by Rehder, Ben
“That’s it, then?” Cowan asked.
Tatum glanced at his watch. “Listen, I’ll make one more run at Waldrip, see if I can get anything new out of him. After that, I’m gonna have to make a call.”
Duke was startled awake by the sound of his cell door opening, and for one brief moment, he was back in Huntsville, the dark early morning suffocating him like a woolen blanket. Panic began to grip his insides … until he remembered exactly where he was. His eyes adjusted and he saw a deputy watching him. Tatum, the short, beefy son of a bitch. Guy looked strong as a bull moose.
“Damn, what now?” Duke said. “Can’t a guy sleep to a decent hour around here?”
Tatum stepped into the cell and stood silently for several moments. Fine. Duke was more than happy to play that game. He rolled over and faced the wall.
“It’s not looking good for you, Duke,” Tatum said behind him. “In case you haven’t heard, we found Kyle.”
Duke’s eyes popped wide. He rolled over slowly and sat up, his back against the wall, one knee up. “What’re you talking about? What happened to—” Duke snapped his mouth shut. The deputy hadn’t said they’d found Kyle’s body; he’d simply said they’d found Kyle. From the deputy’s standpoint, as far as Duke knew, Kyle was still alive. He tried to cover his slipup. “What happened to him? Where’d that cocksucker run off to?”
The deputy leaned against the bars but didn’t answer. Duke was fully awake now and already craving a smoke, but these jerks didn’t allow it in the cells. He’d have to ask Boots about the legality of that bullshit.
“You got something to ask me?” Duke said. “Otherwise, I’d just as soon—”
“I’m wondering about the blood on the chair in your office. You care to tell me about it?”
Duke tried to study Tatum’s face in the dim light, but the man was a stone. Is he bluffing? After all of Duke’s cleaning, could they have found blood? “Something I might’ve left out the last time we talked. That time when Searcy came to see me, the man had a nosebleed.”
The stout deputy smiled, and that threw Duke off balance a tad. Guy had no reason to smile. Tatum walked to Duke’s cot, bent right over into his face, and said, “Bullshit.”
“Hey, whatever. Believe what you want. You could use some Listerine, by the way.”
“I’m not buying it, Duke. You’re saying he just stood there and bled? No handkerchief or nothing?”
“That’s what I’m saying. Bled real fast at first. I got the guy some towels from the bathroom, end of story. Blood on my floor, on the chair. I cleaned it up later.”
“Why are you just now telling me this?”
Duke waved his hand, going for disgusted. “Y’all already made up your minds I done it. What, I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh, by the way—that dead guy? You’ll find his blood in my office.’ Don’t think so. How dumb do I look?”
The deputy crossed his arms. “Tell me about Kyle.”
“What about him?”
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
“What happened where? Man, you’re talking in goddamn riddles again. You ask me a question I understand and maybe I’ll answer it.”
Then Duke changed his mind. Talking to this guy—any cop, for that matter—was plain stupid. Just an idiot’s way to get locked up. “On second thought, I’m all done. You got any more questions, ask my lawyer. I’m tired of trying to help you out.”
Bill Tatum knew it wasn’t enough, not even for an indictment. That smug asshole could sit in there and tell lie after lie, and there wasn’t a damn way Tatum could prove otherwise. Not with what they had so far. Waldrip was either lucky as hell or smart enough to realize the implications of forensic evidence.
Nosebleed, my ass.
The problem was, Waldrip’s story sounded just plausible enough to be true. A trial jury would think, well, hey, we’ve all gotten nosebleeds at some point. Could’ve happened here. With today’s advancements in forensic technology, even grand juries expected each case to be a slam dunk. For God’s sake, in the biggest fiasco of all, O.J.’s team of lawyers had shrugged off a mountain of DNA evidence to set him free. In comparison, what they had in this case was paltry.
Bill Tatum was just so damn tired. Maybe he and Garza should have called the Rangers right when this thing began.
Sitting in his cruiser outside the sheriff’s office, Tatum made the call. “This is Bill Tatum with the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department. Is Lieutenant Foster in yet?”
