Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

“Sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I feel fine.”

  “Yule ookalit tulpail.”

  What the hell? Dexter played it back in his mind. Then he got it. You look a little pale.

  They were in Ryan’s car, driving, and for a moment, Dexter couldn’t remember where they were going. It was almost like an alcoholic blackout. Suddenly he’s in the car, and he can’t remember why. But he kept quiet, thinking, until it came to him. The rental car. They were going to pick up Dexter’s rental car. A Mercedes CLS500. Not nearly as nice as his own, but it would have to do for the time being, until the insurance company agreed that his car was long gone.

  Dexter had a to-do list:

  Get the rental car.

  Go to the bank and get cash.

  Box the cash up and send it to Vera Spillar, overnight express.

  Had to stay sharp and get it done, without any mistakes—but the fog in his brain was almost too much to bear. He wanted to blame it on the hydrocodone, but he knew better. He knew what the problem really was.

  Two Adderall tablets weren’t cutting it anymore. Not even close. It was time to admit that. Truth was, even three tablets weren’t getting the job done. The last few times Dexter Crabtree had stuffed, he’d gone with four tablets. That did the trick, but just barely. Was it time to go with five? Or even six? Was that what it would take to give him that edge again? That mental clarity?

  “Jew breengyer dry verslie since?”

  Dexter couldn’t stand this much longer. Something was seriously wrong inside his brain. He was having to translate everything that Ryan said to him.

  “Yeah,” Crabtree replied. “I brought my driver’s license.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Marlin stopped in Hamilton, Texas, for a go-cup of coffee, but other than that he drove straight through to Dallas, making good time, hitting the outskirts before five o’clock, which, unfortunately, put him in the middle of rush hour. What a mess. Sometimes he forgot what life was like in big cities.

  He crept along in bumper-to-bumper traffic toward the address he had for Aleksandra Babikova, which he knew from Googling was a unit in a loft complex near the campus of Southern Methodist University, just outside the municipality of University Park. Nice place to live, according to the website. Real nice. Health club. Olympic-size rooftop pool. Twenty-four-hour security team. If Aleksandra Babikova was still a resident, she was paying nearly three grand a month in rent, based on the prices Marlin had seen online. Whatever it was she did for a living, she must do damn well. That, or she had managed to turn her fifteen minutes of fame into a decent amount of money a few years back. Maybe she got royalties or something for that movie she’d been in. Marlin didn’t know how it worked.

  He finally reached the loft complex—an impressive four-story building in what was obviously one of the nicest areas of the city. Everything was clean and well maintained. He pulled in and found a guest parking spot easily enough.

  He entered through the double glass doors and immediately came face to face with a guard behind a long counter at a reception area. Younger guy. Thirties. Neatly clipped black hair. Wearing a blue blazer adorned with the logo for the loft tower. A small sign written in ornate script read: All Visitors Must Sign In. Past the counter, to the left, was a bank of two elevators.

  The man, wearing a telephone headset, offered a big smile. “Good evening, sir. May I help you?”

  Marlin gave him a smile right back. “I would appreciate that. I’m here to see Aleksandra Babikova.”

  The smile cooled off a bit. Nothing dramatic, but there was definitely a change in the guard’s demeanor.

  “Miss Babikova?” the man asked. He seemed to be eyeing Marlin up and down. “Is she expecting you?”

  Excellent, Marlin thought. Now he knew he had the right address. “No, she’s not.”

  “I’ll check to see if she is here. Whom may I say is visiting?”

  “My name is John Marlin.”

  “Is this professional or personal?”

  That was an odd and rather pushy question to ask, but maybe it was because Marlin was in uniform.

  One of the elevators dinged and the doors opened. A second security guard, wearing an identical blue blazer, stepped out.

  “Uh, professional,” Marlin said. “She doesn’t know me, but it’s important that I speak to her.”

