by Rehder, Ben
“Hoffenhauser,” the man said. “Hi.”
“Mr. Hoffenhauser,” Turpin said, “why don’t you tell them what happened?”
The man plopped the garbage bag onto the table. “A friend of mine got injured. Pretty bad, too. Might lose an eye.”
“What happened?” Tatum asked.
“An accident with a saw. The guy who sold me this thing didn’t warn me about the bolt.”
“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” Tatum said.
Hoffenhauser looked from Tatum to Marlin and back again. “I know this is kinda weird, but I bought a deer head from a guy. I was over at the Kountry Kitchen….”
At that point, Marty Hoffenhauser paused, then pulled the trophy deer mount from the bag. He continued explaining, but Marlin, for one, wasn’t hearing a word. He was leaning forward, then standing, anxious to see the amazing, familiar specimen on the table in front of him.
“Ernie, go grab that X ray,” Tatum commanded, interrupting Hoffenhauser.
“Got it right here.”
“You want to keep your job, don’t you?” Chad Reeves asked. “I mean, if I remember right, your wife just had a baby a couple of weeks ago.”
The man on the phone, Marvin something, didn’t answer right away. “It was twins,” he finally muttered. “And that was four months ago.”
Whatever. All Chad remembered was that somebody had brought a cake and everybody’d made a big deal about it. Like babies weren’t born every single goddamn day. The man was nothing but a video editor anyway—just one of dozens who had passed through the Hard News Tonight offices over the past few years. Chad couldn’t imagine why they always left so quickly.
“You’re asking me to lie for you,” Marvin said, sounding like a whiny ten-year-old girl. For God’s sake, whatever happened to employee loyalty? Chad wondered. Chad himself was as loyal as they came. When the conglomerate that owned Hard News Tonight was bought by a German media tycoon, had Chad’s dedication to the job wavered? Hell no. He’d been willing to fall right into line, goose-stepping all the way to Berlin for the salary he was receiving. Sure, those German execs were a little more tight-assed than Chad was used to, but hey, those were the fortunes of the entertainment war. They had made one thing clear, though, right after the Anthony Hopkins debacle. They didn’t want sleaze. They didn’t want to be viewed as the on-air equivalent of the National Enquirer. They liked innuendo, they loved titillation, and, as far as they were concerned, rumor-mongering was just another tactic to boost ratings. “But for Gott’s sake,” the chairman had chastised Chad, “no more lies. Ve vill haff no more lies.” Chad was worried that if this game warden fiasco came to light, the Germans might not return the loyalty he himself had shown.
“No,” Chad said to Marvin. “No, that’s not it at all. All I’m asking you to do is to believe what I’m saying. And what I’m saying is that it was all Rudi’s idea. I didn’t even know what she was planning until the segment aired. End of story.”
“But…” Marvin said. “But you’re the one who called me. You’re the one who told me what to do.”
Chad snorted. “I don’t think that’s relevant at all.”
“Of course it’s relevant!” Marvin shouted. “How much more relevant can it get?”
Chad let the phone line hum for a few seconds. He wanted to let the man calm down and get his head around this whole idea. He’d come around. “Marvin, I’ll be blunt with you. I think you have a promising career ahead of you. You’ve been a hell of a team player. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re the kind of guy people can count on. The kind of guy who advances lickety-split up the corporate ladder. Know what I mean? Raises, promotions … before you know it, you’re the executive producer. You following me?”
Silence. But Chad knew he almost had him. He just needed to push him over the edge. Make him realize how this industry really worked. “Marvin,” Chad said, “have I ever told you how I got my big break in this business?”
It was the same deer mount. Marlin had no doubt about that. They all knew it, even before they had taken an X ray for comparison. Which was why, four hours later—after fingerprinting it, verifying the results, and then typing up the proper documents—they were in front of Judge Hilton, asking for a warrant. They’d interrupted his dinner, but he’d been happy to carry a leg of fried chicken into his den with him. The judge’s eyes roved from Tatum to Marlin, then to Turpin and Cowan. “Out in force tonight, ain’t we?” he said as he studied the papers.
