Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  “Bill and Ernie will handle that today. They’ll go out to the school and pull some of the kids from class.”

  “Did they find any brass yesterday?”

  “They did, but the problem is, they found too damn much. Three handgun shells and a couple of rifle shells—all different calibers.”

  “Okay, so one of those shells could be from the shooter, and the others were already out there from poachers or idiots shooting at road signs or whatever. That kind of thing.”

  “That’s what we’re thinking.”

  “The audio from that video is pretty crummy, but it sure sounds like a handgun to me.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Unless it’s not,” Marlin said.

  “I love a man willing to stand by his opinions.”

  “What caliber were the handgun shells?”

  “A mixed bag,” Garza said. One nine millimeter, one .38, and one .357. I figure we can rule out the .357 since it’s a revolver and the brass wouldn’t eject.”

  “Makes sense. Also I’d say the audio sounds like just one handgun, or two guns of the same caliber, rather than two different calibers. But I figure just one gun.”

  Garza said, “I think so, too, and that helps. Wouldn’t you agree that if it’s a handgun, there’s a better chance the shooter was alone? Because it would be damn difficult to drive and shoot a rifle at the same time.”

  “Absolutely. And any driver shooting a handgun, or even a rifle, would have to be shooting left-handed. Although I have no idea how that’s helpful.”

  Garza frowned. “Wait a sec. If you’re shooting a semi-automatic outside a car window—the way the brass ejects, it would likely end up inside the vehicle, don’t you think?”

  Marlin sat back down. “Maybe. Not necessarily. If the shooter had his arm extended out past the windshield—which seems likely to me—the casing would probably bounce off the glass and over the roof.”

  Garza thought about it, then raised his left hand, like he was holding a gun, trying to visualize shooting from a moving vehicle. “Yeah, I’d say you’re right. And now that I think about it, if the shooter wasn’t really trying to hit Sammy, he’d be shooting downward at the pavement or up into the air or across the road.” Garza stuck his left arm straight out, like he was making a left turn. “Like this.”

  Marlin said, “Of course, there’s the chance that none of the brass is from the shooter.”

  “Bite your tongue. Henry is processing those shells as we speak. All I want is one good fingerprint. Wouldn’t it be great to have a solid suspect by day’s end?”

  “Hate to remind you, but it’s rained a couple of times since then.”

  “You are a constant ray of sunshine and optimism.”

  “Glad to help.”

  They both went quiet for a minute.

  Marlin said, “Find anything else useful on Sammy’s phone?”

  “Nothing obvious. Something might prove useful later.”

  Marlin stood up again. “I feel like I’m forgetting to tell you something.”

  “Will you be out again all night tonight?”

  “I hope not. I’ve always got reinforcements, if it gets too crazy.” Marlin had alerted game wardens in five neighboring counties about the situation with the pig bounty, and the subsequent influx of hunters. All of those wardens were ready and willing to respond to calls in Blanco County, as needed. In fact, some of the younger ones were envious that Marlin had so many calls to keep him busy. Marlin remembered the days when he was that gung-ho himself.

  “Okay, then let’s touch base later,” Garza said. “When you wake from your beauty sleep.”

  Marlin’s phone rang. A rancher wanted assistance rounding up a loose bull on Ranch Road 3232. Marlin said he’d be there in twenty minutes.

  When he hung up, Garza said, “You’d better turn that thing off for awhile or you’ll never get any rest.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Roy Ballard made sure that the man who was hiring him understood that he was not a private investigator.

  “Then what are you exactly?” the man asked.

  “I play the handsome stranger on various daytime dramas. Other times I play the handsome newcomer, or maybe the handsome bystander.”

  “On soap operas? You’re kidding.”

  “Actually, yes, I am kidding. I’m a legal videographer.”

  The man—his name was Grady Beech—smiled. “Okay, gotcha. Good.”

