Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  “So that wasn’t you across the ravine? Sure looked like you.”

  “Then it must’ve been a good-looking guy, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Glad I managed to snap a couple of photos. Grainy, but we’re waiting to see if the lab in Austin can bump up the quality. Amazing what they can do nowadays.”

  “You wouldn’t be bluffing, would you?”

  “Guess we’ll see soon enough. You know anything about the assault last night at the Speedy Stop?”

  Weems knitted his brow—a purposefully exaggerated gesture. “Someone got assaulted? Well, shit. What’s this county coming to? That’s a shame, for sure, but I had nothing to do with that, either. Only thing I assaulted last night was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.”

  Colby said, “Sounds like the guy picked on a much smaller man. Someone who wouldn’t fight back. An easy target.”

  Weems ignored Colby again. He said, “Anyway, I just wanted to come over here and tell you how much I appreciate the way all you law-enforcement types put your life on the line every day. I’d be a bundle of nerves if I thought someone might put a bullet in my back at any minute.”

  Marlin struggled to remain cool.

  Weems continued. “Even worse, what if I was out on patrol, late at night, and someone stopped by my house and paid my wife a visit? I don’t think I could—”

  “You should stop right there,” Colby said. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice and the change in his body language. Coiled tight. Both hands on the table’s edge. He was saying, You keep talking, I’m coming out of this chair to shut your mouth.

  Colby was five or six inches shorter than Weems, and maybe forty pounds lighter, but Marlin’s money would be on Colby without question. Colby was hard as a rock from years of outdoor labor on his ranch, and he had a tenacity about him that meant he always finished what he started. Colby wasn’t one to go looking for fights—despite his occasional temper—but, over the years, he’d been involved in a handful of brawls that were unavoidable. Marlin had seen several. Most of them were one-punch affairs. Colby was quick and amazingly powerful. He punched hard enough to do serious, lasting damage. Weems could end up with a broken jaw before he even managed to make a fist.

  Maybe Weems had an intuition that told him to ease off, or maybe he wasn’t quite as bold as he liked to appear, but he didn’t accept Colby’s unspoken challenge. Instead, he finally looked at Colby and said, “Aw, hey, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I was just letting this here warden know what a great job he’s doing.”

  Now the entire restaurant was dead quiet. The Bryant brothers were on the far side of the room, seated at a table, staying put, not coming to back up their friend.

  “Well, now, that’s awful nice of you,” Colby said. “And since my friend is such a dedicated peace officer, he maintains a certain level of professionalism at all times. That means he can’t just speak his mind whenever he runs across some asshole.” Now it was Colby’s turn to grin. “But I can. So let’s be clear about something. Whoever fired those shots is the worst kind of coward. Total gutless scumbag. But it wasn’t you, was it? You’re not playing some sort of game where you’re pretending like it wasn’t you, but you really want everyone to think it was you, right? Because that would be even more cowardly than taking those shots in the first place. No, sir, with you being such a staunch supporter of game wardens, I’m guessing you agree that the shooter is a piece of human garbage, don’t you?”

  Marlin almost laughed. Colby had just called Weems a coward and a piece of garbage to his face, and everybody in the room knew it. It was obvious that Weems was trying to come up with a snappy reply, but it appeared he couldn’t think of one. He had a pained smirk on his face, but the malevolence in his eyes, directed toward Colby, was unmistakable.

  Finally, he said, “Guess I’ll let you boys have your lunch in peace.”

  “That would be swell,” Colby said. “And if you happen to hear anything more about the lowlife turd in question, I’m sure you’ll let the sheriff know.”

  Weems didn’t even respond, but simply turned and made his way to the table where the Bryant brothers were seated. After about a minute, the other customers resumed their conversations.

  “That was fun,” Colby said.

  “I appreciate it,” Marlin said.

  “No problem.”

  “But you also just threw a rock at a hornets’ nest.” Marlin said. “No telling what he’ll do.”

