by Ben Rehder
Red started to say something, but it got caught in his throat. Then his expression changed—just slightly. Billy Don noticed, but only because he knew Red so well. It was the tell-tale sign that Red was about to tell a whopper. Or say something stupid. Or tell a stupid whopper.
“We did, yeah,” Red said. “We had a handshake deal. The contract itself was just to make it official.”
Now that was news to Billy Don.
“Sure was sad to see my new partner laying on the porch like that,” Red said. “Any idea what happened to him? Heart attack?”
Billy Don could tell from Tatum’s reaction—the way he paused before answering—that something entirely different had killed Harley Frizzell.
There were still times when Nicole would catch Marlin gazing at her across the dinner table. She knew what that meant—because he’d told her, on several occasions.
He was in awe of this woman.
It wasn’t just her beauty, obviously, although... Wow. Start with the long auburn hair that she often pulled back in a ponytail. High cheekbones that would have made jealous Hollywood starlets mutter obscenities. And that smile. The combined effect had tied Marlin’s tongue like a schoolboy’s when they had first met. She’d been a deputy at the time—meaning he saw her on nearly a daily basis—and he’d had a crush on her that rendered him more or less mute when she was around. She took it to mean he didn’t like her, or that he had a problem with a woman serving as a deputy. Not a good start.
He’d eventually regained his powers of speech, confessed the real reason for his behavior, and they’d gotten to know each other better. He learned quickly that her beauty was only matched by her intelligence, compassion, and wit. There has to be a flaw, he had thought at the time. Some glaring character defect or moral shortcoming. But he never saw one, and when they began to date, he realized just how fortunate he was that a woman like this had come to work at the sheriff’s department. When their relationship reached a certain point, he shared his feelings. Of course, she accepted his assessment of her with the utmost grace, because humility was yet another one of her strong points.
But she knew how he felt.
So now, as she noticed him staring, she simply gave him a bashful grin and took a sip of wine, with perhaps a faint blush of modesty showing in her cheeks.
They’d finished eating, and now they were simply enjoying some quiet time together. They’d learned some time back that it was wise to limit work discussions—to summarize, rather than go into detail. Otherwise, many of their conversations could become sad, depressing, or frustrating.
Tonight, despite the fact that Nicole rarely let her work get her down, Marlin could tell that something was on her mind. A few years earlier, she’d left the sheriff’s department to become the county victim-services coordinator. Everyone agreed there couldn’t have been anyone more ideal for the job, but even the most upbeat person could be impacted by working with victims of crime on a daily basis.
He poured some more wine into her glass, and then into his. “Anything interesting happen today?” he said.
She laughed, as if that were an understatement. “Sure you want to hear it?”
“Hang on a sec.” He took a long drink of wine. Paused. Then took another. He set the glass on the table. “Okay, now.”
She took a breath and opened her mouth, but stopped, and it was obvious she was doing her best to control her emotions.
“Remember Heather from last year?”
“That woman over near Round Mountain.”
“Right. I swear, she just cannot catch a break.”
“What’s up?”
Now Nicole was shaking her head and starting to smile in that rueful way that people do when they don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“It wasn’t bad enough that her husband died, and then she lost her job. Now she’s sick. Really sick.”
“With what?” Marlin asked.
Now Nicole really did start to cry.
5
Liam Mooney, 19 years old, and Jessi Winslow, 18, were ten miles outside of Wichita, Kansas, driving south on Interstate 35 in Liam’s eight-year-old Hyundai. It was a fairly boring drive at the moment, with the surrounding farmland as flat as a pancake, but Liam was passing the time by telling Jessi more about his hero, Daniel Andreas San Diego.
“He was the first animal-rights activist to make the FBI’s Most Wanted Terrorists list,” Liam said, trying to sound nonchalant about it.
“For real?” Jessi said. She seemed intrigued, as Liam had guessed she would. “What did he do?”