Tatum gave a nervous laugh. Nobody wanted to sit this one out. They were all vested in the case, and each of them knew it could hinge on the next few minutes. The silence was overwhelming as the judge methodically reviewed Tatum’s affidavit. Turpin shuffled anxiously on Marlin’s right. Tatum remained stock-still, military all the way.
Finally, the judge placed the papers on his desk and removed his glasses. “First Kyle Dawson and now Richard Waldrip, huh?” he said. He clasped his hands together. “Why?”
“Sir?” Tatum said, speaking for all of them.
“What’s changed? Here, let’s back up for a minute. When you came for that warrant on Dawson, you seemed to have your ducks pretty well lined up. Searcy was dead, Dawson was long gone, and you had hard evidence—that lock from his garage. Hell, it all looked good to me. Now you’ve got this new evidence—this deer mount—and you want a warrant for Waldrip’s place. I’m not following the logic here.”
“Sir, Duke Waldrip’s fingerprints were all over the inside of that deer mount.”
None of the fingerprints on the antlers themselves had matched Duke Waldrip’s. The mount had obviously passed through too many hands by that point. But then they had removed the deer hide and exposed the prefab taxidermy form made of synthetic materials. There they’d found what they were looking for.
The judge nodded. “That may be, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer, does it?”
Nobody spoke. The judge wasn’t expecting an answer.
“You haven’t located the trucker yet?” Hilton asked.
“We’re working on it,” Tatum replied.
Marty Hoffenhauser had been able to give a fairly good description, including a cap with an arrowhead design the trucker had been wearing. If they could just find the trucker, perhaps he could shed some light on who was in possession of the mount before he was.
“Folks, what you’ve got so far is circumstantial evidence—and I’m not saying it isn’t promising stuff. But from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t add up to probable cause yet. I’m not even taking the deer mount into account at this point, because Searcy might very well have hunted with Waldrip, and Waldrip could’ve done the taxidermy for him. Waldrip might’ve even cheated the guy, but I’m afraid that just ain’t enough. All it says is that Waldrip lied to y’all—something ex-cons are inclined to do on occasion.”
“Sir, what about Gus Waldrip?” Tatum asked.
“What about him?”
“Well, when John talked to him, Gus indicated that he had met Oliver Searcy, which goes against what his brother told us.”
The judge’s gaze fell on Marlin. “That right?”
“Well, yes, sir … at first.”
“At first?”
Marlin snuck a peek at Tatum, and the deputy’s eyes were pleading: Go on, stretch it a little.
But Marlin couldn’t do it. “He changed his mind later,” he told the judge. “He’s a pretty confused guy.”
Hilton passed the papers back to Tatum, unsigned. “Sorry, folks. If you found anything, it’d get tossed later. You’ll thank me for this. Believe me.”
28
AT HOME, MARLIN took a quick shower and changed into jeans and a flannel shirt. He was sorting through leftovers in the fridge when the phone rang.
“How about dinner again?” Rudi asked. “My treat this time. I’m celebrating.”
“Let me guess. You quit.”
“Actually, no. I was fired, if you want to get technical.”
She promised to tell him the full story when she picked him up. “I’ve got the keys to the rental car,” she said with a wicked laugh, “and I’m not giving it back. Before I’m done, I just might make a cross-country tour.”
She said she’d be there in thirty minutes, and they hung up. Marlin turned to feed Geist, who was hungrily watching his every move, when the phone rang again. It was Tatum.
“I talked to the trucking company, this outfit called Arrowhead Freight, out of Cary, North Carolina. Anyway, you hear about that ten-fifty on Two Ninety last night?”
Marlin groaned. This morning, he’d gotten the details about a wreck that had happened during the storm. A trucker had failed to make a curve, plowed through a guardrail, and plunged into a steep culvert. “Our guy?”
“Would you expect anything else? I swear, just when we think we’re getting a break…”
“Jesus, you’re saying he died?” The last Marlin had heard, the trucker had been taken to a hospital in San Antonio.