  Colby opened his mouth, then changed his mind. Marlin knew him well enough to know what he’d almost said. That guy? All talk. Or something similar. But Colby was smart enough to know that wasn’t exactly true.

  “Just watch your back, okay?” Marlin said. “You made him look like a jerk. Guys like that hold a grudge.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Red could hardly believe he was about to say what he was going to say, but he said it anyway. “We don’t know for sure it was the redheaded guy.” Life would be easier for Red if he just assumed the redhead was responsible.

  Billy Don said, “Sounds pretty likely. That clerk, J.D., said the cops asked a bunch of questions about that one guy. They didn’t seem to care about any of the other customers that was in there right before Armando drove up.”

  “Yeah, but that don’t mean the redheaded dude done it. Coulda been somebody that never even came into the store.”

  They were parked outside the Dairy Queen, with several bags of food on the seat between them. A Hungr-Buster for Red. Two Beltbusters, a chili cheese dog, a chicken wrap, and large tater tots for Billy Don.

  “Look,” Red said, “you know I’d just as soon get this whole business wrapped up, so it’s tempting as hell to agree that it must’ve been the redheaded guy. Then we could track him down, you could whip his ass, and we could get back to hunting a fifty-thousand-dollar pig, which is way more important than this bullshit, if you want my opinion.”

  “I don’t. Rarely do.”

  “Fine. But what if it wasn’t him? I’m not saying it wasn’t. Maybe it was. It probably was. All I’m saying is that you need a little more evidence before you go thump this guy’s skull.”

  “Then I’ll just get some more evidence.”

  Red sucked on his Dr Pepper, let out a soft belch, then said, “How?”

  “Huh?”

  “How you gonna get more evidence?”

  “I’ll just ask him.”

  “Really? Just ask him? And he’ll confess?”

  “Never know. Especially if he’s been drinking. J.D. said the guy was drunk when he was in the store, and he was buying more beer.”

  “Drunk or not, what if he says he didn’t do it?”

  “Simple. I’ll beat it out of him.”

  “And you don’t see any potential flaws with that approach?”

  “Nope. Fast and effective.”

  Billy Don was shoveling tots into his mouth a half-dozen at a time. Impressive capacity in that huge mouth of his.

  Red said, “Think about it for a sec. If you was him, wouldn’t you say you did it, just to make the beating stop?”

  Billy Don stopped chewing for a minute and appeared to give that some thought.

  So Red said, “No, what we need is someone who saw it happen, or maybe even someone who heard him bragging about it. Or better yet, maybe Armando’s memory will come back. Of course, none of this even matters until we can find the guy.”

  “We’ll run across him eventually.”

  “That’s your plan? Just wait until we run across him?”

  “Maybe drive around and look for him? This town ain’t that big.”

  Red almost always had to do Billy Don’s thinking for him, and it became wearisome at times. “How about if we visit some of the businesses around town and see if anybody knows who he is?”

  “Which businesses?”

  “Retail ’stablishments. Restaurants. Beer joints. Motels. Like that. Seeing as how the guy is a tall sumbitch with red hair, he’ll stand out in people’s memorie
s. Someone’s bound to have seen him. So if we—”

  A Chevy truck Red recognized whipped into the Dairy Queen lot. The driver was Jack Chambers, a man who hired Red and Billy Don for various short-term projects now and then. He pulled up next to Red’s truck, driver’s door to driver’s door, with his window down. Without so much as a ‘howdy,’ Jack said, “Y’all hear the news?”

  Red said, “What’s up?”

  “Word is, someone shot the bounty pig this morning.”

  Red couldn’t recall a time when his spirits had sunk quite as quickly.

  “Well, fuck me,” he said. “You sure?”

  “That’s what Jorge and some of his buddies told me.”

  “When?”

  “’Bout an hour ago?”

  “Where was the pig?”

  “Out on McCall Creek Road, next door to the Kringelheimer place.”

  Son of a bitch! That made it even worse. Next door to the Kringelheimer place—where Red and Billy Don had been hunting for the past few days. Where they would’ve been hunting this morning if it wasn’t for this mess with Armando.

