by Rehder, Ben
But something is still running loose.
He was worried that whatever had attacked Beulah Summerall’s dog on Friday night might be something more dangerous than a jackal. On one hand, he kept wondering whether he should alert the public. On the other, he didn’t want to cause panic unnecessarily. And he’d already seen how quickly the public’s collective imagination could go wild. He’d decided it would be best to wait until the forensics came back. Then he’d know what he was dealing with, assuming the animal hadn’t been captured or killed by then. Via the news broadcast, Marlin had warned the public to leave the animal alone—but that was chiefly a ploy to minimize trespassing calls and other mischief. If a rancher saw another jackal, for instance, and shot it dead, Marlin would have no problem with that. In fact, it might be the best thing that could happen.
Meanwhile, Jacob Daughdril had, as Marlin expected, declined to fly in the current weather. At the moment, there was a break in the rain, but more was on the way. Weather radar showed a second line of powerful thunderstorms trailing the first.
So Marlin had decided to give it a shot by truck. He’d drive the roads of Dawson’s ranch and see what there was to see.
Mike Hung said something in Chinese that Marty Hoffenhauser couldn’t understand. But judging from the way his eyes were bulging, he was quite pleased. Hung took the massive trophy in his small hands and gazed at it in awe.
“Yes. Velly good.”
“I thought you’d like it,” Marty said. “Listen, Mike, we’ve got a big day ahead of us. Wanda is gonna be here in a little while, and we’ve got a couple more treats in store for you, too. We’ve hired some additional talent. Other actresses.”
Mike’s face was like a kid’s on Christmas morning.
“I want you to be ready to—”
But once again, Mike Hung was up and gone. Seconds later, Marty could hear the drone of the saber saw inside the small trailer.
Marty walked to the hangar, inspected the set, and sat down to enjoy a cup of coffee. Three industrial-size space heaters were humming away, slowly raising the temperature in the cavernous structure. He thumbed through a copy of the local newspaper, enjoying a rare moment of solitude.
A few minutes later, Tony, Marty’s sound technician, wandered over and joined him. “What’s going on, chief?”
Marty was about to tell him what was in store for today. Marty’s mood was upbeat, his biggest star was ready, willing, and extremely able, and the whole damn crew was about to make adult-video history.
That’s when he heard a horrific scream … followed by shouting. Then a longer scream.
“The hell was that?” Tony asked.
Marty stood just as Bill, the cameraman, came racing into the hangar. “Jesus, Marty, you better come have a look at this!”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Mike, man. He’s got some kind of saw blade sticking out of his eye!”
“Heads up, Bubba, we got company,” Billy Don said.
Red peeked at his rearview mirror and saw the game warden, John Marlin, thirty yards off his rear bumper. Of all the shitty luck.
Red gave a small wave through the back window, but Marlin didn’t wave back.
“What now?” Billy Don asked.
“Gimme a minute. For now, hold this.” Red passed him the half-finished beer he’d just been drinking. Maybe it was God’s way of telling them they shouldn’t crack the first cold one before noon.
They were on Flat Creek Road, heading toward Kyle Dawson’s place. The rain had slackened, and Red wanted to use the opportunity to check the trap. Last night, they’d simply ignored the sheriff’s sign at the ranch entrance, which warned people to stay out. Couldn’t do that again, not with Marlin on his ass.
After a few miles, when it became obvious that Marlin wasn’t going to pull them over, Red’s nerves settled. “We’ll just mosey on down the road until he pulls over somewhere,” Red said. “Then we’ll give it a couple and head back.”
Billy Don grunted an affirmation.
A minute later, Marlin did pull off the road—right into the Macho Bueno Ranch. “Well, shit,” Red said. “There goes that plan.”
Bill Tatum hated to admit it, but it was probably time to call in the Texas Rangers. As the investigative branch of the Texas Department of Public Safety, the Rangers provided assistance to smaller police forces on an as-needed basis. Unfortunately, with the Searcy investigation at a standstill, the need was quickly becoming apparent.