“No, but he’s still unconscious, in critical condition.” Tatum had left word with the nursing staff to call if there was any improvement. “Hey, listen,” he said. “I’ve got this devious little plan running around in my mind. Tell me what you think. You haven’t lifted prints from those metal bowls in Dawson’s stable, right?”
“No, I figured it was kind of low on the list of priorities.”
“Yeah, but here’s what I’m thinking. Let me dust ’em, and if we find Duke’s prints, we’ll bust him for the illegal animals. Except I’ll run him in instead of you. And I won’t tell him what I’m arresting him for.”
Marlin chuckled. “Damn, that is devious.”
By the letter of the law, a suspect didn’t have to be formally charged until arraignment. And normally, Marlin would be the one making an arrest for a game violation. If Tatum did it, Duke would definitely be confused.
“If he happens to think he’s getting busted for the Searcy homicide … well, that’s certainly not my fault,” Tatum said. “That just might rattle his cage a little, get him talking again.”
They both knew the fingerprints on the bowls probably weren’t enough to convict him for hunting illegal animals, but in this instance, that wasn’t the point. “You cool with that?” Tatum asked. “Might spoil your case.”
“No problem.” The homicide was much more important.
“I’ll check for prints,” Tatum said. “If we pick him up, I’ll let you know.”
* * *
“How about that one?”
“Ease off the gas, Red, and let me see what the hell it is.”
“I think it’s a dead coon.”
“Naw, it’s just a—damn, stop for a second, will ya? Huh. It’s a shirt.”
“A shirt?”
“Yeah, someone’s work shirt or something.”
“You sure?”
“I know a shirt when I see one. Keep on moving.”
“Any other day, you’re driving along, there’s dead shit all over the road. Now—when we need a coupla good animals—nothing.”
“Man, this is just stupid. That squished armadilla should be plenty.”
“Then why didn’t anything show up last night?”
“Dunno. The rain?”
“Damn, what is it with you and the rain? Animals don’t care about the rain. No, I’m thinking the chupacabra don’t like armadilla. Can’t be any easier than eating a damn lobster. Big ol’ shell to crack and everything.”
“Shit, when’ve you eaten a lobster? You can’t even spell lobster.”
“I’ve eaten my share of lobster.”
“I’m gettin’ hungry.”
“See, what we’ll do is load that trap up with a whole damn smorgasbord of roadkill. Coons, possums, cats, whatever.”
“Smorgasbord of roadkill. Sounds like a Black Sabbath album. I like that.”
“So will the chupacabra.”
They picked Johnson City’s one and only pizza joint, where they were the sole customers. Riding over in the light rain, Marlin had noticed that the town was back to its quiet Sunday evening self. Very few cars on the road. Most of the restaurants were already closing for the night. Now, over slices topped with pepperoni and jalapeño, Rudi told Marlin what had happened.
“I’ve been pretty much ignoring Chad since last night. Barry already flew back. I took him to the airport in San Antonio this morning. He’s as disgusted as I am, and he said he was going to start looking for another job. Anyway, my phone rang a few times this afternoon, but I didn’t answer it. Finally, at about two o’clock, Chad knocks on my door, saying he won’t leave until we talk. So I let him in. He’s looking all nervous, which is completely out of character for Chad. He’s usually Mr. In Control. I ask him what he wants and he says he wants to talk to me about, quote, ‘responsible journalism.’ Get this: He starts going off about how we have a sacred pact with our viewers and hypocritical bullshit like that. I ask him what the hell he’s talking about, and he says, ‘Based on last night’s segment, I’m afraid I have no alternative but to let you go.’ His exact words.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. That self-righteous prick.”
“What’d you do?”
Rudi smiled. “I threw the phone at him. The whole damn thing.”
“You get him?”
“Hell yeah, I got him. But there’s more. It bounced right off his chest, and it made this weird noise, like it hit metal or something. So he fishes into his front pocket and comes out with one of those miniature tape recorders. He was taping the conversation.”