  They were seated at a table in a building called the tasting pavilion at Grady Beech’s winery. Grady Beech happened to know one of Roy Ballard’s largest clients—a woman who worked in a large insurance firm—and she had given Beech Roy’s name and number. Beech had called yesterday afternoon, and Roy had driven out from Austin this morning for this meeting. They were the only two people in the pavilion at the moment, but it was early. Not even eleven o’clock yet. Roy figured most people, even vacationers, didn’t visit a winery this early.

  “So you’re familiar with the exciting and fast-paced world of legal videography?” Roy asked.

  “Well, no, not even a little bit, but I’m guessing it involves videography.”

  “Indeed it does. I can explain it further if you’d like, but it’s kind of boring, so I won’t be offended if you say you’d rather plunge that corkscrew into your eyeball.”

  “I’ll admit I’m curious, because Heidi said you were kind of like a private eye. And that you’re very good at it.”

  “Well, Heidi is a sweetheart, but she hasn’t been the same since she started smoking hashish.”

  Beech grinned at him. Nice to see a client—especially one in Beech’s situation—who managed to retain a sense of humor.

  “Let’s hear it,” Beech said. “What does a legal videographer do?”

  “Brace yourself. What I do is videotape all sorts of stuff that might be used in a legal proceeding. Getting testimony from witnesses. Documenting the scene of an accident. Site and workplace inspections. But my specialty is catching people committing insurance fraud. In fact, that’s pretty much all I do.”

  “Okay, now it makes sense. These people committing fraud—you follow them around until they trip themselves up, right?”

  “Exactly. Some guy with a bad back might decide to go water skiing or do the hokey-pokey.”

  “I’ve seen videos like that. So that part’s kind of like being a private investigator.”

  “Maybe, but I need to be clear that I’m not licensed for P.I. work, so I can’t really—”

  “This would be totally unofficial. Off the books. I could even pay cash, if you wanted.”

  “I prefer Kruggerands. But a personal check is fine, too.”

  Beech took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was struggling with something. “Okay, I might as well get to it—the reason I asked you to come out.”

  Roy said, “If it helps, I did some Googling, so I know a little bit about the situation with your son. The way he died, and the new developments. You have my condolences.”

  “I appreciate that—but I need you for something else entirely.”

  That took Roy by surprise.

  “It’s not about Sammy,” Beech said. “It’s about Leigh Anne. My wife.”

  Just after seven o’clock that evening, Red O’Brien turned the corner onto Billy Don’s street, saw a light-green Prius, and let loose with a long and colorful string of profanities commonly reserved for male members of the homosexual community. Many of the aspersions were hyphenated compound words. Some were Red’s old favorites, others he created right then, on the fly.

  Red didn’t know the reason, other than the obvious, but he didn’t like this guy Armando at all. Maybe it was because Armando said things that were almost insults, but not quite. Like he was goading you. Trying to see how far he could push it without getting punched in the face.

  And, of course, there was the gay thing. Red honestly didn’t have a problem with homos, as long as they had the common courtesy to keep it to themselves. Se
riously, why did they feel the need to flaunt it in public? It wasn’t like Red went around showing off how straight he was. But Armando was just so open about it. Like he expected people to just accept it and treat him like a normal person.

  Nope, Red didn’t like it, and he had been hoping he’d never see the florist again. But here was the Prius, parked in front of Betty Jean and Billy Don’s house again.

  Up until that moment, Red had been feeling pretty good—except for a mild yet insistent hangover. Last night, after sundown, he’d sat on his back porch with an ice chest full of Keystone Light and listened for rifle shots. Wasn’t long before it sounded like a dadgum shooting gallery out there.

  Of course, that much shooting was both good and bad. It meant there were a lot of hunters out there gunning for the pig. But it also meant he and Billy Don could hunt on the Kringelheimer Ranch and shoot as many times as they wanted.

