Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  “Right. Anyway, the father barged in—”

  “Allegedly.”

  “—allegedly, right, he barged in with a gun and kept this coach, Milstead, hostage for a short period of time.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Why would he do that? Why? It all sounds fairly mysterious, until you hear the recording I’m going to play for you. Turns out the father recorded his little chat with this coach—”

  “This is nuts.”

  “See, he used his cell phone to record an audio clip—the entire conversation, and then, before he was arrested, he emailed that clip to various media outlets around the state.”

  “And we’ve got that clip.”

  “Of course we do. You might be able to guess why the father would go after the coach like that—but you’ll never guess who else is implicated in this story.”

  “Can we give them a hint?”

  “Okay, just one hint.”

  “The other person allegedly involved in this story won a very prestigious award.”

  “That’ll do it. I bet the listeners are going crazy by now, so we’re going to play that recording—right after the break. I guarantee you won’t want to miss this.”

  “This story has everything—infidelity, violence, money...”

  “Don’t give it all away!”

  “Sorry. My bad.”

  “I will say this: It’s going to shake up college football recruiting as we know it.”

  “You are correct, sir.”

  “That is not hyperbole.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Back in three. Stay with us.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “I’m gonna get that fucking asshole, mark my words,” Gilbert Weems said from the darkness of the back seat, and this time Dustin could smile without being seen. Gilbert sounded funny, because his nostrils were packed with toilet paper. It was the only way they could make the bleeding stop. Gilbert had refused to see a doctor. Dustin was pretty sure Gilbert’s nose was broken.

  “I will break that son of a bitch in half.”

  He was already slurring, because he’d opened a bottle of whiskey thirty minutes earlier. They were sitting in Dustin’s truck, parked amongst some cedar trees on the small ranch they’d leased right after coming to town. They had a perfect view of the deer feeder eighty yards away. They’d also thrown out a bunch of range cubes to bring the pigs in. There was plenty of moonlight tonight—almost like daylight, really—so if anything showed, they’d see it from the truck.

  “The only question at this point,” Gilbert said, “is how bad I’m gonna fuck him up.”

  “Man, Gilbert, it seems like it’s time to let all this shit go,” Dylan said.

  “Oh, hell no! No damn way.”

  Dustin said, “Truth is, we’re ready to head home. We decided to cut out in the morning.”

  There. He’d said it. Told Gilbert how it was going to be. Not asked or suggested. Told.

  “You did, did you?” Gilbert said.

  “Yep. Too much trouble around here, and besides, we figure that pig high-tailed it. Probably in another county by now.”

  “Well, shit, that’s fine with me. Y’all go on. I don’t care. I’ll stay here and take care of business. No way I’m letting that son of a bitch off easy.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “Who the hell cares, Dustin? I’ll steal a fucking car. Ride a bus. Hitchhike. But I ain’t leaving yet.”

  Dustin opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Dylan said, “Check it out.”

  A small pig had just appeared under the feeder. Dustin raised his binoculars. Looked like a brown-and-white one.

  Gilbert raised his rifle.

  “Dad!”

  Ryan Crabtree hurried into his father’s office, breathing hard, but Dexter was nowhere to be seen. Ryan needed to tell him what he’d just heard on the radio. Major shit going down. This was horrible.

  “Dad!”

  Ryan hustled past the desk and peeked into the adjoining bathroom. Empty.

  “Dad?”

  Ryan had been using the computer in the adjoining room, and his dad wouldn’t have been able to leave the house without Ryan knowing. This was weird. But his dad had been acting downright bizarre lately. He’d gone from obnoxious and impatient to absentminded and maybe even delusional.

  It was the Adderall. Ryan had seen the empty bottles in the trash plenty of times, so he knew what was what.

  “Dad!”

  The curtain behind the desk moved, then settled back into place. A breeze. He parted the curtain and saw that the window was open. Moonlight gave the front yard a warm glow.

  His dad was sitting in the middle of the immaculately groomed lawn, with his legs crossed, like he was doing yoga, or perhaps meditating. He was nude.

  Grady Beech remained seated when Bobby Garza entered the interview room.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Garza said, pulling out a chair. “I was busy listening to that recording you sent to all the TV and radio stations.”

  There it was again. That satisfied smirk on Beech’s face. Garza couldn’t blame him. He had nailed Kurt Milstead in the most humiliating way possible. And Leigh Anne, too.

  “That’s what you were doing in there?” Garza asked. “After you let Milstead go?”

  “Had to give the email time to go out. Big file. Did they play the whole thing?”

  “They did. Several times. I have to admit, Grady—I never heard anything like it. You went there to confront Milstead about his affair with Leigh Anne, but wow—you got so much more. Obviously, you hadn’t suspected that he was the one who’d chased Sammy.”

  “That took me by surprise.”

  “And Dexter Crabtree? I hadn’t heard that name in years.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “It was pretty remarkable. But I have some bad news. If you were hoping we could use that recording to nail Milstead, well, there’s almost no chance we’ll be able to use it in court.”

  Now Beech looked a little more somber. “Why the hell not?”

  “You were holding him at gunpoint. His confession was coerced.”

