Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  The shooter was probably already on the shoulder of the road, waiting. Marlin hustled as fast as he dared, knowing that the shooter could be hiding in a hundred different places, his rifle to his shoulder, finger on the trigger.

  Marlin was fifty yards from the road when he heard the diesel engine decelerate. Then a shout. Several voices. Marlin rested his right hand on his revolver and pushed himself harder, thighs burning as he climbed the hill.

  Now he heard the slam of a door. Then the screech of tires as the vehicle gunned it.

  Marlin was practically sprinting now, heart pounding, hoping to catch even a glimpse. The fence was thirty yards away. Twenty yards.

  The roar of the vehicle was quickly receding.

  He closed the gap and finally reached the fence. He could see up the road to the north in the dim light. Taillights, maybe three hundred yards away. He couldn’t see any more than that. Couldn’t tell the make or the model or even the color of the vehicle.

  He sprinted for his truck to give chase, and as he approached from the front, he saw that the vehicle was sagging conspicuously.

  Passenger-side tire was flat.

  Son of a bitch.

  The first deputy, Ernie Turpin, came roaring down the county road less than eight minutes later, siren screaming and cherries painting the surrounding countryside vivid red and blue.

  By then it was fully dark. Marlin stepped well off the pavement, almost to the fence, until Turpin’s headlights picked up the truck on the side of the road and the deputy began to hit the brakes. When he came to a stop, still in the lane of traffic, Marlin walked out to greet him.

  “You okay?” Turpin asked.

  “Yeah. You see any vehicles at all on your way down here?”

  “Not a one. They must’ve made it to the highway before I turned off.”

  Marlin’s hands were still trembling, and he could feel the moisture in each armpit. He was even a little light-headed.

  “Well, damn,” he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Hostesses.

  That was the topic Aleksandra Babikova had been researching for the cable TV sports program when the idea for her new career had struck her.

  “Hostesses” was the term for friendly—and usually attractive—college girls who chaperoned football recruits during on-campus visits. There were rumors that some of these hostesses used sexual favors to obtain commitments from highly prized recruits, with the implicit approval of the athletics department.

  Interesting. But what did the hostesses get in return? It appeared they got nothing at all. Aleksandra could not understand it. These young ladies were perhaps morally compromising themselves in a way that might haunt them for years to come—but at the same time, it was undeniable that they were offering a valuable service. If they were going to behave like prostitutes, why were they not asking for compensation, which they would surely receive? Then Aleksandra read that most of the hostess groups had been disbanded by the universities after the media began to question the propriety of such groups. That had created a void in the world of recruiting.

  And thus Aleksandra’s idea was born.

  It was an amusement, at first. A daydream. But with each passing day, it had begun to seem more practical and plausible. She had discovered a market demand that was crying to be filled. Didn’t it make sense to explore this opportunity?

  But how to get started? Did it have long-term potential as a career? And—considering that she had no intention of actually sleeping with the players—would less licentious tactics suffice? She would have to know the answers to those questions before she could expect to be paid. Not only would she have to know the answers, her potential clients would also have to know the answers. She would have to prove herself beforehand.

  So Aleksandra concocted a plan.

  She paid a ridiculous amount for a ticket to the game between the University of Middle Texas and Oklahoma Tech University—one of the biggest rivalries in college football—and then she managed to locate one of OTU’s most enthusiastic boosters in the bleachers. She had done her research on this man. Extremely wealthy. Outspoken. Brash. He visited Las Vegas often, where he drank large amounts of whiskey and enjoyed the companionship of many beautiful women. He had also been suspected many times of offering cash to key football players. He laughed about it in interviews. Did not deny it. Did not confirm it. The university itself publicly disassociated itself from the booster and condemned these sorts of practices. It was clear that the OTU coaches were not involved in any of this booster’s alleged illicit practices.

  But Aleksandra did not need the coaches to be involved.

  During the game, she waited in the concourse. The booster was seated on the fifty yard line—in the shade, befitting a man of his stature, because even though the game took place in October, the temperature often hovered in the upper eighties or even the low nineties. Today it was eighty-seven, which gave Aleksandra an excuse to dress in a tight, revealing outfit—meaning she was dressed like most of the other young women in attendance.

  Midway through the second quarter, the booster made a trip to the men’s room. Aleksandra waited until he had relieved himself, because he would’ve been impatient if she had approached him beforehand.

  When he emerged, she walked up to him and said, “Mr. Guthrie?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She recognized the look on his face. Do I know you? He was an important man who met hundreds, or even thousands, of people every year, in a variety of social and business environments. She could be one of them. But he did not ask the question, because that would have been rude. He simply waited for her to speak.

  And she did, getting right to it. “What if I told you I could get Duane Smith to commit to OTU within one week?”

  He had been looking at her breasts, obviously enjoying what he was seeing, but this remark brought his eyes back up to hers. He laughed. “I’d say more power to ya, because that boy’s been playing his cards close to his vest for months.”

  Aleksandra did not understand why he was talking about vests, but that was not a concern. She handed him a business card with nothing on it except her first name and a phone number.

