Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  “Bobby Garza! How the hell are ya?”

  “Doing real good, Jerry, and you?”

  “Quiet around here lately, and I think I have you to thank. I heard about the pig scramble going on in your neck of the woods. Anyone get the right pig yet?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Boy, if I had an extra fifty grand, I believe I could go ahead and retire, and damn, wouldn’t that be nice.”

  Garza smiled. “Come on over and give it a shot.”

  “Hell, I’m too old for that. Must be a madhouse over there.”

  “Believe it or not, things haven’t been as crazy as you’d think. We figure most of these guys want the reward so bad, they don’t want to blow their chances by getting busted. So they’re staying out of trouble, for the most part. Plus, there’s no need to trespass, because the locals recognize a gold mine when they see it.”

  “Meaning there’s some high-dollar day leasing going on?”

  “Exactly. Some of these ranches haven’t been hunted in years, but now they’re open for business.”

  “Well, something must’ve happened over there, or you wouldn’t be calling me.”

  “Yeah, there’s something I’m hoping you can help me with.” Garza went on to describe Marlin’s run-in with the man across the ravine on the widow’s property.

  “Your warden okay?” Sharp asked.

  “He’s fine. Thinks maybe the guy was playing mind games.”

  “Did he get a good look at the shooter?”

  “Not so great, because the sun was in his eyes. But he knows the man was very tall. Six-four, six-five. Wearing an orange cap.”

  “Blaze orange?”

  “Darker. More like burnt orange.”

  There was a slight pause. Then Sharp said, “Any chance the guy actually had orangish hair?”

  Garza grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask that, but I didn’t want to lead you. You know someone who meets that description?”

  “Oh, you bet I do. Gilbert Weems. One of my best customers. And I’m telling you right now to be careful with that one.”

  “How so?”

  “The man is about a full-on sociopath, if you want my opinion. Violent as hell. Gets in bar fights about once a month, usually beating up some poor son of a bitch pretty bad. His girlfriend filed a protective order against him last year for breaking her nose, but she dropped it later. He’s a cruel dude, and he gets off on being a bad boy. This whole deal—taunting your warden, and sending a couple shots in his direction—that sounds exactly like something Weems would do. Just a matter of time before he kills someone.”

  “Sounds lovely. Who does he hang with?”

  “That’s easy. He ain’t got but two friends—Dustin and Dylan Bryant. Twin brothers. They’re no angels, but they ain’t nearly as bad as Weems. Weems is always the instigator.”

  “How are these Bryant brothers on loyalty?”

  “Meaning would they flip on Weems? Hell, yeah, if they were facing serious charges. In a heartbeat.”

  Roy Ballard, the legal videographer, considered it a bonus when the subject of his surveillance was a gorgeous woman. Was that sexist? Maybe. He could live with that. After all, if you were going to spend a lot of hours—if not days or even weeks—watching someone, it was undeniably a more enjoyable experience if the subject was female and easy on the eyes, like Leigh Anne Beech.

  Right now, Roy was watching Leigh Anne’s tail end—well, her BMW’s tail end—as it cruised east on Highway 290 toward Austin. Ballard was about two hundred yards back. Barely a dot in her rearview mirror. A discreet distance. Didn’t matter if he lost her temporarily, because the GPS tracking device he’d installed on the BMW would lead him straight to her via real-time maps on Roy’s laptop or cell phone. It would also provide details if she went anywhere when Roy wasn’t following her. Helpful, because he couldn’t follow her 24 hours a day. Had to sleep sometime. And Grady Beech had agreed to alert Roy when he knew in advance that Leigh Anne was planning to leave the house.

  “It’s not about Sammy,” Grady Beech had said the previous morning. “It’s about Leigh Anne. My wife.”

  It was easy to predict what was coming after that, but Roy had asked anyway. “What’s up with your wife?”

