Hog Heaven

by Ben Rehder

  “What the fuck?”

  “Also, you do not have permission to take my truck.”

  It was a scheme Dustin had concocted just then, on the fly. His remark naturally caused Gilbert to check the ignition, where the keys still hung.

  “You hear that, Dylan?” Dustin said.

  “He doesn’t have permission to take your truck.”

  “Right.”

  “Fuck both of you,” Gilbert said as he struggled over into the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition. He backed out of the parking slot, slapped it into drive, then smoked the tires out of the parking lot.

  Dustin calmly pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 911.

  Red hadn’t really thought about which way to run. He’d simply taken a hard, screaming right on Highway 281 because turning left would have taken them past the sheriff’s office. So, by default, he went north, on wide open highway, and it wasn’t long before he had it up to 90 again.

  Billy Don was looking backwards through the rear window. “Don’t see ’em yet.”

  “Is that what I think it is?” Red asked, referring to the pig in Billy Don’s lap, and wondering if there was really any chance that God would allow them to have such good fortune. He could hardly control his breathing he was so excited. It was a small brown-and-white pig, just like Armando had described. Just like the one they’d seen from the deer blind two nights ago.

  “Don’t know yet,” Billy Don said.

  “Check its ears!” Red shouted.

  “Just wait a sec,” Billy Don said, still watching through the rear window.

  And right then Red saw a light appear in the rearview mirror.

  “They’re coming,” Billy Don said.

  The vehicle was several hundred yards back—so far back that the headlights looked like one light—but it had to be the dog runners, because the vehicle was going faster than Red’s Ford. He mashed down on the gas pedal, but it was already floored.

  “Can’t outrun ’em,” Red said.

  “Shit.”

  Red rounded a curve and the headlights disappeared for a moment. Then he came to a straightaway and the headlights reappeared. It didn’t look good—but Red had an idea.

  “Billy Don, get ready to hang on.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Just get ready to hang on, right after this curve.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  There was an old trick that game wardens used. They’d run a line to a switch underneath the driver’s seat, and when they’d flip that switch, it killed the power to the brake lights. That way they could sneak up on poachers without giving themselves away. Not long ago, Red had installed the same type of switch in his truck, so he could poach without giving himself away. He hadn’t used the switch yet, but it was just about to get its first tryout.

  Now the single light in the rearview mirror began to look like two lights. Not good. They were gaining.

  Then Red rounded another curve and the lights disappeared again.

  “Hang on!”

  He flipped the switch under the seat, and then he stomped the brakes hard, and even harder, and harder still. The truck began to groan as it was forced to lose its momentum quickly.

  And then Red saw what he was looking for: a small caliche driveway to the right, almost hidden by the thick cedar trees that covered the roadside. Red had snooped around in this area before. He knew the driveway led to a cabin set far off the highway. No gate blocking the way. No chain.

  Red violently whipped the Ford to the right, careening into the driveway, and for a second or two, it felt like the truck was up on two wheels and it might tip over. But the moment finally passed, and Red goosed the gas hard, slinging gravel as he shot down the narrow driveway.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Billy Don said. “You are a fucking lunatic.”

  Red reached out and killed the headlights, then hit the brakes, and the truck came to a stop, hidden in the cedar trees, with no lights revealing where they were.

  “I thought we was dead men,” Billy Don said.

  Both men turned and looked behind them at the highway bathed in moonlight. Ten seconds passed. Then the dog runners’ truck roared past.

  CHAPTER 39

  “Your father’s heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature are elevated. He has vomited twice, but the last time was well over an hour ago. Obviously, as you know, he isn’t thinking clearly. A few minutes ago, he tried to convince me that he is the all-being master of time, space, and dimension. If memory serves, that’s from an old Steve Martin routine. We’re running some tests on his kidneys and his liver, and we’ll have to see what those tell us, but I see no swelling in his lower extremities, no signs of fluid retention or abdominal pain, so we are cautiously optimistic. Based on my exam, it appears he has been abusing Adderall quite extensively, and for quite some time. Nevertheless, based on his condition at the moment, and assuming he is willing to address his addiction, I think there’s a good chance he can make a complete recovery. Do you have any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Is he currently taking any other prescription or over-the-counter medications?”