Tatum had been a deputy in Blanco County for ten years, with eight years in Gillespie County before that. He had no aspirations to become sheriff, and he had supported Bobby Garza wholeheartedly for the two years Garza had been in office. Bobby seemed to handle the politics and tackle the administrative issues with ease, whereas Tatum wanted nothing to do with any of that. Something he did have in common with Garza, though: He wanted the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department to be a capable and highly independent agency. Neither of them wanted to have to call for help when things got nasty. He and Garza agreed that the more forceful and competent the department became, the less crime they’d see.
There was evidence to support their theory, too. In the past decade, the Hill Country had seen a tremendous rise of meth labs in rural areas. Even Blanco County had had its problems. But under Garza’s watch, the number of drug-related crimes had taken a nosedive. Simply put, most of the dealers had either been locked up or run out of the county, and new dealers were afraid to replace them. Why set up shop in Blanco County, where justice was swift, when it’d be easier to ply their trade somewhere else?
Some crimes, though, didn’t respond to this type of approach—or any other. Homicide was one of them. There weren’t many murders in Blanco County to begin with, but when they did occur, they were almost always spontaneous, products of anger, jealousy, or stupidity. The good news was, the lack of planning made these crimes easier to solve. Physical and circumstantial evidence were usually available by the boatload, and it was just a matter of figuring out who and why.
Not always, though. Sometimes you came across a tough nut like the Searcy case. They’d tried every possible tack they could think of—and nothing had panned out.
Tatum had called a meeting of the investigative team this morning, and now, with the room quiet, he bluntly stated his feelings. It might be time to call in reinforcements.
Kyle’s ranch was crawling with deer; that much was certain. But after two hours, Marlin hadn’t spotted any that failed to go on alert as his truck approached. None of them stood motionless in the brush—glassy-eyed and stiff-legged—waiting to be discovered. Granted, Marlin had to stick to the roads or risk getting bogged in the mud, so he couldn’t survey the entire ranch. He’d get a more thorough look when he went up in the chopper. Now, though, as the rain began to fall again, Marlin called it quits and left the ranch.
He wheeled back onto Flat Creek Road and drove east, planning to stop for a late breakfast in Johnson City. As he passed the Waldrips’ driveway, he glanced toward the house and saw a man sitting in the shadows on the covered front porch. He brought his cruiser to a halt. Worth a shot, Marlin thought. He reversed and pulled in. Approaching the house, he recognized Gus Waldrip swaying gently in a rocking chair. Marlin parked, stepped from his truck, and climbed the porch steps.
“Gus Waldrip, right?” Marlin asked, buttoning his down vest.
“How ya doing, Sheriff?” Gus said. The guy was all smiles, as if he’d just heard a good joke. Something odd about it, though. Like the guy’d inhaled too many paint fumes. The temperature was in the upper forties and the guy wasn’t even wearing a jacket.
“I’m not the sheriff, Gus; I’m the game warden. John Marlin, remember? We’ve met a couple of times.”
Gus nodded but didn’t answer.
“You been out of town lately?”
“Here and there.”
Marlin gestured toward a second rocking chair on the porch. “Mind if I sit down?”
Gus g
rinned from ear to ear. “Knock yourself out.”
The voices on the porch woke Duke from his nap on the couch. He cracked the curtains a smidge and saw John Marlin sitting in one of the rockers, just as comfortable as you please. Son of a bitch had made himself right at home. His back wasn’t more than two feet away from the window.
Duke’s heart was picking up speed, so he took a deep breath to calm himself. He knew this moment was bound to happen eventually. They’d get to Gus, ask him all kinds of questions … and Duke would have to sit back and see if his brother could weather the storm. With any luck, Gus would tell the game warden to go fuck himself.
Duke listened in.
“You being gone, you missed a lot of excitement around here, you know that?” Marlin said.
“I’m not supposed to be talking to you,” Gus said.
Good boy, thought Duke.
“Why’s that?”
“Duke says somebody got killed and y’all are running in circles on it. Trying to pin it on him.”