  Beech didn’t just spit it out right away. He had to work up to it. Hem and haw. Beat around the bush. Roy could understand that. He figured he’d do the same thing if he was in Beech’s position. Hard to say something like that out loud to another man. What Beech eventually said was, “Well, I could be wrong about this. I probably am, and this will give me some peace of mind. Maybe I’m crazy or imagining things, or maybe there’s an innocent explanation...”

  “But...”

  “Some things have happened in the past year or so that make me think Leigh Anne might be having an affair.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “She’s always been a big shopper, but now she’s going several times a week. Always going to Austin or San Antone. I know she does actually go shopping sometimes, because she comes home with bags of stuff. Other times, nothing. She says she was just looking.”

  “Well, you know, women do that. They can shop for ten hours and come home with one item that cost three dollars.”

  “Oh, I know. And that’s what I’ve been telling myself.”

  “Maybe she’s just bored.”

  “Could be. I hope so. She doesn’t answer the phone much when she’s shopping, and that makes me wonder, too. What’s she doing that she can’t answer the phone? Speaking of her phone—that’s something else that bothers me. She’s always texting. Way more than she used to. And one time—well, I’m not proud of this, but she was in the shower, so I snooped around on her phone. Learned that she doesn’t save any of her texts. Deletes them all.”

  Roy didn’t say anything. It did sound a little fishy.

  “And the last thing,” Beech said, “is that she isn’t much interested in sex lately. At least not with me.” He gave a pained grin. “How’s that for laying it all on the table?”

  Roy said, “I don’t want to pry, but—”

  “Pry all you need to.”

  “Was she more interested in sex in the past?”

  “Oh, yeah. Not like oversexed or anything, but she was interested. She’s not inhibited. She always had what I’d call a healthy appetite.”

  “How long ago did her interest drop?”

  Beech sort of shrugged. “It just slowly went away. Nothing abrupt.”

  “Has she had any affairs before that you know about?”

  Beech looked away for a minute, then simply shook his head. “None that I know of, and none that I suspected.”

  So Roy had agreed to help Beech out. Roy’s partner was working on a case of her own—a case that required only one person—so Roy’s schedule was open. Roy had never conducted surveillance on a spouse suspected of cheating, but now, as he followed Leigh Anne Beech, he found himself hoping it was a misunderstanding on Grady’s part.

  When Leigh Anne Beech reached the west side of Austin, she went north on Loop 1. Way north. Past Research Boulevard, past Braker Lane, to an upscale shopping center called The Domain. She went inside Neiman Marcus and met someone—another attractive woman about the same age—and the two of them proceeded to shop for the next three hours. After that, she got back into her BMW and drove home.

  The first player Marlin spoke to was named Eric. A junior. Second-string halfback. After asking a few questions—friendly, casual, putting the boy at ease—Marlin took out the cropped photo.

  “I’m just wondering if you’ve ever seen this woman.”

  Eric leaned forward and looked at the picture. “Don’t think so.”

  They were in Coach Milstead’s office, with the door open. The coach had already begun practice, but had offered to send several of the players in for short interviews. These were some of the boys Milstead had mentioned on Sunday—Sammy’s closest friends.

  “She doesn’t look familiar at all?” Ma
rlin said.

  “No. Is she supposed to?”

  The boy was trying to be helpful. Wanting to offer something useful. Marlin hadn’t told Eric where the photo had been found, and he wasn’t planning to. At least, not yet. He also wasn’t going to ask if Sammy was the type to have cheated on his girlfriend, Tracie. Better to see if one of Sammy’s friends might offer that sort of information on his own. Marlin and Garza had no solid reason to conclude that Sammy had any kind of romantic or sexual relationship with the woman in the photo, so Marlin wasn’t willing to ask questions that would start rumors spreading among the student body.

  The next player was the placekicker. Name was Garrett. Marlin remembered him from the youth hunt on Phil Colby’s ranch a few years back. Good kid. Bright. Treated adults with respect. The first to volunteer for various chores and tasks during the hunt. Garrett looked at the photo and shook his head. “Don’t know her.”