  “No.”

  “Has he ever abused any other drugs?”

  “No.”

  “Does he drink heavily?”

  “No.”

  “Any history of heart disease?”

  “No.”

  “Thyroid problems?”

  “No.”

  “Hypertension?”

  “No.”

  “Epilepsy or seizure disorder?”

  “No.”

  “Any mental illness?”

  “Yes. He’s obsessed with college football.”

  Marlin was six miles south of Round Mountain, in northern Blanco County, when a vehicle shot past him at a speed he could only estimate at approximately one hundred miles per hour. He immediately hit the brakes, brought his own speed down, and made a U-turn. By the time he was turned around and northbound, the vehicle was no longer in sight.

  Marlin grabbed the radio microphone. “Seventy-five-oh-eight to Blanco County.”

  “Go ahead, seventy-five-oh-eight,” said Darrell Bridges, the dispatcher.

  “Currently in pursuit of a vehicle traveling at a high rate of speed, northbound on 281. My current location—just passing Arrowhead Road. You might want to alert Burnet County.”

  “Ten-four. Do you have a description of the vehicle?”

  “It appeared to be a blue truck, but I couldn’t get the make or model.”

  “Seventy-five-oh-eight, be advised that we just received a 10-99 on a blue, dual-cab GMC truck that was last seen northbound on 281.”

  The radio code—10-99—meant the truck was stolen. But that wasn’t the only part that caught Marlin’s ear. A blue, dual-cab GMC? What were the odds?

  “County, who called that complaint in?”

  “The registered owner—last name of Bryant, first name of Dustin. Suspect is a Gilbert Weems.”

  Darrell had no way of knowing the significance of that information.

  “County, do we know how many occupants are in the vehicle?”

  Marlin wanted to know if Dylan Bryant was with Weems. It was doubtful, but he couldn’t take anything for granted. Maybe there’d been a falling out between Dustin and Dylan, and Dylan had taken off with Weems.

  “According to the complainant, it’s occupied one time.”

  One person. Just Weems.

  “County, please ask any available units to respond.”

  The moment of truth.

  Billy Don grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box and turned it on. The small pig carcass was still resting in his lap, and warm blood—from the instantly fatal gunshot wound to the porker’s neck—had seeped into the thighs of Billy Don’s jeans. He didn’t care. Wasn’t the first time.

  “Well, come on,” Red said.

  Billy Don tugged one of the pig’s ears and illuminated the inside.

  Nothing.
No tattoo.

  He turned the pig’s head and illuminated the inside of the other ear.

  “Yeeeeessss!” Red screamed, and he began pounding the steering wheel with excitement. “Hell, yeeeesssss!”

  The tattoo was there.

  One mile short of Round Mountain, Gilbert Weems came to the conclusion that he’d been screwed. The pig thieves in the red Ford must’ve turned off somewhere. They had to be back behind him. Otherwise, he’d have caught up to them by now.

  He stomped heavily on the brakes and then made a wide, looping U-turn.

  Marlin saw headlights in the distance—at least half a mile away. But they were coming fast. Marlin’s speed alone couldn’t account for how quickly this vehicle was approaching.

  Could it be Weems? Had he turned around?

  Marlin played a hunch and took his foot off the gas. Then he switched off the red-and-blue lights mounted on the grill.

  He began to apply the brake.

  Now the oncoming vehicle was about a quarter-mile away, and there was no doubt that it was really moving. Marlin had to wonder why Weems would have turned around. And what caused the rift between Weems and the Bryant brothers? Why would Weems have stolen Dustin Bryant’s truck? None of that mattered for the moment.