She was fairly new to the straight-edge lifestyle. She had a lot to learn, but Liam was more than prepared to teach her all about it. And other things, too, if she would let him, because she was really cute—long, straight, black hair, a pale complexion, and an unbelievable rack that made Liam lose his train of thought on occasion.
“Bombed a couple of buildings,” he said.
“Whoa,” Jessi said. “Seriously? What for?”
Liam turned the volume down on “Slain Upon My Faithful Sword” by I Killed the Prom Queen—a killer Australian metalcore band—so he and Jessi could have a serious conversation.
“Both places—these big corporations—were clients of this other big company that did research experiments on animals,” Liam said. “Pigs.”
“They did research on pigs?” Jessi asked.
“No, I mean they’re a bunch of pigs. The people at the companies.”
“So they didn’t do research on pigs?”
“I don’t know specifically if they did research on pigs, but they might’ve. Or on dogs or cats or rabbits. It’s crazy. Why do people think that’s okay?”
Jessi didn’t say anything, but Liam knew from earlier chats that she was in favor of banning all animal research, whether it was for a promising new drug or a jojoba-infused shampoo. What Liam didn’t know yet was how far she might be willing to go to accomplish that goal.
“Terrorist,” Liam said again for emphasis.
“What?” Jessi said.
“He wasn’t just a fugitive,” Liam said. “I mean, that list—the FBI’s fugitive list—is full of murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and nut jobs like that. But the terrorist list...that’s a whole different deal.”
He could only shake his head at how impressive it was.
Daniel Andreas San Diego epitomized the elements of the straight-edge lifestyle Liam thought were most important. It started with an appreciation for the relevance of bands like Minor Threat, Sewer Cider, Prayer for Cleansing, and After the Burial. It also meant being a vegan, or at least a vegetarian, and valuing our planet and the animals on it. Straight edgers abstained from alcohol, tobacco, caffeine, drugs, and casual sex. Casual was the key word there, because who wanted to be celibate?
You didn’t, however, have to abstain from violence—not if you agreed with Daniel Andreas San Diego’s idea of right and wrong. Among many committed animal-welfare advocates (some people might say “extremist,” but Liam preferred “committed”), Daniel Andreas San Diego was a superstar. A celebrity. A legend.
“Did anybody get hurt?” Jessi asked.
Her tone of voice was weird—almost like she wanted the answer to be yes. Liam glanced over at her, and he couldn’t help sneaking a quick peek at her boobs. My God, they were massive for a girl so petite, and look at the way they stretched the front of her black “Party Sober” T-shirt. He looked away when—thumpa-thumpa-thumpa—his tires began to strike the road markers separating his lane from the shoulder. Road titties. That’s what people called them. How appropriate.
“Huh?” he said.
“Did anybody get hurt?”
“Nah,” he said, “and there wasn’t even much property damage. It was more about the symbolism of the act, you know? He was making a statement.”
“Oh,” she said.
Liam didn’t mention that there were actually two successive bombings at the first corporation, an hour apart, with the timing of the sec
ond detonation presumably intended to maim or kill emergency responders. Liam figured it was probably best that there were no injuries or fatalities, although, if there had been, the message behind the bombings would have gotten more media coverage. Or if the average American paid any attention whatsoever to visionaries like Daniel Andreas San Diego. The sad truth was, 99.99% of the general public couldn’t tell you what “straight edge” meant—the lifestyle wasn’t nearly as popular as it had been a few decades ago—and they wouldn’t recognize that name, Daniel Andreas San Diego.
But Liam held out hope that their movement was experiencing a resurgence. In fact, the Wikipedia entry for Daniel Andreas San Diego had garnered more than 150 “likes” on Facebook, which made Liam feel fairly optimistic, until he learned that porridge had racked up nearly 7,000 likes, and square dancing scored more than 16,000. On the other hand, acrylic paint had only eight likes the last time Liam had checked, which meant Daniel Andreas San Diego was roughly nineteen times more popular than acrylic paint, although, of course, that sort of data wasn’t very scientific.