  “Well, thanks for taking a look.”

  “That’s all you needed?”

  “For now.”

  “May I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Coach told us someone was chasing Sammy that night. Firing a gun at him. Does this woman have something to do with that?”

  Marlin took a moment to formulate a reply. “We have no reason to think that. It’s just that we don’t know who she is, and we’d like to find out.”

  “But where did the picture come from?”

  “What I can tell you right now is that we think Sammy might’ve known her. We just need to identify her and ask her a few questions. Did you ever hear Sammy talking about any friends you didn’t know yourself?”

  “No, but Sammy and I hadn’t been hanging out as much as we used to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Like I told the deputy yesterday—Sammy was partying too much. Not studying. He had all those scholarship offers and he didn’t even know how lucky he was. If I’d had half the talent he had, man, I would’ve been focused. I don’t mean to sound cold, talking about him like that.”

  “No, I appreciate you being straight with me. Would you say his partying was out of control? You probably heard he had Ecstasy in his system.”

  “I don’t think that was a regular thing. Mostly he just drank. And, no, I wouldn’t say he was out of control. I meant it more like he had this incredible opportunity that most kids don’t get, you know? Why risk screwing it up?”

  A few more players echoed that same thought; Sammy took his skills, and his future, for granted, and they were all a little worried that he wasn’t committed enough to make it in college ball.

  But nobody could identify the woman in the photo.

  The last player Marlin talked to was an offensive tackle named Colton Spillar. The kid was huge—probably close to three hundred pounds, most of it muscle. In Marlin’s high school days, his largest teammate had weighed about fifty pounds less than that.

  By now, practice had been going on for close to an hour, so Colton was sweaty and very red in the face. When Marlin put the photo down on the desk, Colton’s eyes got noticeably wider.

  “You know her?” Marlin said.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Oh. I thought I saw a reaction.”

  Colton didn’t say anything.

  “You looked surprised or something,” Marlin said. “Right when you looked at the photo.”

  “No, she’s just kind of hot.”

  “That’s why you reacted?”

  “Yeah. And I’m tired from practice.”

  “You need some water or something?”

  “No, I’m okay. Just need to catch my breath.”

  “So you don’t know who this woman is?”

  “No.”

  “Were you and Sammy good friends?”

  “We hung out sometimes. We’re, you know, teammates. Were, I mean. I wasn’t his best friend or anything.”

  Colton seemed ill at ease—not making eye contact—but some teenagers behaved that way around adults.

  “Who did Sammy hang out with the most?”

  “Eric and Garrett. The other guys you already talked to.”

  Marlin slowly reached out and picked up the photo, wanting to see if Colton would steal another look at it. He didn’t. Marlin slipped the photo back into the manila folder.

  He said, “You know anyone who might’ve been mad at Sammy?”

  “No, sir. Did that woman have something to do with Sammy dying?”

  “We don’t have any reason to think that. But Sammy might’ve known her, and we’d like to ask her a few questions. That’s all. So if anyone on the team knows who she is, that would be really helpful.”

  The flush in Colton’s face still hadn’t gone away. “Wish I could help,” he said.

  Marlin paused for a moment. Just let the silence settle in the room, to see how Colton would react. Would he get fidgety? Ask if they were done?

  Colton said, “Sammy was a great player. We’re missing him this year.”

  “From what I hear, you’re a pretty good player yourself. Going to UMT on a scholarship.”

  “Actually, I switched to Oklahoma Tech.”

  “Oh, yeah? Didn’t Sammy do the same thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “OTU just seems like a better fit for me.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Two solid-black pigs and one solid-white pig. That’s what Red had seen so far. He and Billy Don were once again sitting in the 12-foot tower blind on the Kringelheimer Ranch. Red wasn’t sure if Billy Don had seen those pigs, too, because the big man was being awfully quiet. Pouting. Or angry. Or something. Red didn’t understand what the problem was. He knew that Billy Don had his panties in a bunch over the way Red had treated Armando at the flower shop. Weird. And it was getting tiresome.