31
JOHN MARLIN DIDN’T usually eat chocolate-chip cookies for breakfast, but since these were left on his kitchen counter by a sexy, nationally adored TV personality, he figured he could make an exception. The only question was, where had she gotten the ingredients? She’d left a note:
John—
Got bored and played around in your kitchen a little. Hope you don’t mind. Did you know there are places known as “grocery stores,” and you can give them money in exchange for food? (Ha!) I bought a few things, so now that six-pack from last night doesn’t look so lonely. That white stuff in the jug is milk. It comes from cows. Enjoy.
Rudi
P.S. I’m back at the motel—or maybe out exploring the Hill Country by the time you get this. I’ve got my cell phone.
Marlin munched a handful, then brushed his teeth and climbed into the shower. When he got out, there was a message on his answering machine:
“John, it’s Tatum. Listen, I already told Ernie and Rachel, but I wanted you to know … I called Lieutenant Foster in Waco and he’s sending Brad Anderson down here tomorrow morning. I appreciate all your help. I’ll keep you posted.”
Tatum sounded none too happy, and Marlin couldn’t blame him. Brad Anderson was a tough, smart Ranger out of Llano, but for Tatum, it would be tough giving up control of the case.
Marlin picked up the phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
“It’s John. Where are you?”
“On my way to Enchanted Rock,” Rudi said.
“Hey, good choice.”
Enchanted Rock, forty minutes from town, was a massive dome of pink granite that loomed hundreds of feet in the air and covered more than six hundred acres. Visitors from around the world came to the state park to hike to the top of the monumental batholith. The view from the top was breathtaking.
“By the way, thanks for calling me yesterday. Are you just getting up?” Rudi asked.
“No, just getting home.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. Long night. Anyway, I wanted to thank you for the cookies. In person. Maybe tonight?”
“Are pigs dangerous?” Charlie asked.
Mr. Townsend, Charlie’s English teacher, said, “Pigs? You mean like barnyard pigs?”
It was right after class, and most of the students had already filed out of the room. Mr. Townsend was wiping the blackboard.
“No, wild ones.”
“Well, not really. Some of them might get pretty upset if you cornered ’em, or if they were wounded. And the mama pig doesn’t like you messing with her piglets.”
Charlie liked Mr. Townsend a lot, and the teacher was a hunter. Charlie figured Mr. Townsend knew what he was talking about.
“You’ve hunted them, right?” Charlie asked.
“Plenty of times. Are you going on a hunt, Charlie?”
“No, I don’t think so. I just wondered what they were like.”
“Just like any other pig, really, except feral. That means wild.”
Charlie nodded. “Are they scary? I mean, are most men scared of them?”
Mr. Townsend chuckled. “Not anybody who’s hunted them. Most pigs run the other way as soon as they see you. There’s really not much to be scared of.”
For six hours, Marlin slept like he was getting paid for it—the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that comes from being thoroughly whipped and mentally exhausted.
He didn’t hear the ring of the cordless phone, which he’d left in the kitchen, and he
never budged when Trey Sweeney left a message:
“Marlin, are you there? Pick up, will ya? Hel-lllooo? You’re not gonna believe this. I just got some film back from my automatic camera. You remember—I set it up on Kyle Dawson’s place, in the woods near the stable? Threw a deer carcass in front of it last night. Anyway, I checked it this morning and the whole roll of film was shot up. I figured varmints at first, but … man, this is too weird … I’ve got it, John. I know what the chupacabra is. Call me as soon as you can. I don’t want to just blurt it out on your answering machine. So call me.”
The machine beeped and a small red light began to blink. Fifteen seconds later, the phone rang and the machine picked up again.
“Aw, what the heck. It’s a hyena, John. I know, it sounds crazy … but I’ve got twenty-four photos of a friggin’ hyena. Swear to God. Call me as soon as you can.”
Jimmy Earl Smithers, you do-si-do that girl like you mean it! His fifth-grade teacher, fat ol’ Mrs. Griffith, always loved square dancing. Where was he? Who said something about morphine?