Marlin could see where this was headed. “You better watch yourself. He’s trying to pin it on you.”
She nodded. “Then he says, ‘You’re paying for this thing, you know.’ Can you believe that asshole?”
“You got a lawyer?”
“You better believe I do. Called her right after. And let me tell you, she’s one tough bitch.”
Marlin gave her a deadpan look. “I have no doubt. Takes one to know one.”
Rudi tried to glare at him, but she couldn’t hold it. They laughed in unison.
“God, I feel so good, though!” she said. “Am I supposed to feel this good, without a job and everything? I mean, here I am, unemployed, two thousand miles from home, and I feel great!”
“Plus,” Marlin said, nodding toward the front window, “you’ve got a luxury sedan with unlimited mileage.”
“Damn straight I do. Grand Canyon, here I come. Then maybe Vegas, or up to see the redwoods in Oregon. Wanna tag along?”
Marlin knew she was kidding, but it was a tempting thought. Just to be able to pick up and take off, without a care in the world.
They finished the pizza and—just as she’d promised—she insisted on paying. Outside, the air was crisp, though not as cold as the night before.
She stopped for gas, and Marlin got out to pump it.
“Quite the gentleman,” she said, coming around to stand beside him. “I’m going to run inside and get a Coke. Want anything?”
Marlin noticed the steam from her breath as she spoke, and how she had her hands tucked deep into her jacket pockets for warmth. Their eyes met, and for some reason Marlin couldn’t determine, it was an oddly intimate moment. Like they were old lovers, stopping for gas, following the same routine for the thousandth time. “How about a six-pack of beer?” he said.
She took one step closer. “Are we going back to your place?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, I think so. I’d say it’s time for a little celebration.”
Her jacket came off first, followed by his. Their lips were pressed together, tongues dancing.
Rudi shrugged her blouse off her shoulders, and Marlin placed his hands on her rib cage. “Too cold?”
She shook her head and untucked his flannel shirt, running her hands up his torso, her fingers combing through his chest hair.
He caressed her breasts, tracing the lines of fine lace on her bra, slowly sliding his
hands around to the back.
“It hooks in front,” she whispered, her breath making Marlin’s ear furiously hot. “Hurry.”
29
“DAMN, I FIGURED you’d have called me by now,” Jacob Daughdril, the chopper pilot, said. “Have you been outside? Clear skies, light wind. It’s perfect.”
It was 7:55 A.M., and Marlin was still in bed, wishing the weather hadn’t changed quite so quickly. He cradled the phone to his ear and slid his free hand over the curve of Rudi’s hip. “I’m ready when you are,” he said, hoping Daughdril would be tied up until the afternoon.
“I’ll be at your place at nine.”
Marlin hung up and told Rudi his plans for the morning. “He’s picking me up in an hour.”
She stretched and yawned as she glanced at the clock on his nightstand. “I’d say that’s plenty of time.”
* * *
Daughdril’s chopper was a Robinson R22 two-seater, and he touched it down expertly in a clearing on Marlin’s seven acres. As they gently lifted back into the air, Marlin could see Rudi’s rental car parked in front of his house. She’d promised to be there when he got back. “Where am I gonna go?” she asked. “I’m a woman of leisure now, remember?”
“We doing a deer count this morning?” Daughdril asked as he guided the chopper north. Marlin had told him the destination of their mission but not the objective. “Not exactly,” he said. He told the pilot they would be attempting to spot a deer decoy on a thousand acres of wooded ranchland. Not an easy task.
Daughdril gave a low whistle, but he didn’t ask any questions.
Marlin had ridden in helicopters plenty of times, but he could never get over the view. From one thousand feet, he could see thirty or forty miles in every direction. He’d been up at six thousand feet one moonless night and had spotted the glow of lights in Houston, two hundred miles away. Truly an awesome experience.
The flight to Kyle Dawson’s ranch took about seven minutes, and Daughdril asked Marlin what kind of pattern he wanted to fly. “Is north-south okay,” the pilot asked, “so we won’t have to face the sun?”