  Marlin pulled to the shoulder and waited. The vehicle was eating up pavement quickly.

  Two hundred yards.

  One hundred yards.

  Then it zipped past, and Marlin saw that it was a blue dual-cab truck. He cranked the wheel, made yet another U-turn, and gunned it, with the red-and-blues flashing again.

  Weems recognized the green game warden truck—he’d seen plenty in his day—and he knew the warden would turn around and give chase. And he did.

  Weems was flying at well over ninety—and the warden probably wouldn’t be able to catch up—but staying on the highway was a no-win situation. It would take him right back to Johnson City, where deputies would be waiting.

  That left one option.

  “Seventy-five-oh-eight to County. Be advised that the blue GMC is now southbound on 281.”

  “Ten-four, seventy-five-oh-eight.”

  “Correction: he just turned westbound on County Road 307.”

  “Ten-four.”

  Marlin made the turn, but once again, the GMC had a big lead, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to close the gap.

  Red came back down to Earth and said, “Here’s the deal. I don’t blame you at all for grabbing the pig—I woulda done the same damn thing—but we need to settle down for a minute and think this through.”

  “What’s there to think about?” Billy Don asked.

  They were still parked in the driveway off 281.

  “Well, I have no idea what the law says about a situation like this, but I’m betting those boys can say we stole the pig. Cops’d probably agree and give it right back to them.”

  “But they ain’t got the pig and we do. Everybody knows repossession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  “I think that’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I guess I’m saying we shouldn’t get too excited. Not until we see if they call the cops.”

  Every 10 or 15 seconds or so, Marlin would catch a glimpse of the GMC’s taillights in the distance—and then they’d disappear around a curve. Marlin wasn’t sure if he was losing any ground on the narrow county road, but he definitely wasn’t gaining any. That’s because Weems was driving like a man with a lot to lose. Marlin couldn’t push his own truck any harder—not without losing control, and it wasn’t worth it. If he couldn’t catch Weems tonight, Weems would get caught eventually—tomorrow, the next day, or next week.

  On the other hand, the chase wasn’t over yet—and Marlin had one distinct advantage. He’d driven every back road in Blanco County, including this one, hundreds of times. He knew every inch of pavement, every cattle guard, every low-water crossing, every patched pothole.

  And every unmarked ninety-degree left-hand turn.

  Gilbert Weems couldn’t help but grin. Every so often he’d sneak a peek in the rearview mirror, and he could see that the game warden couldn’t keep up. What a wimp. Too chicken to push the limits. Didn’t have the balls to—

  Holy hell!

  With no warning, the road took a sharp and sudden left, and Weems had no choice but to whip the wheel violently. And he knew immediately the truck couldn’t hold the road.

  The tires were squealing—screaming bloody murder as the truck began to slide sideways—and then the tires went silent as they lost contact with the pavement.

  Weems had a sickening feeling in his stomach as he realized the truck was beginning to roll.

  Marlin saw it happen.

  He was eighty yards back when Weems approached the hard curve much too fast, and then there was a wild jumble of lights twirling and tumbling. The GMC had left the road and was rolling several times.

  Marlin applied the brakes and eased to a stop. Then he grabbed the microphone and told Darrell to send EMS as quickly as possible.

  He jumped from his truck and jogged toward the dog runners’ truck, which had come to a rest upside-down, its roof partially crumpled, all windows shattered.

  As Marlin got within ten feet, he heard, “Son of a bitch!”

  Weems was alive.

  But Marlin could see an orange glow coming from the engine compartment. Flames. The wind carried the acrid scent of burning oil and rubber.

  He bent to one knee beside the driver’s door and peered inside with a flashlight. Weems was making a feeble effort to crawl out of the cab, but he was obviously disoriented—and possibly injured.

  The fire was growing more intense, and now black smoke was swirling in the air. Time was short. Hell if Marlin was going to put himself at risk for long for this idiot.