  “Yeah, but he blurted that out on his own.”

  Garza noticed that Beech did not object to the contention that he’d been holding Milstead at gunpoint. He probably figured it was futile. The assistant coach’s testimony alone would probably be enough—plus the other evidence Garza and his team would be able to collect—even if Beech didn’t confess.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Garza said. “Any decent defense attorney will be able to get that tossed. I am sorry about that. Truly.”

  “So Milstead is going to get away with it?”

  “Not necessarily.” Earlier, Garza had debated whether he should tell Grady about Aleksandra Babikova, and he hadn’t been able to think of any reason why he shouldn’t—although he intended to keep her name out of it for now. “We have another witness,” Garza said.

  Grady perked up. “Really? Who? What sort of witness?”

  “Someone who says Sammy made a statement about Milstead paying him cash to play ball at UMT.”

  “Who?” Grady repeated. “Another player?”

  Garza shook his head. “Let’s see how it pans out. For now, I need you to walk me through the incident at the school this evening. Obviously, you somehow learned that Leigh Anne and Milstead were seeing each other, and when you found out, you decided to confront him. So tell me how that got started.”

  That was another strange thing about this situation. Garza was sworn to uphold the law, but he didn’t really want Grady to be punished too severely for what he’d done. The man had reacted emotionally and violently to a painful situation, and he needed to be held accountable—especially since he’d been stupid enough to carry a gun onto school grounds. That alone was a third-degree felony, to say nothing of holding Milstead at gunpoint. On the other hand, Grady Beech had been through a lot with the death of his son, and Garza knew that he was a decent man at heart.
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br />   Grady hadn’t answered yet.

  Garza said, “When you went over to Milstead’s office with that gun, what was your plan? Why were you there?”

  Unfortunately, any punishment Grady might receive would be out of Garza’s hands. If he confessed, he might be looking at a prison term. On the other hand, if he played his cards right, he might be able to plead it down to probation.

  “I don’t think I’ll answer that one, Bobby. No disrespect.”

  “You saying you didn’t take a gun over there?”

  “Not saying anything one way or the other.”

  “The gun we found in Milstead’s office is registered to you, Grady. We’ll match it to the slug in the wall. Your prints will be on it. Plus, Deputy Tatum is about to come in here and swab your hands for gunshot residue.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

  “We do, and we have one.”

  “Well, it’s not a problem anyway. I did some shooting at my place earlier today.”

  “Target shooting? Skeet?”

  Grady was smart enough to mull that question over. If he’d shot at targets or skeet, then he’d have to explain why a search team couldn’t find any used targets in the trash, or any shattered skeet in the fields.

  “No, I shot at a couple of doves. Didn’t hit any. It is dove season, you know.”

  “What time was this? Was anyone with you?”

  Grady grinned. “You know, at this point, I think it would be best if I talked to my attorney.”

  Smart move, Grady, Garza thought.

  “I’ve thought about it,” Billy Don said.

  “Good.”

  “But I don’t got it all worked out just yet.”

  “Bad.”

  Earlier, Billy Don had opened the gate on the Kringelheimer Ranch and Red had backed the truck onto the property, thirty yards off the county road, hunkered in the trees. They’d have a perfect view of passing vehicles, without being seen themselves. Only two cars had passed by so far—one in either direction. The ranch where the dog runners were hunting was to the right, so they’d come from the left, on their way to the ranch.

  “Here’s what I’ve come up with,” Billy Don said. “Ain’t no way we can sneak up on ’em while they’re hunting.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So we’ll have to wait ’til they leave, which is a pain in the ass, ’cause we might have to sit here half the night, but there ain’t no way around it.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Red could see the headlights of another vehicle, but it was coming from the right. Wrong direction.

  “And when they finally do leave,” Billy Don said, “we’ll follow and see where they go.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  The vehicle was about to pass the Kringelheimer gate.

  “See, that’s what I don’t have figured out yet. Might have to play it by ear. If they go—”

  “Holy crap!”

  “What?”

  “That was them!”

  CHAPTER 38

  “Have you seen the internal locomotive machinery of a butterfly?” Dexter Crabtree asked.

  They were in Ryan’s car, on the way to the emergency room. Ryan had hastily dressed his dad, but he’d neglected shoes.

  “It has crystalline properties that boggle the mind,” Dexter added.

  “Dad, how much did you take?”

  “Chia pets are currently on back order.”

  “How much Adderall?”

  “Adderall?”

  “Yes, dad, how much Adderall?”

  “I like to put Adderall up my butt.”

  Red gave Weems and his buddies a thirty-second head start, then he pulled onto McCall Creek Road and followed. The dog runners’ big diesel had been moving along at a good pace, so Red pushed his truck pretty hard around the curves of the county road.

  “Gotta pick it up,” Billy Don said.

  Red’s tires were already squealing.

  “If they reach 281...” Billy Don said, and he didn’t need to finish the rest. If they reached 281 before Red caught up, he and Billy Don would have no way of knowing which direction they’d gone.

  But that’s what happened. Red reached the highway, and they still hadn’t seen the diesel.

  “Crap,” Billy Don said.

