Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  “Bad news. I came in early this morning to get ready for deer season and I found Phil in the office unconscious.”

  Marlin's heart thudded. “What? Is he all right?”

  “The chopper just took him away. They're flying him down to San Antone.”

  “What happened?”

  “That's what the deputies are wondering. There's no sign of intruders—nothin's missing—but he thumped his head pretty good. He coulda slipped, but…”

  Marlin was way ahead of him. This was not an accident, and pangs of guilt turned Marlin's stomach queasy. He never should have given Buck back to Colby. Roy Swank was a man who was used to getting his way and he didn't care how he did it. They'd all known that ever since he moved to Blanco County.

  “Listen, John. I know all about the deer. I figure I better go over to Phil's place and tend to him.”

  “No, sir. Swank's tied into all this somehow, and whoever has that deer could be in for trouble.”

  “Ain't never been any trouble that Junior Barstow couldn't handle. Now just you relax and leave it to me.”

  “Junior, I really appreciate that, and I'm sure Phil would, too. But it's me who has to deal with it. I promise to call you if I need anything, all right?”

  Barstow sighed and agreed. “I never was one to argue with a game warden.”

  Bobby Garza tried the phone number early Monday morning. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to say if anyone answered. Certainly not: Oh, good morning. I just wanted to let you know that I found your phone number on a dead man's hand.

  But there was no answer after ten rings. Garza hung up and then dialed the operator, identifying himself as a Blanco County deputy. “I've been trying a number and getting no answer. Maybe you could give me some information on it?”

  “What's the number, sir?”

  Garza recited it and could hear the operator punching it into a keyboard. After a few seconds, the operator said, “I'm afraid that's a pay phone, sir.”

  Damn! Just the kind of thing he was dreading. “Okay, thanks anyway.” Garza was prepared to give up on the number when he had a brainstorm. The exchange for Johnson City was 555, and he had immediately assumed that the phone number on the corpse's hand was a 555 number. But the exchange for nearby Dripping Springs, east of Johnson City in Hays County, was 556. A six could certainly be mistaken for a five, especially when you consider the writing surface in this case. So he tried the number again using the 556 prefix.

  A young man answered on the third ring.

  Garza responded: “This is Deputy Bobby Garza with the Blanco County Sheriff's Department. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Uh, Willie Combes. You must have the wrong number.” Combes sounded like a misplaced surfer from the beaches of Malibu. A regular Jeff Spiccoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

  “Actually, Willie, I need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind if I come by for a minute?”

  “Like, what's this all about?”

  “Just routine stuff.” Garza didn't want to show his hand just yet. “You live in Dripping Springs, right?”

  “Dude, you're really on the wrong track here.”

  “I probably am, Willie. But if so, we can get this cleared up and I'll be out of your hair.” Garza was sure Willie had plenty of hair. Probably a dark tan and sandals, too.

  “Can't you even tell me what's going on?”

  “I'd prefer to do that in person. Now, if you'll just give me your address, I can come over and we'll straighten this out.”

  “No warrants, right?”

  Garza thought, This kid definitely knows something. That's the kind of question only a guilty person would ask. “No, Willie, I promise. No warrants.” Not yet, anyway.

  Tim Gray, the veterinarian, was accustomed to working on animals. Humans were another matter. Especially for something as serious as a snake bite. But Swank had called Gray first thing Monday morning and ordered him to get over to Red O'Brien's mobile home pronto.

  “Doc, it hurts real bad,” Billy Don moaned.

  Gray surveyed Billy Don's arm, which was now the size of a watermelon. “Well, why the hell did you wait so long to get medical attention? You could be dead by now.”

  “We had to go get the deer outta the barn at Colby's place. And Red told me tequila would take care of it anyhow.” He glared at Red, who was sprawled on the sofa, still recovering from their impromptu celebration the night before.

  “Just hold still and I'll fix you up.”

  Gray scanned the bottle of antivenin. The first thing he saw was a warning that said: FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY. Oh well. He himself had tried plenty of pharmaceuticals that had that same warning.