  Earlier today, Red had gotten out of bed at the crack of ten-thirty and driven out to the Kringelheimer place to set up for a hunt that night. Fortunately, Red had acquired a useful set of habits and skills as a poacher that he had refined over the years, and now he put them into use. For starters, he replaced the lock on the gate with one of his own. The day before, when Red and Billy Don had hunted on the ranch, Red had simply cut the lock and left it hanging in place, so it appeared to be undisturbed. Good enough to pass a drive-by inspection by the game warden, but obviously not good enough to pass a hands-on look-see.

  Being a frequent trespasser, Red kept an extensive inventory of combination and keyed padlocks on hand—every common brand and model—for just this type of occasion, so he was able to replace the original lock with an identical lock. Granted, some landowners voluntarily gave the combination or a duplicate key to the game warden, so the warden could have access to the place even when the owner wasn’t around. But Red was confident Kringelheimer hadn’t done that, because the rancher was a proud Tea Party member, and the last thing he’d do is voluntarily grant some jackbooted government thug access to the ranch.

  Next, Red drove to the tower blind where they’d hunted the day before, hammered a T-post into the ground, and mounted a solar-powered spotlight on it, aiming it directly at the deer feeder. The word “spotlight” made it sound more powerful than it really was. This light actually cast a beam no brighter than a regular flashlight—almost like moonlight. Wouldn’t spook the animals. Which was why Red had been using this particular type of spotlight for the past few years. He’d learned the hard way that a big old million-candlepower spotlight—the kind that could light up an entire oat field—did nothing but get you in trouble. Wardens could see those things from miles away, and they knew the county well enough that they could pinpoint exactly where the spotlighting was taking place. With this little solar jobbie, Red could pop a deer—or, in this case, a pig—with a .22 magnum and nobody would be the wiser. Stealth. That was the key.

  After that, Red had scattered a five-gallon bucket of soured corn near the feeder, because pigs had powerful noses, and the gut-churning stench of soured corn could carry for miles. There were some other tricks you could do with the corn, like digging a deep posthole and dumping the corn down inside. The pigs would hang around that hole for hours, digging and eating, digging and eating. Of course, as soon as you popped one, any other pigs hanging around would generally run off. You had to be a pretty good shot to hit a running pig.

  Red loved the thrill of the hunt. And tonight would be even more exciting, because $50,000 was on the line. So, as Red passed the Prius, he decided he wouldn’t let Armando dampen his spirits. Or Betty Jean, either. She would probably be home by now, but Red could avoid dealing with her and Armando both by not even going inside the house. Easy solution.

  So Red honked the horn once, good and firm.

  Waited a minute. A very long minute.

  He started to honk again, but then decided not to, because it was an almost sure bet that Betty Jean would appear at the door and tell him to shut the hell up.

  So he waited, and before long the front door opened and Billy Don appeared in the doorway. He waved at Red to come on inside the house. Red shook his head and waved for Billy Don to come on and get in the damn truck. Billy Don held up one finger, meaning Give me a minute.

  Good. No going inside.

  Red waited again. Several minutes. What the hell was Billy Don doing in there? Red was tempted to honk again, but why risk the wrath of Betty Jean?

  Finally the door opened again, and here came Billy Don, carrying his rifle case and a small ice chest. And right behind him was Armando, carrying the camo-patterned canvas bag Billy Don used to tote snacks, binoculars, more snacks, extra ammo, and other crap. Wasn’t it just like a gay guy to be all helpful and stuff? Red figured it was like some sort of mothering instinct. Whatever. It wasn’t going to bother him. But he decided that if Armando made a single smart-ass comment, Red wouldn’t put up with it. Gay or not, Red would bust him across the mouth. It might be like hitting a girl, but Red would do it anyway.

  When Billy Don opened the passenger door, he had a mischievous grin on his face, like he was up to something. He said, “Hope you don’t mind, but Armando wants to go with us.”

  After helping with the loose bull, then answering a call about some dove hunters shooting birds off a power line, Marlin had managed to go home, have lunch, then sleep for four hours. Then he’d taken a leak and slept for two more hours. When he woke, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Not a single voicemail. Outstanding. He’d received a text from Nicole.