  Red turned and glared at Billy Don, who knew exactly what he was thinking. The pig they’d seen last night could very well have been the bounty pig. They might’ve had another real good chance at it if they’d been sitting in the blind instead of standing beside Armando’s hospital bed a few hours ago.

  “Don’t you start bitchin’ at me,” Billy Don growled.

  Jack gave a wave and drove off to kill the dreams of other hunters around town.

  Red continued to glare at Billy Don, who said, “You ain’t gonna make me feel bad about this. We don’t even know it was the same damn pig we saw yesterday evening.”

  Red slowly shook his head in exasperation.

  Billy Don said, “Besides, you had your chance at it, and what’d you do? Dropped the hammer on an empty chamber, that’s what. Easiest shot in the world—fifty grand just sitting there—but you blew it. So don’t go blaming me on this. You want to blame someone, look in the mirror.”

  Red hated it when Billy Don was right.

  “Everything, uh, okay?”

  The voice came from above. The masseuse that visited Dexter Crabtree once a week. Janine. Beautiful young lady. Reminded Crabtree of some of the cheerleaders he’d partied with in his younger days. Nubile. Wholesome as a loaf of white bread. Or that’s how she wanted to appear. But Crabtree had learned differently. Even Janine’s ad on Craigslist had tried to maintain a sense of propriety, though it was obvious to anyone with a brain what she was really offering. She was not a licensed masseuse. Of course not. She was instead the kind of masseuse that made legitimate, professional, respectable masseuses angry.

  “I’m... fine,” Crabtree replied, keeping his eyes closed. Concentrating. Trying to enjoy himself. Take his mind off Vera Spillar and the money he was about to send her. It wasn’t so much the money as the fact that he was giving in to her demands.

  “You know I don’t want to rush you, but I have another appointment soon,” Janine said quietly.

  The standard massage had ended at least twenty minutes ago, and she had been working on his member ever since. Normally it was a five-minute undertaking at most. Today, he couldn’t seem to come to fruition.

  “Please... don’t stop.”

  Her free hand was resting on his chest. “Your heart is pounding.”

  “You have... that effect... on me.”

  “You’re sweet, but it’s really hammering. And you’re sweating. You sure you’re okay?”

  The answer, of course, was no. For the past 24 hours, his heart had been beating so vigorously, he could feel it reverberating throughout his entire body. He was pretty sure he had also felt it skip a beat on several occasions. Palpitations? Arrhythmia? He didn’t know the technical term for it. Along with a buzzing in his ears, a nagging headache that wouldn’t respond to ibuprofen, and now this. He couldn’t achieve an orgasm. His dick was rock hard, but he just couldn’t get there. Was that a side effect?

  “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Can you... get on top?”

  “You know I don’t do that.”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Sorry.”

  “If you’ll just take off your top, I—”

  “Shhhh. Just relax.” She switched hands. Applied more massage oil. Suddenly he felt her hot breath on the side of his neck. She whispered, “Maybe this will help.” And then she inserted her warm, moist tongue in his ear. Twirled it around. Licked his earlobe. Blew on it. Nibbled it. It felt fantastic. Heavenly.

  But it was no use.

  I believe there must be some mistaking. I have learned at the moment the meaning of ‘game warden.’ My sister is not a hunter or a fisher, nor does she do the boating. Perhaps there is the probability you seek a dissimilar Aleksandra Babikova?

  That was the message from Tatyana Babikova, delivered on Facebook. Marlin read it while sitting in his truck outside the restaurant, trying to decide what, if anything, he should or could do about Gilbert Weems. The situation was tremendously frustrating. He’d need to talk to Nicole about it tonight. Tell her about Weems’s veiled threat. Nicole was more security-conscious than average—not surprising for a former deputy—but Marlin wanted her to be even more cautious than normal.