  The bottle listed a recommended dose for dogs up to one hundred pounds. Gray wondered: How much do you use for an animal that weighs about the same as a grand piano? He decided to triple the amount on the label.

  Gray expected a moan from Billy Don when he inserted the needle—this big man was proving to be quite a complainer—but Billy Don didn't even wince. Bad sign. Billy Don had lost feeling in his arm.

  “All right,” Gray said, “That should help with the swelling and prevent heart failure.”

  Billy Don's face immediately turned an ashen color. “What are you talking about?”

  “That's what snake venom does. First, you get necrosing tissue. That means it pretty much rots and falls off. Then you go into shock, which causes respiratory failure and heart failure. Your ticker just plain gives out.”

  Billy Don's eyes got as big as pool balls. Gray figured that if Billy Don was going to die, he would already be gone by now. But he was actually enjoying tormenting him. It was kind of fun dealing with a patient who could talk.

  Gray packed all his things back into his bag and turned to the two men. “All right, boys. Now let's have a look at that deer.”

  John Marlin had plenty of time to think while he drove to the hospital in San Antonio. Obviously something was going on with Buck. Something important enough to land two men in the hospital in a matter of days. But this time, it was his best friend. Marlin decided it was time to quit playing hide-and- seek with the deer and confront Swank directly. Or he might have a face-to-face chat with Sheriff Mackey, try to rattle his cage a little. The sheriff had close ties to Swank, and he had seemed awfully intent on getting the deer back for him. Could be that Mackey knew what was going on.

  By the time Marlin arrived at the hospital, a light drizzle had begun to fall. He pulled into the parking garage and found a spot marked FOR EMERGENCY VEHICLES ONLY. One of the perks of the job.

  Marlin crossed the elevated walkway to the hospital and proceeded to the front desk. An employee told him Colby was in room 211. Intensive Care. Right away, Marlin's sense of guilt came back. His best friend was in serious condition with a closed head wound, and he couldn't help but feel responsible.

  He tapped lightly on the door, expecting no response, but a gentle female voice told him to come in. Marlin swung the door open and met familiar eyes. Becky Cameron, the nurse who had taken care of Trey Sweeney, was in the room tending to Phil Colby. She did a double take when she saw who the visitor was. “Hello again, Mr. Marlin.”

  Marlin noticed that she had remembered his name. He nodded to her. “Miss Cameron, please call me John.”

  “If you'll call me Becky. What brings you here today?” Becky asked. Then her eyes got wide. “Don't tell me this is a friend of yours, too?”

  Marlin nodded. “It hasn't been a good week.”

  Marlin walked over to the bed and was shocked at what he saw. Phil lay motionless, eyes closed. He looked pale and much too thin. A small machine that monitored Colby's vital signs beeped and blinked at the bedside. Marlin decided to take a seat in a chair next to the bed before his knees gave out on him.

  Moments passed, and Marlin had all but forgotten about the nurse, when she spoke again.

  “John, I'm really sorry to see you here again, in these circumstances.” She stepped closer to the chair. “I
f there's anything I can do…”

  Marlin smiled at her and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “He's my best friend. Has been since kindergarten.”

  Becky wrapped herself with her arms, as if she was suddenly cold. Marlin could even see tears in her eyes. “I'm so sorry. Please, just let me know what I can do,” she said. “I can get you extended visiting hours if you like. I could probably even get another bed in here if you want to stay.”

  Marlin nodded and turned back toward Phil.

  “I'll leave you alone,” Becky said as she turned toward the door.

  “There is one thing you could do for me,” Marlin called after her.

  “What's that?”

  “Have lunch with me.”

  The room was dimly lit, but Marlin thought he saw Becky blush. She glanced at her watch and looked up with a small smile. “You have perfect timing. My lunch hour just began. I'll grab my purse and be right back.”

  Alone, Marlin stood and looked down at Phil. He reached out and grabbed his hand. It was warm, just like it should be, but there was no life to it. No response at all.