Gus was ad-libbing a little. Duke didn’t have a problem with that, as long as Gus didn’t get in over his head.
“I’m not here to talk about that,” Marlin replied.
“Good. I don’t have nothin’ to say anyhow. I don’t know nothin’. You want more than that, you can talk to my attorney.”
Way to go, bro!
“That’s fine, Gus. No problem.”
There was a long pause, and Duke was tempted to peek out the curtain again. What the hell was happening out there? Had Marlin left? Then Duke heard him speak again.
“Let’s talk about something completely different, then. You ever meet a guy named Oliver Searcy?”
Duke saw what Marlin was doing—trying to trick Gus into talking. Duke realized he was holding his breath, waiting for Gus to answer. You’re smarter than that, Gus. Don’t let him fool you!
“Yeah, I think so,” Gus finally said.
Duke quietly slipped down the hallway to retrieve his shotgun.
27
RED AND BILLY Don waited a good ten minutes after the game warden left before they chanced it. Sneaking onto that ranch was probably some sort of felony, Red knew, especially with the sheriff’s warning sign staring them in the face.
Red crossed the cattle guard and came to a stop. “Run back there and toss that sign in the weeds, will ya? I figure if they catch us out here, we can say we didn’t know better.”
Billy Don pulled his hunting jacket tight and clambered from the truck. He yanked the sign from the stone column and flipped it into the woods.
Five minutes later, Red had negotiated the slick roads of the ranch all the way to the south pasture. The trap was no more than two hundred yards from the kid’s north fence line, but Red had decided it was better to take this more indirect route through the ranch. As far as Red could tell, the kid, Charlie, hadn’t said anything to his parents about the chupacabra. No sense in getting them involved, because sure enough, they’d want a share of the loot. This way—with Kyle Dawson gone—Red could move the animal and claim he’d caught the chupacabra on his own land. How, exactly, would he move it? Well, Red hadn’t gotten to that part yet. First things first.
Red reached behind the truck seat and came out with a couple of rain ponchos.
“Hell no. I’m staying in the truck this time,” Billy Don said.
“The hell you are.”
“I had enough of this bullshit last night. Go check the damn thing yourself.”
Red held up one of the ponchos. “And here I went to the trouble of buying an extra-extra-large, just for your oversized ass.”
Billy Don shook his head. “Leave the heater running.”
“Fine.” Red wrestled with the poncho and finally got it in place. Then he opened his gun case, removed his Colt Anaconda, and tucked it under the folds of his poncho. “Be right back. Don’t play with yourself.”
“Did you see him?”
“Dunno. What’d you say? Oliver Searcy?”
Duke was back at the window now, the shotgun leveled at the curtains. Double-aught buckshot. One blast was all it would take.
“Your brother met him, Gus. I’m just wondering if you ever did, that’s all. Where did you meet him?”
“Duke said he met him?”
“Yeah, over at your office. No big deal, really.”
“Now wait, isn’t that the guy that was killed?”
No answer. Duke risked a look through the curtain. He could see over Marlin’s shoulder, and the game warden was unfolding a piece of paper. A flyer with a photo of Oliver Searcy on it. Duke had seen them posted around town earlier in the week. But Marlin had folded this one so that the MISSING headline wasn’t showing.
“You know him? I think your brother said something about hunting with him,” Marlin said. “Said the guy wanted a big whitetail.”
Duke was in full panic mode now, the shotgun trembling in his hands. The son of a bitch isn’t playing fair! If Gus said he knew the guy—or, even worse, if he said Duke had hunted with Searcy—all hell was going to break loose.
But Gus didn’t say anything.
“You met him, right?” Marlin asked. “Out at Kyle Dawson’s place, or maybe over at your office?”
Still nothing from Gus.
“I’m even thinking y’all might have hunted with him, but you’re both a little worried about telling the sheriff. There’s no reason to be nervous at all. Take a good look, Gus.”
Marlin held the flyer up for Gus to see.
“What kind of deer did he get?” the game warden asked. “Wasn’t it a big ten-pointer with a drop tine?”