  Another small change in demeanor. The man’s smile warmed up again. Now Marlin realized what was going on with the guard. He got his hackles up when he thought the visit might be personal, but relaxed when he learned it was professional.

  “May I tell her what it pertains to?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh. Okay. One moment, please.” The guard pressed a button on a console and focused on nothing in particular.

  Now the second guard—another young guy, but with blond hair—had reached the reception area. He walked behind the counter, took a seat in a rolling chair, and began to type on a keyboard in front of a computer.

  Marlin waited.

  Several moments later, the first guard said, “Good evening, Miss Babikova, it’s James at the front desk.”

  At the mention of “Miss Babikova,” the blond guard stole a discreet glance at Marlin, who almost had to laugh. These two guys were so hung up on Aleksandra Babikova, they couldn’t resist checking out any man who came to see her. Maybe they were jealous or simply curious. Or James was jealous and the blond guy was curious.

  James said, “His name is John Marlin and he appears to be a...” He looked at Marlin.

  “Game warden from central Texas.”

  “A game warden from central Texas,” James said into the phone. Pause. “Yes, that’s right. A game warden.” Pause. “From central Texas.”

  The blond guy was openly staring now. When Marlin looked at him, he smiled and said, “How ya doing?”

  Marlin nodded a greeting and turned back toward James. He expected James to say something like, “Miss Babikova is wondering what this is about,” but instead he punched a button on the console, ending the call, and said, “She’ll be right down.”

  “That means ten or fifteen minutes,” the blond guy said, grinning.

  The dark-haired guard scowled at him, but the blond guy didn’t notice.

  Grady Beech agreed to meet Roy in the parking lot of the Super S in Johnson City. This was after Beech had asked, on the phone earlier, if Roy had learned anything.

  “Yeah, I have,” Roy replied. “We should talk in person.”

  Beech didn’t respond right away, but Roy could hear him breathing. Then Beech said, “I was right, huh? Otherwise you’d say you hadn’t learned anything yet.”

  At the time, Roy couldn’t think of a reason to hold back. The man was going to learn the truth sooner or later. So Roy said, “Yeah, you were. I’m sorry to tell you that.”

  Another silence. Then Beech said, “You got video? Pictures?”

  “Video.”

  And Beech had let out a long, sad sigh. Roy expected Beech to immediately ask for details—Who was Leigh Anne cheating with? Where? When?—because that’s exactly what Roy would’ve done—but instead, Beech had asked Roy to meet him at the Super S.

  So they’d set up a time, and now Beech opened the passenger door of Roy’s Caravan and climbed in. They didn’t shake hands or exchange any sort of greeting. Beech simply gave Roy a rueful grin and said, “Sucks to be right.”

  “Yeah, I imagine so. Wish I had better news.”

  “Me, too. It’s disappointing, more than anything. Just so damn disappointing. I realize there’s an age difference, but I always hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. Or maybe it’s something else entirely.”

  Roy waited, then said, “I know you don’t know me well, and I’m no expert on this type of situation, but I’m willing to bet you’ll look back on this someday and realize that it was all for the best. Maybe a little bad news now will lead to something better than you ever imagined.”

  “One can hope,
huh?”

  Roy shrugged. “You never know.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  They were parked to the far right side of the parking lot, closer to the Dollar General and the Subway. Plenty of privacy over here.

  “Okay, well,” Beech said, “I guess we should take a look at this video.”

  Roy had contemplated whether he should insist that Beech wait a day or two before viewing it. Roy didn’t want Beech to learn the identify of Leigh Anne’s lover, then get angry and do something stupid or impulsive. But Beech didn’t appear volatile. Instead, he seemed defeated and resigned—like he’d been expecting this outcome, and had already come to terms with it.

  So Roy opened his laptop and played the video. Beech watched with a grim face as Leigh Anne emerged from the motel room. Roy fast-forwarded, and then the man exited the room a few minutes later. Simple as that. Roy closed his laptop.