San Diego’s mythos (Liam loved that word, mythos) had only grown, year by year, since the bombings, because of the manner in which he had eluded capture. In the days following the final bombing, San Diego suspected he was under surveillance by the FBI, and he was right. So in October of 2003, he parked his car in downtown San Francisco, calmly walked away, and hadn’t been seen since. Poof. Gone.
“Where is he now?” Jessi asked, and then Liam could tell from the amused expression that suddenly flashed over her pretty face that she had come up with something clever to say. And she said it: “Where in the world is Daniel Andreas San Diego? Get it?”
Liam grinned, although he had seen that line several times on the Internet.
“That’s really funny,” he said.
“Thanks.”
It was a struggle to keep his eyes on the road. He had seen Jessi in a bikini at a lake party in the summer, and her butt was as taut as a snare drum. The memory was distracting. And it had made him self-conscious about his own body. Six foot two and only 143 pounds. All knees and elbows. But at least he had some impressive tattoos to distract from his less-than-impressive physique.
“Nobody knows for sure where he is now,” Liam said. “But there’ve been a lot of crazy rumors.”
“Like what?”
“Like he’s hiding out with a bunch of monks in Tibet. Or that he disguises himself by dressing permanently in drag and going by Danielle. I saw another one where he supposedly tried to free some lions from the London Zoo—or the Detroit Zoo, depending on who you believe—but the lions killed him, and the zoo people let the lions eat the body so they wouldn’t have to face a lawsuit.”
“God,” Jessi said. “That sounds like the plot for some dumb movie.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Liam said.
“Like what?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything specific. It’s just something people say. ‘Stranger things have happened.’”
He had the cruise control set to seventy, which meant one less thing to focus on. Nice and steady. He didn’t want to get pulled over, considering that his driver’s license was suspended. He had failed to pay a speeding ticket, which had been intentional, because tickets were nothing more than a bogus way for greedy municipalities to collect more revenue. Also, he hadn’t had the money.
“Just recently I heard he was the equipment manager for the El Paso Chihuahuas,” Liam said. “That’s the minor-league baseball team for the San Diego Padres.”
“San Diego,” Jessi said. “Oh, I bet people are just saying that because of the San Diego connection. The town and his last name. You know how things get all mixed up online.”
Liam hadn’t even thought of that, but it made sense. So Jessi had a killer body and a quick mind. Impressive.
“Sometimes I wish he’d just come out of hiding,” Liam said. “Turn himself in and go to prison, you know, for the attention it would bring to the cause.”
“Like, be a martyr?” Jessi said.
“Exactly,” Liam said. “And then maybe a bunch of people would get outraged that he was being punished for doing the right thing.”
“You think he did the right thing?”
Liam glanced at her again. This time, he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. So he waffled. “Sometimes I do and sometimes I don’t,” he said. “I know that what he did was illegal and dangerous and everything, but there are times when you just want to do whatever is necessary to change things, you know?”
“Yeah,” Jessi said. “I do.”
“For sure I know things aren’t cool the way they are,” Liam said. “I mean, what gives us the right to inflict pain and suffering on animals? Like these idiots down in Texas.”
Jessi started to nod, because Liam had wisely brought the conversation back to one of her hot buttons. She was the one who had first mentioned the wolf hunt in Montana, during a break in their shift at work.
Liam said, “I mean, what kind of sick fuck drives halfway across the country so he can shoot a wolf?”
“Bunch of ignorant assholes,” Jessi said, starting to get worked up.
“I know, right?” Liam said. He noticed that Jessi was breathing more rapidly. It was hard not to notice. Her chest was almost heaving.
Thumpa-thumpa-thumpa.
He corrected his steering again.
“It’s because of their stupid show,” Jessi said. “I’m sure the producers or whatever thought it would be a great idea for an episode. ‘Hey, let’s go slaughter some beautiful animals for higher ratings.’”
“Jerks.”
“Morons.”
“Idiots.”
“Scumbags.”
That’s why they were driving to Texas.
To send a message of their own.