How the hell does be know that? Duke pressed his finger against the trigger, ready to give the oh-so-slight tug it would take to send the buckshot roaring out the barrel.
And then Gus said, “Beethoven.”
Duke watched Marlin, who craned his head as if he was listening for music. Duke’s knees nearly buckled in relief. Jesus, he’s listening for the goddamn music!
“Squab,” Gus said.
“Pardon?”
“Alabaster.”
Red picked his way carefully through the trees, trying to follow the same path as the night before. He wanted to get a good look at the trap from a distance, so he wouldn’t spook anything they might have caught. He couldn’t believe Billy Don was such a big baby, complaining about a little rain. Now where was that trap, exactly? The clumps of trees were all starting to look the same. Should’ve marked the spot somehow last night, with some surveyor’s tape or something. Red thought he’d gone too far, so he doubled back and came at it from a different direction. Then he saw a deep footprint in the mud. Had to be one of Billy Don’s. Red’s feet wouldn’t have sunk that deep, and he didn’t wear shoes the size of a pancake griddle. Now he was back on track. Had to be getting close. Okay, there—a huge oak he remembered from the night before. The trap was just on the other side of it. Red eased along, moving slowly, holding his revolver out in front of him. He wanted to be ready, just in case. He finally saw one corner of the steel cage, but he couldn’t see the inside of it. Just a few more steps … and then he saw the trap was empty.
Damn.
“What’s the gun for?”
Red nearly fainted. He swiveled his head, searching for the source of the voice. There. That damn kid, hiding in some bushes.
“Shit, Charlie. You trying to give me heart failure?”
“I saw you drive by, so I climbed the fence.” The kid stepped from the brush and pointed at Red’s gun. “What’d you bring that for? I thought you said you weren’t gonna shoot it.”
Red looked down at his weapon, which was now dripping with rain. “What, this? Well hell, boy, what was I gonna do if I ran into a big ol’ hog? I’m getting a little too old to climb trees.”
“You don’t mind that I talked to him?” Marlin was in the interview room at the sheriff’s department, sitting across the table from Bill Tatum. The other members of the team had gone back in the field after
the meeting.
“Hell no,” Tatum said. “He probably wouldn’t have talked to any of the deputies anyway. Glad you took a shot.”
Marlin had recounted his entire conversation with Gus Waldrip. Twice.
“‘Squab’?” Tatum asked.
“I think that’s what he said. Man, I’ve seen some strange stuff, but that was weird. One minute we’re talking, the next he’s completely zoned out.”
“Faking maybe?”
“If he was, he belongs in Hollywood. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he’s always been pretty quiet, but I’ve never seen … that.”
“But right at first—he did say he’d met Searcy?”
“Well, yeah, sorta. Then he said no.” Marlin blew on the mug of coffee he had poured minutes ago.
Tatum was eyeballing him—looking, Marlin knew, for some sign that they’d learned something useful. Marlin hated to let him down. “Bill, I don’t know. It’s like talking to a six-year-old. Fantasyland, you know? I don’t think we can trust any of it.”
Tatum expelled a long breath and leaned back in his chair. After a pause, he said, “This thing’s eating me up. I’m this close to calling the Rangers.”
Marlin nodded. “Hey, man, if you gotta do it…”
There was a rap on the door and Ernie Turpin stuck his head in. He was smiling. “Y’all got a minute?”
“Come on in,” Tatum said.
Turpin entered and closed the door behind him. “I just drove over to the hospital to see Bobby….”
Marlin remembered that the sheriff had been transferred to Blanco County Hospital that morning.
“Anyway,” Turpin continued, “I was parked near the emergency room entrance, and as I was walking in, I see this guy walking out—carrying a deer mount.” Turpin smiled again. “I want y’all to meet someone.”
He opened the door to reveal a civilian standing in the hall—a man around fifty, with round eyeglasses and a ponytail. He was carrying a green garbage bag. Turpin ushered him into the room. “This is Marty Hommenhoser.”