  On a positive note, at least he now knew that Tatyana was in fact Aleksandra’s sister. He replied:

  Tatyana, thank you very much for answering me so quickly. The reason I am looking for Aleksandra has nothing to do with hunting, fishing, or boating. Game wardens in Texas have a wide range of duties. Your sister might be able to help me with an investigation. It would be very helpful if I could speak to her. Can you provide a phone number, please? I would really appreciate it. I hope to hear back from you again very soon.

  Then, just because he couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t, he sent Tatyana a friend request. Maybe it would make her feel more comfortable communicating with him if she could see his profile. If she accepted, and if Aleksandra was on Facebook, and if Tatyana was friends with Aleksandra, friending Tatyana might give Marlin a peek at some of Aleksandra’s comments that would otherwise remain invisible to a complete stranger. Lot of ifs. But it couldn’t hurt. Maybe he’d learn what Aleksandra did for a living, or whether she ever traveled to central Texas.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t learn anything at all.

  Crabtree idled his Mercedes in the far corner of a parking lot that served a small business complex. Rental offices for white-collar professionals.

  His heart was still racing. His testicles ached.

  The torn bills, plus ten thousand additional dollars—untorn—were in a sealed cardboard box resting on the passenger seat. A UPS box, not a FedEx box. Hell if he was going to let Vera Spillar dictate which delivery service he used. Ten feet away, between his car and the street, was a UPS drop box. Only ten feet, but it might as well have been one hundred.

  So lightheaded. Woozy, even.

  Did he really want to do this? Give in to that bitch’s demands?

  When he reached for the cardboard box, he noticed that the tremor in his left hand was more pronounced than it had been yesterday, when he’d first become aware of it. He had to grin. Gene Wilder in Blazing Saddles. The drunk gunfighter with an uncontrollable palsy. His hand would flop around like a fish on a pier. Steady as a rock, says Sheriff Bart. Yeah, but I shoot with this hand, says the Waco Kid. Floppity-flop.

  Crabtree grabbed the cardboard box and opened the Mercedes door. Why did he have an indeterminate sense of impending doom? He felt the grip of something almost like panic, for no reason that he could identify.

  Left foot on the pavement. Now the right. Up and out of the car. Wobbly. No balance. Something was definitely wrong. Vision fading in and out.

  Was he falling?

  There was a tremendous jolt, and then darkness. A pain. Time passed. He heard a voice. Someone shaking his shoulder. More darkness. Quiet. More time passed.

  Then
he came awake like a swimmer bursting to the surface, hungry for air. He was facedown on the pavement, gasping. The left side of his face felt like it was on fire. He struggled to raise up on his knees and palms. Warmth running down his cheek, dripping off his chin. Blood. Not a constant flow, but a persistent one, and it wasn’t stopping.

  He reached with one hand to explore his face and ascertain the extent of his injury. He found the wound and jerked with a jolt of pain. A gash on his forehead, above his right eyebrow. He had touched the bone underneath the skin. Small gravel pebbles were stuck to his cheek.

  But his eye was not injured. Thank God, his vision was fine. He could see. What he saw, when he swiveled his head, was that his Mercedes was gone. Just gone.

  So was the box of money.

  CHAPTER 27

  In the early afternoon, a beautiful auburn-haired woman visited Armando in his hospital room. She was dressed well, but casually—pressed jeans and a nice blouse. She had warm, friendly eyes.

  She came to his bedside and said, “Mr. Salazar, my name is Nicole Marlin. I’m the victim services coordinator for Blanco County. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.” His voice was raspy.

  “I understand. Can we talk for a few minutes, or should I come back later?”

  “We can talk.”

  “I want you to know I’m very sorry for what happened to you. Have you ever been the victim of a violent crime before?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Please, call me Nicole.”

  “Only if you call me Armando.” His mouth still hurt, but it wasn’t quite as bad as it had been earlier. Maybe it was the pain meds. He was self-conscious about his missing teeth.

  She smiled, and it was lovely. “It’s a deal,” she said. “Are you familiar with what a victim services program is?”