  “I say we go north. They’re staying in Johnson City, so they’d go north. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. Let’s get moving.”

  Red punched it, and this time, his truck responded. He’d slapped some new spark plugs in this morning, and that had done the trick. Soon he was cruising at ninety with no problem. They barreled past the 281/290 intersection. No sign of the dog runners. They passed County Road 209. Still nothing, and Johnson City was coming up fast. They passed Odiorne Road, and Red finally saw taillights.

  “Gotta be them,” Billy Don said.

  Red kept his speed up to 70, even though they were on the edge of town now, and the speed limit dropped to 50, then 45. The vehicle ahead was moving at least 60. Why were they in such a hurry?

  Billy Don leaned forward. “Yep. That’s them.”

  Red eased off the gas a bit now, about sixty yards behind the target vehicle. They passed the Super S, and then, sure enough, the dog runners slowed and pulled into the same convenience store where Weems had assaulted Armando.

  “Go on past,” Billy Don said.

  “Huh?”

  “Go on past. I have a plan.”

  Red did as instructed, passing A. Robinson Road, as Billy Don pivoted in his seat to keep an eye on the dog runners. “Pull over here,” he said, indicating the parking lot of a gas station that had been shut down for quite some time.

  Billy Don had the door open before Red even came to a stop. “You just watch from here. When you think the time is right, you drive over and get me.”

  Before Red could ask any questions, Billy Don had sprung from the vehicle with surprising agility.

  Despite everything that had happened—despite the fact that Gilbert had finally made it crystal-clear that he was a psychopath who deserved to be locked up—Dustin Bryant agreed that a celebration was in order. A big celebration. Maybe the biggest of their lives.

  He whipped into the convenience store and parked on the north side—in the same spot where they’d parked two nights earlier.

  Gilbert was in the passenger seat now, hooting and hollering, singing along with the radio, apparently no longer concerned about the man named Phil Colby. His anger had evaporated. Now he was a happy drunk. More whiskey was in order, but, once again, he needed something to mix it with.

  Gilbert stepped out of the truck, turned around to say, “Y’all want anything?” and then Dustin heard somebody say, “Hey, buddy, turn around for a second.”

  Red had his truck in gear, and he eased over to the edge of the parking lot. The dog runners’ truck was just across A. Robinson Road, no more than thirty yards away.

  Billy Don had already crossed the road and Red watched as he approached the truck with no stealth at all—just lumbering forward at full speed. The big redheaded dude stepped from the truck, and now Red could see that he had some kind of bandage across his nose. Had he broken it? Regardless, at this point, he was still unaware that Billy Don was bearing down on him.

  Red was grinning. This was going to be great—assuming nobody got shot.

  The redhead turned to say something to the other guys inside the truck, and now Billy Don was just a few yards away. He must’ve said something, because the redhead turned in his direction, and Billy Don caught him square in the bandaged nose with a big, looping right-hand punch.

  Even from across the street, Red could hear the howls of pain.

  Billy Don wanted to punch him again, but the guy was already on his knees, screaming, and judging by the bandage that had been on his nose, Billy Don had only added to some sort of damage that had already been done. Blood was streaming down the guy’s wrists and arms as he cradled his face.

  Billy Don turned t
o check the guys in the truck—one driving, one in the backseat—to make sure one of them wasn’t about to shoot him in the back. But they weren’t budging—just watching with wide eyes.

  So Billy Don figured everything was even-steven. He hadn’t beaten the guy to a pulp, but this was good enough, and he figured Armando would be pleased. Without another word, Billy Don turned to leave, because he heard the rumble of Red’s truck coming this way.

  And then—oh, my God—he noticed the brown-and-white carcass in the bed of the dog runners’ truck.

  It was one of those rare moments when Billy Don wasn’t confused or puzzled or under the influence of too much Keystone Light. He knew exactly what he was looking at. He saw the pig and he just knew. And he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the small pig by the tail and hoisted it easily out of the bed, just as Red swung up behind the big diesel. Billy Don jumped inside, still holding the pig, and shouted, “Go, go, go!”

  Dustin watched as Gilbert staggered to his feet and yelled at the red Ford as it peeled out of the parking lot.

  “You see what he did?” Dylan asked from the back seat.

  Dustin knew his brother well enough to know he wasn’t referring to the hellacious punch the big guy had delivered to Gilbert’s nose.

  “The pig?” Dustin said.

  “Yep.”

  Meanwhile, Gilbert was outraged, trying to get back into the truck, but he was still too drunk to accomplish that simple task.

  “Yeah, I saw,” Dustin said. “And I’m having a hard time caring anymore.” It had also occurred to Dustin that Gilbert would probably try to claim all of the bounty money himself, even though they’d agreed to split it three ways.

  “Me, too,” Dylan said.

  Gilbert finally managed to plant himself into the passenger seat and close the door. “Let’s go, goddammit!”

  “Nope,” Dustin said.

  “They stole the pig!”

  Dustin opened his door and got out. Dylan did the same. Then Dustin closed his door and spoke through the open window to Gilbert. “We’re done, Gilbert. I’m not chasing them.”