terry could see the cop glancing in his rearvie
w mirror, looking back at Terry.

  Terry began to sweat and focused on the lane ahead of him. He glanced at the speedometer. Still legal. Best to just ease on past the cop and go on his merry way. Terry inched past the patrol car. He even glanced over and nodded at the cop. He didn’t nod back.

  Now Terry was a car length ahead, one lane over. Then three car lengths.

  Then the cop fell in behind him.

  Son of a bitch!

  Terry let off the gas and slowed to five miles under the limit. No sense in taking chances.

  The cop was right on his tail.

  Terry signaled and moved to the middle lane.

  The cop moved over, too.

  Terry moved to the right-hand lane and signaled for the next exit, a quarter of a mile ahead.

  The cop stuck right behind him.

  Lord, please say it isn’t so! Terry eased off the accelerator and coasted off the highway onto the access road.

  That’s when the cherries on the roof of the patrol car lit up.

  * * *

  Terry had very little experience speaking to cops. Almost none. When he’d nearly gotten nailed on the River Oaks burglary, he’d immediately lawyered up during questioning, figuring it was the wise thing to do.

  That was the only time he’d been arrested.

  Hell, he’d never even gotten a traffic ticket.

  That’s why he was so nervous, the sweat beginning to trickle from his scalp. Well that, and the fact that the car he was driving was hotter than a ten-dollar Rolex.

  The cop stepped to the window. Tall guy, built like a brick wall. Mirrored sunglasses. “License and proof of insurance, please.”

  Terry slipped his wallet from his back pocket and removed his driver’s license.

  The cop studied it and said, “The reason I stopped you … your registration sticker is expired.” He glanced up. “Proof of insurance, too, please.”

  Terry didn’t know where to look, so he popped the glove compartment.

  Oh fuck! There was a handgun inside.

  Terry snapped the compartment shut, but it was too late.

  The cop had backed away a step or two, and now he had his hand on his pistol. “Step out of the car, Mr. Hobbs. Right now.”

  Trey Sweeney had several large enclosed pens at his house, so the men agreed that the biologist would store the jackal there for the time being.

  “I’ll drop Jessie off at your place, Ernie,” Sweeney offered. The coonhound was still snoozing in the front seat of Sweeney’s truck, tired out from the excitement of the chase.

  After Sweeney left, Marlin and Turpin decided to have one more look around Kyle Dawson’s place. Marlin wanted to hear what Dawson had to say about the other two crates. Were there other imported animals, possibly dangerous, running loose in Blanco County? If so, Marlin needed to know.

  Turpin went around to the front of the house, and Marlin approached from the rear. He walked past the tennis courts, then skirted the edge of the pool. As he was making his way to the back door, he heard a phone ringing-—but it was outside the house, not inside.

  Marlin quickly backtracked and found a cordless phone on a chaise lounge next to the hot tub. He answered on the third ring.

  “Who’s this?” asked a gruff voice on the other end.

  “You called me,” Marlin said. “You go first.” If this was one of Dawson’s friends—maybe even the person who supplied Dawson with exotic animals—Marlin didn’t want to spook him. So he waited.

  Silence. Then the man said, “I’m looking for Kyle Dawson. Is this him?”

  “I can get him a message.”

  “Yeah, well, you do that.” The man obviously didn’t like Marlin’s coy attitude. “Tell him Sergeant McAlister from the Houston Police Department called. About his car.”

  Marlin chuckled. “Sergeant, this is John Marlin, the game warden in Blanco County. Dawson’s a popular man today. We’re looking for him, too.”

  McAlister warmed up now that introductions had been made, and he told Marlin the reason for the call. Kyle Dawson’s car—apparently stolen—had been recovered by a patrolman during a routine traffic stop. Marlin, in turn, told McAlister what had brought him out to Dawson’s house. Then Marlin asked, “What’s the name of your suspect?”

  “Guy who boosted the car? Terry Hobbs. Name mean anything to you?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Blanco County … wasn’t your sheriff shot over here yesterday?”

  Marlin told McAlister that story, too, including some general details on the Searcy homicide. He mentioned that Dawson had been questioned regarding the Searcy case.

  “Is he a suspect?” McAlister asked.

  “At this point, we don’t know.”

  “Sounds like we both have some things we need to share with our squads.”

  Marlin agreed. Then he asked, “Where was Dawson’s car when Hobbs stole it?”

  “Intercontinental Airport. Of course, Hobbs might be lying about where he got it. Then again, maybe your man Dawson skipped town.”