  All this for a fucking deer, Marlin thought. Hell, we shoot deer just like Buck every year, Phil. So why did you have to get so attached to this one? Was he worth this much trouble?

  Marlin gave Phil's hand a squeeze and then went to wait for Becky Cameron in the hall.

  “IT'S BASICALLY A light coma,” Becky said while waiting for her enchilada plate to arrive. “What that means is, Phil doesn't need any life-support devices. He can breathe just fine on his own. Brain activity is normal. It's just that his brain had too much pressure on it from cerebral hemorrhage. But everything is stable and we're monitoring him very carefully. As soon as the body reabsorbs the blood, he should come out of it just fine.” She gave Marlin a smile meant to comfort. The man was obviously concerned over his friend's condition—he almost acted as if he was responsible.

  Marlin nodded and took a big drink of iced tea. But he didn't smile or act relieved.

  “John, do you know how long the average coma patient remains unconscious?”

  Marlin looked a little startled, and Becky wondered if she was being a little too matter-of-fact. Life as a nurse sometimes left you a little less than sensitive in situations such as this. Health emergencies become an everyday circumstance, and one begins to talk about them in the same manner as describing a trip to the mall.

  Marlin paused for a minute and then said, “I don't know—six months?”

  Becky shook her head. “A couple of days, that's all. But everybody sees the movies and soap operas where a person will lie in a coma for months or years. That rarely happens. I've seen people in far worse shape than your friend come out of a coma one day and walk out of the hospital the next.”

  Marlin reached across the table and grabbed Becky's hand. She hadn't expected it, and she immediately felt nervous. But it was a good kind of nervous.

  “I appreciate your support, Becky. I really do. If something was to happen…I don't know what I'd do.”

  Marlin looked Becky straight in the eyes and she was struck by the sincerity she saw in his face. Here's a man who knows what honesty is about, she thought. He seems so vulnerable, but so powerful at the same time. None of the typical macho crap.

  Marlin opened his mouth to speak again, when the waiter arrived with their lunches. “Enchiladas for the lady and the taco plate for you, sir.”

  As they dug in, Becky said, “You were about to say something….”

  Marlin looked down at his plate and smiled. “Just wanted to say thank you again. For taking care of Phil. And for going to lunch with me.”

  For Nurse Becky Cameron, enchiladas had never tasted so good.

  Bobby Garza followed McGregor Road one mile north of Highway 290, then turned left on the dirt driveway like Willie Combes had told him. At the head of the driveway, a rusty mailbox proudly announced COMBES to anyone who was interested.

  As he approached the house, a mobile home sitting on twenty or thirty cedar-covered acres, Garza thought maybe Willie was a local after all. Not many newcomers live out in the sticks like this, and the ones that do are Californians who pay three hundred grand or more for beautiful hilltop homes.

  Garza swung his cruiser up next to an old Buick and climbed out. Four dogs immediately began barking in a pen next to the mobile home.

  Garza had seen homes like this plenty of times, both in Blanco County and here, to the east, in Hays County.

  A satellite dish sat atop the mobile home. Two old refrigerators sat on the front porch next to a plaid sofa. No fewer than six rusting vehicles were clustered together in high grass a hundred feet away.

  As the dogs continued to bark, three geese approached Garza and began to make a racket. Garza knew from experience to keep an eye on them. They were quick to take a snap at your ankles and could easily draw blood.

  Behind a nearby fence, Garza could see seven or eight goats and several hogs lying in the shade next to a small sheet-metal shed.

  Out from the shed came a hefty, older woman in a floral print dress. She was carrying a galvanized bucket and waved at Garza with her free hand. “Hello! Be right with you.”

  The woman exited through a small gate and walked up to Garza. The dogs and geese fell silent as she approached. “Lordy, it sure is a hot one today.”

  “Yes ma'am, it sure is.” Garza removed his Stetson and said, “Ma'am, I'm Bobby Garza from the Blanco County Sheriff's Department.”