  “He will select OTU. This one I will do for free.”

  Up to now, he had appeared amused by what she was saying. Now he looked skeptical—and intrigued. “Free? Who are you?” he asked.

  She had already begun to walk away, but now she turned and mimicked a gesture she had seen many Americans make. She held an imaginary phone to her ear and mouthed two words.

  Call me.

  Duane Smith committed to OTU four days later.

  CHAPTER 15

  Dexter Crabtree had seen a therapist once. Literally, once. This was five years ago, when he’d still been married to the she-devil named Gretchen, Ryan’s mother.

  She used to complain that he was totally consumed by college football—that it had become such an integral part of his identity, of his personality, of the fabric of his very being, that he couldn’t live without it. The first thing he did every morning and the last thing he did every night was log on to various websites for the latest information on UMT specifically and college football in general. He checked player stats, injury reports, recruiting updates, conference standings, national rankings, pre-game analyses, post-game analyses, staff firings and hirings, and every little nugget or morsel of news that came from any legitimate writer, critic, or prognosticator.

  He subscribed to eighteen glossy four-color magazines. He “liked” more than two hundred football-related Facebook pages. He received tweets from players, coaches, universities, athletic directors, even cheerleaders. He listened to more than a dozen sports-oriented talk radio programs.

  One time, in an incident Dexter could only describe as perverted and sadistic, Gretchen had surreptitiously timed his activities on a randomly selected Saturday. The results: Thirty-six minutes eating. Forty-nine minutes showering, shaving, and taking care of other matters of personal hygien
e. Thirteen hours and seven minutes dedicated to college football. And this was in the off-season, so it didn’t include any actual watching of games.

  He had to concede, he might have a problem. So when Gretchen badgered him into seeing a therapist—“Just go once and see what he says”—Dexter agreed. And, of course, after one fifty-minute session, the counselor concluded that Dexter might benefit by “broadening his interests and placing less of an emphasis on college athletics.”

  Dexter served Gretchen with divorce papers the following afternoon.

  Such a relief. No more nagging. No more bitching and whining. Not long after that, Dexter realized that NCAA officials were just like an overbearing wife. They were always taking the fun out of everything, and wanting to regulate everyone’s behavior. The NCAA classified Dexter, and other boosters like him, as a “representative of athletics interests” for the University of Middle Texas. Once you were identified as a representative of athletics interests for a particular university, that categorization stuck with you forever. You couldn’t shake it. It followed you to the grave.

  And along with that designation came a long list of recruiting no-nos. You couldn’t offer cash to a prospective student athlete or members of his family. No loans, either. You couldn’t promise employment after graduation. No free cars, no free housing, on and on.

  Nag, nag, nag.

  Another biggie: you couldn’t even contact an athlete, or any member of the athlete’s family, by any means—in person, by phone, email, letter, Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media.

  But Dexter knew that becoming a national champion meant you couldn’t always follow the rules. Just like in his playing days. Sometimes you had to say fuck it and take some risk. Not that you threw all caution to the wind. He and Ryan had spent the better part of the previous day trying to figure out a way to make contact with Colton Spillar. But he was in school, and after school he was in football practice, and after practice, he went straight home.

  Fortunately, Dexter had another option.

  “I know it’s a pain in the ass, but let’s go through it one more time. The shooter—describe him for me.”

  “Tall. Wearing camo or dark colors.”

  “How tall was he?” Garza asked.

  “Well over six feet.”

  “Like six-two, six-three?”

  “More like six-five. Maybe even taller,” Marlin said.

  “Hair color?”

  “Wearing a hat, I think. Orange.”

  “Dark orange or light orange?”

  “I don’t know. Orange. Hard to tell for sure, because he was in the shadows and the sun was right in my eyes.”

  “Like the color of an actual orange?” Garza asked.

  “Well, no, darker than that.”

  “Like burnt orange? Maybe it was a UT cap.”

  “Not quite that shade.”

  “Could you see his hair at all?”

  “Don’t think so,” Marlin said.

  “Fat? Thin?”

  “Average. Not slender, not heavy.”

  “Age?”

  “No clue.”

  Bobby Garza paused for a moment to take a sip of coffee. It was seven forty-five in the morning and they were seated on the porch of Marlin’s house, enjoying a cool dawn. A team of deputies was at the widow’s property—had been there since first light—looking for brass, boot prints, tire tracks, anything that might help track down the shooter. Marlin wasn’t holding out much hope. The guy was too calm and collected to leave brass. The ground was too rough and rocky for prints. Tire tracks on pavement? Good luck.

  “You said it was a diesel engine.”

  “No doubt about that. You know how distinctive they sound.”

  “So a truck, most likely.”

  “Probably several years old, because the newer diesels are quieter. The older ones you can hear coming from a mile away.”

  “Color?”

  Marlin shook his head, but he knew it was necessary to run through all of this again. “Nothing’s changed since last night. Still don’t know.”

  “Dark? Light?”

  “I’d be guessing. All I could really see is taillights.”

  “How about the voices?”

  “Two of them, I think. Maybe three. All male.”

  “Deep? High?”