  They should both be thrilled that they knew something all of the other pig hunters didn’t, because it gave them an edge. Most feral pigs were one color—black, white, or brown. Others were a combination—mostly black and white. Armando had said the pig was brown and white, which wasn’t rare or anything, but in Red’s experience, that was the least common combination. Very helpful to know that, and Red was glad he’d managed to get the information out of Armando. Billy Don should be glad, too.

  Red retrieved a bulging plastic sack from the floor at his feet and began to root around in it.

  “Pork rinds?” he asked.

  Billy Don shook his head.

  “Corn Nuts?”

  “Nope.”

  “Slim Jim?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Moon Pie?”

  “Don’t want nothin’.”

  Red dug even deeper.

  “Teriyaki jerky?”

  Billy Don didn’t react at all.

  “Peanut butter crackers?”

  Still no response. Red put the sack back on the floor.

  “So what’s the deal?” he asked.

  “Ain’t no deal,” Billy Don said.

  “Something’s going on. You’re acting like a woman. Giving me the silent treatment.”

  Billy Don turned his head slowly and glared at Red. “Want me to toss you headfirst outta this blind?”

  “Hell, no, but how about, instead, you quit moping around? That, or come right out and say what’s on your mind.”

  “No problem. What’s on my mind is that you treated Armando like shit earlier. You were a real asshole.”

  “Well, I’m not saying that’s true, but even if it is—so what?”

  “So what?”

  “Yep. So what? Why do you care how I treat Armando?”

  Billy Don was shaking his head. “Let me ask you something. Say some dude in a bar punched you in the face and you didn’t deserve it. If I’m standing right there, would you want me to do anything about it?”

  “I’d want you to do something even if I did deserve it.”

  “Zackly. And I would. That’s what friends do.”

  “Wait
a sec.” Red had to take a breath. “You’re saying you and Armando are friends?”

  “Yeah. What of it? Why do you care if I’m friends with Armando?”

  “I really gotta spell it out?” Red asked.

  “Appears you do.”

  Red opened his mouth to reply, but he happened to glance out the window of the blind, and there stood a small brown-and-white pig. Staring in this direction, because he and Billy Don had been talking more loudly than they should have been.

  “Red, why are—”

  “Shhh! Don’t move.”

  The pig was still standing there, no more than fifty yards away. Red knew that pigs had poor eyesight, but he would swear that the pig was looking directly at him.

  Red reached for his .30-30, which was leaning in the corner of the blind. He brought the rifle up slowly. Very slowly. Being oh so careful not to bang the muzzle on the metal roof.

  The pig started to walk away to the left, while still keeping an eye on the blind.

  By now, Billy Don had turned his head to see what Red had seen. Now he said, “He’s heading for them cedars.”

  Red stuck the barrel out the window, then lowered it to rest on the window frame.

  “Hurry up, Red.”

  He nestled his cheek against the stock, peered through the scope, and quickly found the little pig in the field of view. This would be an easy shot. Piece of cake. Like hundreds of other shots he’d made successfully over the years. Red put the crosshairs on the pig’s shoulder, pulled the hammer back, took a breath, held it, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  There was a loud and very recognizable click.

  Crap!

  He’d forgotten to jack a round into the chamber when he’d first sat down. This business with Armando and Billy Don had distracted him too much.

  Red quickly cranked the lever down and back up, loading a round into the chamber, but the noise it produced was just enough to send the pig into a trot. It reached the grove of cedars before Red could get off a shot.

  Armando was working on a large arrangement—four dozen long-stemmed red roses, mixed with baby’s breath and greenery—but his heart wasn’t in it, because he was feeling so guilty. He’d betrayed Sharon’s trust, all because he’d let that ignorant, repugnant, empty-headed, bigoted, insensitive hayseed browbeat him into spilling the beans. If only he had—