  “You know that guy?” he asked.

  Grady Beech shook his head.

  “You sure?” Roy thought he’d seen a trace of surprise or recognition cross Beech’s face when the man had appeared.

  “Never seen him before. Doesn’t really matter who it is, does it?”

  The blond guard was right. It was a full twenty minutes before the elevator dinged and Aleksandra Babikova appeared. And when she did, she stepped into the lobby with the same self-possessed flair of a top actor stepping from a limo onto the red carpet at an awards presentation.

  She was even more beautiful than any of the online photos had captured. Possibly the most eye-catching woman Marlin had ever seen in person. She was dressed in a dark blue skirt that reached mid-thigh, heels, and a white silk blouse with a deep V neckline. She turned to face him but remained where she was, expecting him to move toward her. He did.

  “Miss Babikova?” he said as he approached, extending a hand.

  “Yes?” She shook his hand. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t frowning, either. Her expression showed nothing except perhaps the faintest trace of curiosity. He had been wondering all along whether Tatyana had alerted Aleksandra that a game warden was looking for her, but if she had, Aleksandra wasn’t showing any signs of it.

  Her eyes were incredibly blue. Mesmerizing. She had to be close to six feet tall, and she was wearing heels, so her eyes were almost level with his.

  “My name is John Marlin. I’m a game warden in Blanco County, west of Austin. Can we talk for a few minutes?”

  “For what is this regarding?”

  Marlin had no doubt that the two guards at the reception area were doing their best to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  “I just need to ask you a couple of routine questions, and it would probably be best if we could speak somewhere more private. I noticed a Starbucks on the corner...”

  She was studying the badge on his chest and the patch on his arm. “A game warden. Is this not a deputy of the deers and fishes?”

  “Well...” He laughed. “Sort of. We enforce hunting and fishing laws, yes, but other kinds of laws, too. I help the sheriff in my county with many different investigations.”

  “Interesting.”

  “It can be.”

  “But mysterious, yes? You mention no details. What you investigate now is large secret?”

  “Not at all. I’d be happy to tell you more. Just, uh, not here.”

  She didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she was looking him in the eye. Holding his gaze. And now a slight smile slowly played across her lips. Whether she intended it or not, it was one of the most seductive things Marlin had ever seen.

  In a low voice that the guards probably couldn’t hear, Aleksandra Babikova said, “Perhaps we should maintain this conversation into my apartment.”

  CHAPTER 33

  They’d done more driving—hours of driving, covering almost every square inch of pavement in Blanco County—but Red wasn’t as impatient about it as he’d been before. In fact, now he was fully on board with it. He’d drive as far and as long as it would take to find the redheaded man again and shut his damn mouth.

  Rump ranger?

  Red sure as hell wasn’t no damn rump ranger, and he wasn’t going to let some inbred, banjo-strumming dog runner imply that he was. Red had every intention of giving that jerk a good old-fashioned beatdown, or at least watching with enjoyment as Billy Don did it.

  “Maybe we should just park somewhere and wait for them to drive by,” Billy Don said, as Red maneuvered the curves of Cypress Mill Road. They’d been cruising the northern end of the county, since that was the direction the redhead and his pals had headed from the stoplight in town. “If we keep moving and they keep moving, we might not ever see ’em. But if we stay in one spot and they keep moving, eventually we’re gonna see ’em. Don’t ya think?”

  Normally, Red would’ve argued, simply based on the fact that—historically speaking—most of the things that came out of Billy Don’s mouth were incorrect. But what he’d just said actually made some sense, and it would save a lot of money on gas, too.

  “I was just gonna suggest that,” Red said.

  “Where ya think we oughta park?”

  “Since we saw ’em in Johnson City, I’m betting they’re staying there. So we should park somewhere in the center, like the Super S.”

  Billy Don agreed, so Red returned to the highway and went south, back to town. Just as he turned into the Super S parking lot, Billy Don said, “There’s Grady Beech.”