  “Thelma Combes, glad to meet you.” She extended a pudgy hand, warm and soft, like her voice. She must have been about seventy-five, everyone's idea of the perfect grandmother. Large and robust, her weight tested the seams of her dress. Bobby's dad used to spot a woman like that and say she was smuggling grapefruits.

  Garza said, “I was looking for Willie….”

  Thelma Combes’ face got a worried look. “Uh-oh, is that boy in trouble again?”

  “I don't know at this point. I just need to ask him a few questions. Has he been in trouble before?”

  “Ever since he started smoking that pot weed, he hasn't been quite the same. My daughter sent him out to me to see if I could straighten him out. As you can see, I'm the one doing his chores, so I haven't had a lot of luck.”

  “You're his grandmother?”

  “Yeah, but it ain't easy.”

  Garza smiled. “No, ma'am, I'm sure it's not. Is Willie somewhere around?”

  “He's in the house. Willie!” She shrieked loudly enough to startle Garza and quiet all the birds in nearby trees. “Willie! You got a gentleman out here that needs to talk to you.”

  They both stared at the trailer door. After a moment, a scraggly teenager emerged.

  “Willie, I'm gonna get right to it.” Garza and Willie Combes were sitting on a picnic table under some oak trees near the trailer. Garza had already asked Willie about his record. Coupla misdemeanors is all, Willie had said. Both for possession of marijuana. No big deal. Garza could sense that he wasn't dealing with a bad kid. Just your average confused youth. The kind who was slow to answer questions, but not clever enough to lie his way out of trouble. Garza continued: “We found a dead body buried in a bridge over at Mucho Loco. You know where that is?”

  Willie nodded.

  “So far, we're not sure what the cause of death is—but we don't think there was any foul play.”

  Willie nodded again.

  Garza looked Willie straight in the eye. “The dead man had your phone number written on his hand.”

  Willie looked at the ground. If he wasn't involved, he'd be smiling by now, knowing he was free and clear.

  “Willie, before you answer my next question, let me tell you a little something about the way the judicial system works.” Garza paused and took a drink of the iced tea Thelma had brought him. A very kind woman, bless her heart.

  “Sometimes folks get involved with stuff they don't want to be involved in. Their firs
t inclination is to cover it up, get out of it somehow. You know what happens? They end up in way more trouble than they would have gotten into in the first place. Now, my guess is that this guy somehow died—through nobody's fault—and someone got nervous and did something a little stupid with the body. If that's the case, I really don't see where anybody would get into any trouble at all.”

  Willie looked back at the trailer anxiously. “I really, really don't want to get screwed around on this deal. I didn't do anything wrong, too much.”

  Garza nodded, thinking: Sure, Willie, nothing wrong at all. Other than illegally disposing of a corpse and failing to report a death. “Tell me what happened, Willie, and I think everything's gonna work out just fine.”

  Willie took a deep breath. “The guy you found—his name's Michael. I worked with him on the surveying crew.”

  “Was he from around here?”

  “No, Austin.”

  That would explain why Garza hadn't heard about a missing person.

  “He came over one night and we were drinking…”

  “And getting high?”

  “Yeah. See, Michael had asthma that would bother him some when we were out in the field. He'd have to sit for a while and catch his breath. And he had an inhaler that he used sometimes. But he'd still get high, saying that it actually made it easier to breathe. So we smoked a joint and I noticed that it tasted a little funny at first. Michael did, too. But by the time we were done, we didn't even notice it anymore. Then we smoked another one later. Michael used his inhaler a few times, and it seemed like he was getting a little sick…out of breath…but he said pot never did this to him, so it must be something in the air. We were smoking our last joint when he really started gasping. I went inside to get him a glass of water, and when I came back, he was just laying there. His eyes were open, but I couldn't tell if he was breathing or not.”

  “What'd you do?”

  Willie looked embarrassed. “I felt for a heartbeat. I didn't find one, so I tried CPR on him.”

  “Are you trained in CPR?”

  Willie shook his head no.