  “Average.”

  “Could you make out any words?”

  “Wouldn’t swear on it, but it sounded like one guy said ‘fucking idiot.’”

  “That’s new.”

  “I thought about it overnight, and I sort of replayed it in my head. It had that cadence. Two syllables, then three. Hard to explain, but I think that’s what he said.”

  “Like maybe someone in the truck was telling the shooter he was a fucking idiot?”

  “Could be. Or the shooter was saying that about me.”

  Bobby said, “Any chance there was a dog box in the bed of the truck?”

  Marlin laughed. “That would narrow it down, huh? No, I couldn’t see a dog box. Doesn’t mean there wasn’t one.”

  The door opened and Nicole stepped out onto the porch, dressed for work. Garza rose and gave her a quick hug. Then she held him at arm’s length and said, “Bobby, will you do me a favor?”

  “Catch the guy who shot at your husband?”

  “Exactly. Then boil him in oil.”

  Garza grinned.

  “We don’t know that he shot at me,” Marlin said. “In fact, I think he might’ve just been shooting near me. Playing head games.” It was a theory that had crossed his mind in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep. After all, why had the man waved first? Why not just shoot? A 150-yard shot with a deer rifle wouldn’t be difficult for an experienced shooter, especially if he rested the rifle in the crook of a tree.

  “You don’t know that for sure, and it doesn’t matter anyway,” Nicole said. “I don’t care if he shot above you, below you, beside you, or around you, I still want him caught—and punished with extreme prejudice. Is flogging an option? Oh, the rack! We could build a rack!”

  “Gotta catch the guy first,” Marlin said.

  “And it sounds like I’d better catch him before Nicole does,” Garza added.

  “Only if you want someone you can still question.” She turned to Marlin, leaned down and gave him a kiss. “Gotta run. Call me later, okay? And be careful.”

  After Nicole left, Marlin said, “Need anything else from me?” He didn’t even ask if he could take part in the search for the shooter, because it wasn’t an option. It wasn’t easy for an officer who’d been shot at to remain objective. It would be too tempting to let emotions override protocol. So Marlin would step aside and let Garza and his deputies conduct the investigation.

  “Just keep digging into the Sammy Beech case for me, if you can.”

  “Where does that stand?”

  “Bill and Ernie interviewed a bunch of Sammy’s friends yesterday and learned absolutely nothing. If Sammy had any enemies, or anybody even just a little bit angry at him, none of the kids knew about it. I’m starting to wonder if it was a road-rage incident. Maybe Sammy cut around somebody on his bike and they didn’t like it.”

  “Boy, I hope not.”

  Neither man needed to state the obvious—that if Sammy had had a chance encounter with a dangerous stranger, the case would be much harder to solve.

  Marlin said, “What about the shell casings?”

  “Henry was only able to lift one usable print—from the nine millimeter—and it didn’t get a hit. So nothing there. Meanwhile, I dug way back through Sammy’s Facebook page, his email, his cell records, and there’s nothing unexpected. Wait. There was one thing that raised my curiosity. Maybe. Don’t know why. Sammy had all the usual teenager stuff on his cell phone. Hundreds of texts, songs, games, videos. A lot of pictures, too, mostly of his friends. But there was one photo that just seemed out of place. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  Garza removed his own phone from a holster on his belt. Turned it
on and began thumbing through various menus.

  He said, “Here, take a look.”

  He passed the phone to Marlin.

  On the screen was a photo of a woman. An incredibly beautiful woman, with long, straight, black hair. Early or mid-twenties. And nude from the waist up. She was standing, in profile, wearing a snug skirt, and in the process of putting on or removing a bra. Red lace with black trim.

  Vera Spillar, Colton’s mother, worked as a cashier at the Wal-Mart in Marble Falls, about twenty minutes north of Johnson City. Dexter waited until her lane was empty of customers, then he approached with a single pack of Juicy Fruit gum. He chewed a lot of gum. It helped burn off some of the excess energy. In fact, his dentist had actually warned him to chew less gum, because he was wearing his molars prematurely. Dexter had tried going without gum for a few days, but he clenched his teeth all the time and ended up with a sore jaw.

  “Is that gonna be it?” Vera Spillar asked with a fake smile.

  She couldn’t have been more than forty-five years old, but Jesus, what a hag. Gray hair that she’d apparently given up on. Very little make-up. Lifeless eyes. Wrinkles. Bags. Worry lines. A defeated slump to her posture. Perfect. Dexter was glad to see it all. This was a woman who needed something good to happen in her life. This was a woman who needed a bolt of wonderful out of the clear blue sky.

  “Just the gum,” Dexter said. He’d made Ryan wait in the car.

  Vera Spillar rang it up and said, “Eighty-three cents.” Still smiling. How did she manage that? If Dexter pushed cash register buttons for a living, he’d go home and swallow drain cleaner.

  He smiled back and handed her ten one-hundred dollar bills.

  Now she frowned. Total confusion. Didn’t know what to make of the money in her hand.

  He said, “Keep the change. But take a bathroom break and meet me out front in five minutes. There’s plenty more where that came from.”