Had he paid his electric bill?
Babies really aren’t that cute, when you stop to think about it.
Jimmy Earl couldn’t open his eyes. His head hurt.
I bet kangaroos can kick really, really hard.
He had to get that load of something over to El Paso.
The black guy at the gun shop thinks I have a small penis.
Something wasn’t quite right. Jimmy Earl was so tired.
Six days on the road and I’m gonna make it home tonight.
“Jimmy Earl, can you hear me? You’re in the hospital.”
He wanted to respond, but he couldn’t move his mouth. Or his arms.
Gotta cage that rabid squirrel.
It was nearly one o’clock before Duke finally saw the judge, and he took that as a good sign. If it was a murder charge—which would have been damn big news in Blanco County—they’d have rousted him bright and early, paraded him around for everyone to see. The courthouse would’ve been buzzing with reporters, but when the deputy walked Duke over from the jail, just across the street, there wasn’t a news van in sight.
Three minutes later, he was sitting in the courtroom of Judge Daniel Hilton. He was an older man, maybe in his sixties, and he didn’t look like he had much of a sense of humor. Place was nearly empty, except for an assistant district attorney, a couple bailiffs milling around, and a few sorry-looking punks with their lawyers. Duke had to sit there and listen to their stupid, shitty cases.
One guy was a Mexican busted for driving drunk. Didn’t know a word of English, and there was a lot of confusion about whether he did or didn’t want to plead guilty.
Next came a skinny white boy, maybe eighteen, charged with burglary. Apparently, he’d broken into a hunting cabin and stolen a bunch of rifles. Turned out the cabin was owned by one of the county commissioners. Kid was dead meat.
There were a couple more small-potatoes cases, and then Duke finally heard his name read aloud. Duke stood and faced the judge, a deputy still by his side.
“Richard Anthony Waldrip,” the judge said, reading from some papers. He raised his eyes and glared at Duke. “I notice you don’t have an attorney with you today.”
“Judge, they never even told me what the hell they arrested me for.”
“Mr. Waldrip, you will watch your mouth in my courtroom, do you understand?”
“Sorry, Judge. Just a little pissed … uh, upset about the whole thing. Seems wrong to lock a man up and not tell him why.”
“You are receiving a prompt arraignment, sir, and that’s all that’s required. Now then, the charge against you is possession of a dangerous animal, a Class-A misdemeanor. How do you plead?”
A fucking misdemeanor? Duke had been right all along. It had been a bluff. That deputy had filed this crappy case, one he could never win, purely as a fishing expedition, just so he could pump Duke about Searcy.
“I’m gonna go with not guilty, Judge. In fact, I make a motion to dismiss based on lack of evidence.” What the hell, it was worth a try.
Now the judge gave Duke a stern look, maybe ready to do some cussing himself.
“This isn’t the place for motions. Besides, have you even seen the evidence in this case, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Motion denied.”
Five minutes later, Duke was released on his own recognizance and was free to go. Trial date in two months—but Duke knew it would never get that far.
It took Duke thirty minutes to walk home, and when he got there, the Explorer was still sitting in the driveway. A notice on the front door informed Duke that the sheriff’s department had searched the place, which Duke already knew. They’d searched the office, too, from what the deputies had told him, and hauled his truck away.
Duke swung the front door open, expecting to find Gus on the couch watching TV. But the place was quiet. He walked down the hall and saw that the suitcase was missing from Gus’s bed.
“Gus?”
“Well, you’re right,” Marlin said, scratching his head, still waking up. “No doubt about it. That’s a hyena.”
Trey had fanned out a selection of photos on Marlin’s countertop. All of the photos had been taken at nighttime as the hyena feasted on the deer carcass, and the flash from the camera didn’t appear to have scared the hungry animal at all.
Trey said, “I compared the tracks I lifted to some images I found on the Web, and it’s a match. And the hair we collected from Kyle Dawson’s place seems about right.”