6
“I realize we all know Red O’Brien fairly well,” Bill Tatum said the morning after Harley Frizzell’s body was found. “Or we think we do. And I agree that, despite his many faults, he’s never seemed the type to intentionally hurt anyone. But the fact is, he had a motive. Or he might’ve thought he had one. He said he and Harley had a verbal agreement to be partners on this deer scent venture—and I’m wondering if that means he can make a claim for ownership of the scent, now that Harley is gone.”
Tatum, Bobby Garza, and John Marlin were meeting in the conference room inside the Blanco County law-enforcement complex. The sheriff had called Marlin late the previous evening, asking if he could join them, and Marlin had agreed.
“I just want to get your thoughts on a few things,” Garza had said.
“Yeah, right,” Marlin had replied. “That’s the way it usually starts.”
Garza always found a clever way to pull Marlin into an investigation. In this instance, Garza had mentioned that Bill Tatum was tied up with several other cases, so he couldn’t dedicate much time to the Harley Frizzell investigation. That led, of course, to Garza asking if Marlin could help out. Truth was, Marlin enjoyed working with the sheriff and his deputies—but he’d enjoy it more if it wasn’t his busiest time of the year.
“Will a verbal agreement really hold up in a situation like this?” Marlin asked now. “Wouldn’t Harley’s stuff go to his next of kin?”
Tatum shrugged. “Guess we need to ask Deborah,” he said, referring to Deborah Timms, the county attorney for the past two years. “Even if it doesn’t, if Red thought he had a claim, that would be motive enough, even if he was wrong.”
“How do we even know Red is telling the truth?” Marlin said.
“Billy Don backed him up, for what that’s worth,” Tatum said. “Which I realize is probably zilch.”
“There’s no probably to it,” Marlin said.
“From what we can tell so far,” Garza said, “it appears Harley has no heirs, or no obvious ones. He was married once, way back in 1936, if you can believe it, and they divorced in ’45. No kids. Harley himself was an only child. If he has any survivi
ng kinfolk, we haven’t seen any sign of it yet. He outlived ’em all. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a will, but I doubt it.”
Garza had been granted a search warrant for Harley’s house the previous afternoon, as he had predicted, and he and his deputies had searched Harley’s home shortly thereafter. He’d told Marlin during their phone conversation that the search team had found at least a dozen metal coffee cans, plastic Gatorade bottles, and other containers that appeared to be holding experimental deer scents. No way of knowing offhand which one, if any, had enticed the bucks to Harley’s house.
The team had also discovered that Harley was a bit of a pack rat: a somewhat organized pack rat, but still a pack rat. He didn’t throw much away. One room contained dozens of boxes of paperwork—including bills, bank statements, tax returns, and letters going back for decades. Some of the boxes were clearly labeled, but most were not. The deputies had carted all of those boxes back to the department to sort through later. That task had fallen into the lap of Deputy Ernie Turpin, who was at that moment in another room, methodically exploring the boxes one by one, searching for anything that might provide a lead or any useful information.
“I just can’t see Red harming Harley,” Marlin said. “Intentionally or not. We all know Red’s not a brilliant guy—hell, he barely has enough sense to keep himself fed and bathed—but he’s not normally violent. Neither is Billy Don, for that matter, unless he’s provoked.”
“And woe be unto the provocateur,” Tatum said. “Especially if Billy Don’s been drinking.”
“No argument there,” Marlin said. “But Red or Billy Don attacking an old guy like Harley? I just don’t see that happening. Under any circumstances. Sober or drunk.”
Tatum didn’t speak, but instead made a back-and-forth motion with his head, indicating that he was weighing Marlin’s opinion and was leaning toward agreement.
Garza said, “I think, initially, based on what Red said, that we should focus on the scent manufacturers. How many did Harley contact, and how? By mail? Phone? Did he meet with any of them face to face? Did he meet with anyone other than manufacturers? If he was willing to consider a partnership with Red, were there others he had talked to about that same thing?”