  Working late. Where are you?

  She’d sent it twenty minutes earlier. He tapped out a reply.

  Home. Just woke up.

  She said: Another busy night tonight?

  Quiet right now. Crossing my fingers. Meet me for supper?

  He rose from the bed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he was done, she’d sent another text.

  Love to. Where?

  He was just about to respond when his phone rang. A widow living on five hundred acres not far from Grady Beech’s place was calling. “I saw somebody moving around in that creek bottom on the west side of my place. I was over there checking the deer feeder.”

  Marlin heard from this elderly woman several times a year, and more often than not, she was mistaken about what she’d seen. She was a tough old gal—he’d seen her hoist a fifty-pound bag of corn onto her shoulder and carry it at least a hundred feet—but her senses weren’t quite as sharp as they used to be.

  “But you’re not positive there’s anybody there?”

  “I saw ’em through my binoculars. Two or three of ’em.”

  “They’re on your land and not across the fence?”

  “That’s right. Ten minutes ago.”

  “Did you talk to them?”

  “Nope. Just turned around and called you.”

  “Have you leased the place out to anybody?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did you hear any shots?”

  “What?”

  “Have you heard any shots?”

  “Of course I’ve been hearing shots. Between the dove hunters and this damn-fool pig contest, I’ve been hearing shots all day.”

  Marlin smiled. She got him on that one. “I’ll be right over,” he said. “You stay in the house, okay? I’ll check it out, and then I’ll drive around and tell you what I found.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “You sure are quiet, Red,” Billy Don said.

  Red was going to kill Billy Don. Murder him in cold blood, first chance he got.

  They were sitting in the 12-foot tower blind on the Kringelheimer Ranch, all three of them crammed into the tight space. Even worse, Armando was in the middle. Red kept bumping arms with him, and that was giving him the willies.

  “That’s because we’re hunting, Billy Don,” Red whispered. “Everybody knows you’re supposed to be quiet when you’re hunting. Ask Elmer Fudd.”

  “Oh, come on. We always talk a li
ttle bit when we hunt. The feeder’s a hundred yards away. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hear us if we keep it low.”

  When Billy Don had announced that Armando was coming along, Red had been struck speechless. Why would Billy Don want that? And even more odd—what kind of homosexual wanted to go hunting? It just didn’t make sense. Homosexuals did things like, well, arrange flowers and listen to show tunes. While Red was trying to process the situation, Armando scooted into the truck, all prissy-like, and Billy Don piled in after him.

  At that point, Red couldn’t very well have told Armando to get out. That would’ve been just plain rude, and Red understood that gay people were extremely sensitive. Less like men and more like women. It would’ve created an ugly scene, and Red wasn’t up to it.

  The other irritating thing was that Red had no doubt that Billy Don knew exactly what he was doing. Trying to be clever. Like when you’re at a party and you intentionally introduce your friend to the ugliest girl in the room, saying they have a lot in common, then you excuse yourself to get a cocktail, leaving your friend stuck with the uggo. Not cool, but it was sometimes pretty funny.

  Regardless, Red had made one thing clear on the drive to the ranch—if they managed to shoot the right pig, Armando didn’t get any of the bounty. Not one cent. He was simply along for the ride. Nobody had argued about that.

  “I still don’t understand whose property this is,” Armando said. “Did you say it was your uncle?”

  Red noticed that Armando had his legs crossed at the knees, and his hands were folded neatly on top of his thighs. The guy even sat like a gay man. Plus, the clothes he was wearing were all wrong for hunting. Slacks, loafers with silly little tassels, and yet another shirt that looked more like a woman’s blouse.

  “Yeah, he’s my uncle,” Red said. “He don’t mind if we hunt here. Lives in Houston.”

  Nobody said anything for several minutes. Dusk was coming. The pigs would be starting to move. Red had already heard several shots in the past few minutes.