  And he was right. Grady was just getting into his truck as a beige Dodge Caravan drove away. Red pulled up beside him and said, “Hey, there, Grady.”

  “Oh, hey.” Grady started his truck.

  “Listen, I’m glad we saw you. Nobody got the pig yet, right? There was a rumor going around, but I didn’t believe it.”

  “The pig?” Grady seemed distracted. Even puzzled. How could he not know which pig Red was talking about?

  Red laughed. “The bounty pig, Grady. Remember?”

  “Yeah, it’s still out there. Guys, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to go.”

  And Grady drove away without another word.

  “That was weird,” Billy Don said.

  Armando woke again, in the late afternoon, and he felt even more clear-headed than he had that morning. Sure, there was still some pain, but his strength was returning, and he wasn’t nearly as groggy or confused as he had been the day before. Almost back to normal.

  And the image of the redheaded man had gelled even further.

  Now Armando could see him sharply—the high forehead, prominent cheekbones, thin lips—and he knew that it wasn’t just an apparition from a dream. This was a real memory. This was the man who had assaulted him.

  It made him nervous. Palms sweaty. Heartbeat accelerating. Was he ready to do this? Wouldn’t it be easier to let it go? Why create more trouble for himself? More drama?

  But how would Armando feel if it happened to someone else? Or worse—what if the redheaded man killed someone because Armando had failed to stand up and do what was right?

  He flipped slowly onto his left side and reached toward the small rolling nightstand beside his bed. His cell phone was resting there, along with a slip of paper with various phone numbers printed on it. He found the one he wanted, took a deep breath, and dialed.

  After two rings, a woman answered, and Armando said, “Nicole, this is Armando. I’m sorry to bother you this late in the day, but can you help me with something? Can you let the sheriff know that I’m ready to look at a line-up?”

  “I am investigating the circumstances revolving around the death of a high school boy—a young man—in Blanco County,” Marlin said. “Great football player. All the big colleges wanted him.”

  They were seated on a couch in Aleksandra Babikova’s loft apartment. It was a very large, open space, and everything in it spoke of money. The leather furniture. The contemporary art on the walls. Even the light fixtures. Where did all her money come from?

  Marlin continued, saying, “His nam
e was Sammy Beech. Did you know him?”

  “Sammy Beech? I do not recall him.”

  “Do you recognize the name?”

  “It is possibility. From news reports about his tragic death. You are confident you would not enjoy coffee?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “It is no trouble.”

  “I had some on the drive up here. Let me ask you this: What is it that you do for a living?”

  “I am consultant.”

  “That covers a lot of ground. What kind of consultant?”

  There was a slight pause. “Sports consultant.”

  Marlin felt a faint buzz in his chest—his body responding to the first sign that he might be on the right track. He said, “Okay, what exactly does that involve?”

  She made a gesture with her hands—like Where to start?—and said, “Is very complicated. I provide services to an ample range of clients.”

  That was meaningless fluff. She seemed to be dodging his question. The buzz in his chest grew more pronounced. “Who are your clients?”

  “My clients?”

  “Yeah, just name a couple, if you don’t mind. It’s not a large secret, is it?”

  She smiled. “You repeat back to me what I say earlier. You are clever man.”

  “Thanks.”

  She crossed her legs and leaned backward, spreading her arms in either direction to rest them along the top of the couch. As a result, the front of her blouse, which was unbuttoned to mid-chest, opened wide. She was trying to distract him. So obvious. He refused to look down.

  “Have you at all times been this clever?” she said.

  “No, only on rare occasions. Can you name a couple of your clients?”

  Another pause, this one longer than the earlier one. Then she folded her arms, abandoning her distraction attempt, and said, “I’m afraid that subject must continue with confidentiality.”

  And Marlin immediately knew that the photo on Sammy Beech’s phone was not a dead end. What kind of sports consultant needs to protect her list of clients?