Marlin nodded. “Guess we’re lucky it wasn’t one of the big cats, or something even worse.”
“The question is, what do we do now?”
“What do you mean?”
“How do we go about catching the dang thing? And do we alert the public or not?”
Marlin picked up one of the photos and studied it more closely. The hyena was a fairly fierce-looking creature, with a powerful muzzle and sloping muscular shoulders—but how on earth this animal could have been mistaken for the mythical chupacabra, he had no idea.
“I’m not sure we need to do anything at all, Trey,” he said. “This thing is no more dangerous than a coyote, actually. Chances are, someone will shoot it or trap it. But it’s not like it poses any immediate threat.”
“No, I guess not.” Trey dropped the photo to the counter.
Marlin eyed him. “Disappointed, huh?”
“What? No, not really.”
“You were hoping for something a little more, I don’t know … momentous. Hell, you can see one of those in a zoo.” Frankly, Marlin was relieved. Now they knew exactly what they were dealing with, and it wasn’t much to be concerned about. But if Trey wanted to mount a campaign to capture the hyena, more power to him.
Trey gathered up his photos. “You know, everybody thinks hyenas are just scavengers and cowards, but they’re not.”
Here was Trey, dejected, trying to gather one last ounce of excitement out of it.
“They’re not?”
“Not at all. People think hyenas wait around for lions to finish their kills and then the hyenas creep in and scoop up the leftovers. But most of the time, it’s the other way around. Hyenas are very capable predators.”
Marlin didn’t point out that Trey’s own photos showed the hyena dining on a long-dead whitetail.
“I think I ought to at least let the newspaper know,” Trey said. “Maybe give them a photo or two.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Marlin said. “Good idea.”
For nearly three months—since the beginning of deer season back in November—Marlin hadn’t had a spare moment. Now, suddenly, he found himself with time on his hands. Unless a call came in, his afternoon was free.
He threw a load of laundry into the washing machine, then sat at his computer and did paperwork for several hours. At four o’clock, he put a roast from a wild pig into the oven, nice and low at three hundred degrees. By seven or eight, it would b
e falling apart.
At five o’clock, with an hour of sunlight left, he and Geist stepped out the back door and took a stroll around his seven-acre homestead. The air was crisp, and the dog was full of pent-up energy from being left alone so much in the past few days. She bounded after white-wing doves and even flushed a small covey of quail, but Marlin could tell it was nothing but play. She wasn’t a born hunter and wouldn’t know what to do with one of the birds if she caught it.
Back at the house, Marlin straightened things up, ran the vacuum, and even lit a few candles to freshen the air a bit.
At seven, he returned to his computer, Googled the words spotted hyena, and got a hit from the San Antonio Zoo Web site. The site informed him that the spotted hyena can grow as large as 190 pounds, with females generally larger than males. Bigger than he thought. They can gallop at speeds approaching forty miles per hour and can easily top thirty for several miles while pursuing prey. Trey was correct, too, in that the hyena does more hunting than scavenging. Most of the hyena’s power is in its forequarters and its powerful jaws, which can crush bone. And, of course, there is the hyena trademark: the laughing sound it makes when being attacked or chased.
Maybe Trey was right about trying to trap it. So far, all of the reports had come in from the Flat Creek area, but the Web site didn’t mention the size of a hyena’s home range. Would it remain in the area, or roam into another county? As Marlin searched for more information, the doorbell rang.
He opened the door, and there was Rudi, looking great in the glow of the porch light.
Gus leaned back and listened to the bus engine roar.
This was a lot of fun, really, not knowing where he was going. When he had come back from the bank, Duke was gone, but Gus’s suitcase was sitting right there on the bed. So he’d grabbed it, thumbed a ride to Austin, gotten a cab to the bus terminal, and bought a ticket. But he’d had an episode at the counter, and then, the next thing he knew, he was in a seat. Couldn’t remember what he’d told the ticket agent. Then again, did it really matter? This was an adventure.
Only problem, he’d forgotten his Altoids. He turned to the man next to him, a chubby guy in a business suit.