  19

  “THIS IS TURNING into a tangled mess,” Bill Tatum said. The deputy was still in Houston, and Marlin had called his cell phone to tell him about the jackal and the call from the Houston police. Neither Tatum nor Marlin was a big believer in coincidences. What were the odds that Kyle Dawson’s name would come up in two separate investigations? They felt there had to be some kind of connection.

  “I sure don’t like Dawson’s car being found in Houston the day after Bobby was shot,” Tatum said.

  “Me neither.”

  “There was never any indication that Dawson met with Searcy, right?” Tatum asked.

  “According to Dawson, no.” Marlin remembered the conversation in Dawson’s living room. “No phone calls from Searcy to Dawson, either.”

  Tatum sighed. “When you talked to Dawson, he didn’t say anything about leaving town?”

  “Not a word, but Ernie’s looking around. We'll see if we can find anything.” Marlin and the deputy were inside Dawson’s house now, having found the back door unlocked. Tatum had assured them that they could legally enter the home to check on Dawson’s welfare. Anything that might be lying in open view was fair game, even without a warrant.

  “What’s the penalty for that kind of thing?” Tatum asked, referring to the illegal imported animals.

  “Class-A misdemeanor,” Marlin said. “First-time offense, he’d be looking at probation probably.”

  “I can’t imagine him running because of something like that.”

  “Doubtful. Plus, he didn’t know we were coming over here. We just stumbled into it, really.”

  Marlin waited as Tatum relayed some of the information to Rachel Cowan. “Tell you what,” he said to Marlin, “have Ernie give me a call in a couple of hours. We’re still working on Peter Wilson.”

  “How’s that going?”

  “He hasn’t copped to the affair yet. We’ve got credit-card receipts from a local hotel, and the manager there thinks he recognizes Susan Searcy’s car. Then there’re calls on an almost daily basis from Wilson’s cell phone to the Searcy house—but he’s saying he was calling Oliver Searcy, not Susan. I think he’s on the fence, about to give it up.”

  “What about Wilson’s alibi?”

  “Well, that’s solid,” Tatum admitted. “He was out of town when Searcy was killed, but that wouldn’t have stopped him from hiring it out.”

  Marlin nodded as Ernie Turpin walked into the kitchen, carrying something in a latex-gloved hand.

  “Hold on a sec, Bill.” Marlin faced Turpin. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The deputy nodded and came closer. In his hand was a combination lock that had clearly been snipped with bolt cutters. “Found it in the garage.”

  “What’s going on?” Tatum asked.

  “Ernie just found a lock that’s been cut.”

  For a moment, Tatum didn’t make the connection. Then he snapped to it. “Oh, jeez, like the one on M
aggie Mason’s gate.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Marlin said. “I know the combination.”

  “Try it,” Tatum said.

  Marlin recited it from memory. “Eleven- zero- seven.”

  Turpin called them out as he twisted the dial: “Eleven … zero … seven.”

  He tugged on the remaining stump of the lock shackle—and it popped loose.

  “Bingo,” Marlin said.

  Red was starting to get blisters, and he wished he’d brought gloves along. The hog trap was a hell of a lot heavier than he’d thought it would be, but damn, was it solid. Like a jail cell, but for freaky-ass animals. And the smell of the road-killed possum they’d placed inside the trap as bait wasn’t helping matters much.

  “How much further we going with this thing?” Billy Don grunted, stumbling slowly through the cedar break. Even he was having trouble carrying his end, which showed what a chore it was to tote the trap onto Owen Pierce’s ranch. Red had called the barbecue king and gotten permission, but only by enticing him with the idea of free publicity should they happen to catch the chupacabra. “Just keep the trap way off the main driveway,” Pierce had said. “Don’t need my wife getting all worked up about it.” That was fine with Red, but it meant they had to haul the trap into the woods by hand; the brush was too thick to drive through.

  “I’d say this”—Red let his end of the trap crash to the ground—“is just about far enough.”

  Red knelt with his hands on his knees, winded, then went ahead and sat down on the ground. Billy Don propped one massive butt cheek on a corner of the trap.

  Red finally caught his breath and leaned on one elbow, surveying the moonlit area. “We’re about two hundred yards off the road. I ’magine the chupacabra can find it easy enough.”

  “Yeah, if it ain’t already made tracks for the next county,” Billy Don said.

  Billy Don was like that: downright gloomy, always trying to shoot holes in Red’s plans.

  “Well, shit, you got a better idea?” Red asked. “Now that we’ve lugged this sumbitch out here?”

  Billy Don remained silent. Yeah, that always shut Billy Don up. Just ask him for ideas of his own.