  He got down on all fours, then reached inside and grabbed Weems by the collar. He pulled, and out Weems came. The adrenaline was definitely flowing, because Weems felt no heavier than a fifty-pound bag of feed.

  “Fuck. Ow. Let me go,” Weems said, but he made no effort to stand. He obviously couldn’t.

  Marlin kept dragging him, across rocks and possibly cactus, and now flames were beginning to erupt from the engine compartment. The men were twenty yards from the truck, but that wasn’t far enough.

  Marlin dragged him some more.

  “Goddammit! Asshole. Gonna kick your ass.”

  Finally, a good forty yards away, and with his arms beginning to ache, Marlin stopped. This would have to do. He quickly assessed Weems for injuries and saw nothing obvious—except for a bloody bandage across his nose. Looked like somebody had clocked him earlier. But Weems appeared to have survived the wreck unscathed. Lucky bastard.

  Marlin glanced at the truck and saw that the fire had spread to the passenger compartment. It wouldn’t be long before the entire vehicle was engulfed in flames.

  Suddenly Marlin realized that Gilbert Weems was up on his feet. Swaying, but on his feet. Before Marlin could take a step backward, Weems threw a slow, lazy haymaker directed at the side of Marlin’s head. Marlin ducked and Weems’s fist swept the air above him.

  Without even considering other options, Marlin responded by delivering a crisp overhand right to the bridge of Weems’s injured nose.

  Weems yelped in pain and dropped to his knees, cradling his face. He said something that sounded like, “Fuck! That hurts!”

  Marlin pulled his handcuffs from the back of his belt, saying, “I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy this.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Red woke at seven o’clock the next morning, still sitting in his recliner, and with a half-empty beer can still wedged in his crotch. Correction: It wasn’t half empty, it was half full. Life was good. Damn good.

  He and Billy Don had done some cautious celebrating last night. They’d sat on Red’s porch, drinking beer and waiting for the deputies to show up. It would only be a matter of time, right? The
redheaded hick from East Texas would report the theft of the pig, give the cops a description of the perpetrators, and the cops would know immediately who did it. And they’d investigate right away, before Red and Billy Don had a chance to hide the pig.

  Except the hours passed, a case of beer slowly disappeared, and the cops never showed. Long about midnight, Billy Don said, “Think we’re home free?”

  Red said, “I hate to get our hopes up too much, but... it’s starting to look that way. For sure I’d say if the cops don’t come snooping around tomorrow, then it’s a done deal. The pig is all ours.”

  “Ours?” Billy Don said. “I’m the one who grabbed it.” Red swung his head around, surprised, and Billy Don said, “Joking. We’ll split it right down the middle. I figure my getaway driver deserves half.”

  Not long after that, Billy Don had walked home—too drunk to drive, and not stupid enough to call Betty Jean at that hour—after they’d agreed they’d wait until five o’clock this afternoon to claim the bounty. “By then,” Red had said, “we can be goddamn certain they ain’t reportin’ it.”

  Red could hardly allow himself to think it was coming true.

  Twenty-five thousand dollars. He’d never had that much money to his name in his life. He’d be one-quarter of a hundred-thousandaire.

  Then he thought: What about taxes? He figured the goddamn IRS would want a chunk for sure, because, well, when didn’t they want a chunk? No way of dodging it, either, since the bounty had been so well publicized. He figured the winner would be, too. Probably some sort of write-up in the newspaper. Maybe some interviews on the Austin or San Antonio news.

  Then he had a brainstorm. What if he and Billy Don could parlay this slim bit of upcoming fame into a larger career as some sort of pair of pig-hunting experts? Didn’t really matter that they hadn’t actually killed the pig, because who would know? Maybe they could get some sort of TV show. There was already one pig-hunting show on TV, and there was probably room for another. Viewers today loved watching shows about country people, like that one about that Louisiana family who made millions of dollars on duck calls.