Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  “Any idea what they're saying?” Marlin asked.

  “The loud guy—he sounds like an American to me—is pissed that the other guy asked for our supplies. Said he has better things to do than run errands.”

  Moments later, Marlin heard a scraping noise on the outside of the door. He speculated that the kidnappers had simply installed brackets on either side of the outward-swinging door (which accounted for the hammering Becky had heard), and then placed a two-by-four in each bracket to hold the door closed. It was the only door to the one-room house. Outside, the man they had spoken with an hour ago called out, “Move away from the door. Remember, I have a pistola.”

  Marlin and Becky did as they were told, and a few seconds later the door swung open. From the sliver of moon Marlin could see rising in the horizon, he knew that it was about midnight. Two dark forms entered, shining a powerful spotlight at Marlin and Becky huddled in the corner.

  A stern voice, clearly American, spoke from behind the spotlight: “Listen up, Marlin. If you want these supplies, you've gotta do something for me. I've got a cell phone here. I'm gonna dial a number and you're gonna leave a message for your pal Bobby Garza. You're gonna tell him that everything is just fine at the Circle S Ranch, that everything you told him earlier was a big misunderstanding.”

  Marlin wondered how they knew about his conversation with the deputy. “Now, why in the hell would I do that?”

  There was a pause, then the voice said harshly, “Because if you don't, I'll kill him. And his family. And right before I do it, I'll tell ’em you sent me.”

  Marlin winced. He knew that Garza was one of the few advantages he and Becky had. Once Garza learned Marlin was missing, he'd come straight to the Circle S. But now, his captors were taking that advantage away. Marlin heard the beeping of a phone being dialed, then an enormous man stepped from behind the spotlight. “No fuckin’ around, ya hear, or I'll make the little lady there understand the true meaning of pain.”

  Marlin nodded and the phone was thrust into his hands. He held it to his ear and heard Garza's voice-mail greeting at the sheriff's office. Marlin wanted to shout a warning into the phone, let Garza know what was happening and where they were. But he wasn't about to put Becky into that kind of danger.

  “You'd better make it damn good,” the big man growled.

  Marlin could faintly see the second man, the one who was in the truck earlier. The man smiled and shrugged—a strange gesture, Marlin thought.

  At the tone, Marlin said, “Hey, Bobby, it's John Marlin. You're not going to believe this, but I talked to Thomas Stovall earlier this evening and he said that business with the white powder was all a practical joke. Friends put him up to it. Real funny, right? Wish I could write the guy up for being an idiot. Anyway, I just wanted you to know what was happening. Talk to you later.”

  Marlin hung up, feeling more defeated than ever, and the big man grabbed the phone out of his hands.

  The two captors backed out of the cabin, leaving a paper grocery bag inside the doorway. Marlin heard the two-by-four slide back in place. Seconds later, he heard an engine start and a vehicle drive off into the night.

  Marlin was feeling a little woozy. It was his first time standing since he had regained consciousness—and he was fooling himself if he thought he would get over the blow to the head easily. He felt a wave of nausea and his knees began to weaken. Becky recognized the look on his face and helped him back to the threadbare blanket on the floor. She handed him the jug of water again, and he drank deeply.

  Becky had hung the flashlight from a nail on the wall and it cast a pale glow around the room. The batteries were dying quickly. “I need to get your head cleaned up before the light fades,” Becky said as she grabbed the grocery bag the man had left. She began pulling items out: “Gauze. Band-Aids. Rubbing alcohol…that'll sting bad. Peroxide…that's better. Hey, they even got some Advil in here. They must be humanitarians.”

  Marlin managed a weak smile.

  “The problem is, you need stitches. But I'm not about to try to stitch you up in this…place.”

  Marlin shrugged weakly. “I'll get ’em done later.”

  “If we don't get…If we wait too long, stitches won't work. You'll just have to let it heal as is. You could end up with a nasty lump there.”

  “No problem. I'll wear a hat.” Marlin was doing his best to appear unrattled.

  Becky kneeled down on the blanket next to him and asked him to lie on his stomach. Marlin flipped over, crossed his arms and rested his forehead on his wrists.

  “This is a pretty bad cut, and I don't want it to get infected,” Becky said. “I'm going to pour some hydrogen peroxide on it, but it shouldn't sting.” She unscrewed the cap on the plastic bottle, poured a little into the cap, and gently poured the peroxide onto the wound. After a minute, she dabbed at the wound with a gauze pad. “I'm not going to try to put a bandage on you. It needs air anyway. Sorry I can't do more.”

  Marlin rolled onto his side and looked her in the eyes. “You're doing plenty,” he said. “Thanks.”

  Marlin listened: There were no noises from outside the house except the gentle wind. Marlin propped himself on one elbow, then reached up and cupped a hand around Becky's neck. She leaned toward him…and they kissed. Marlin instantly felt his trousers tighten, and his pain seemed to evaporate.

  Becky placed a few more gentle kisses on his lips and smiled. “We'd better take it easy, buster. You need to save your strength.”

  PHIL COLBY HAD chanced upon a cab driver just ending his shift and had offered him fifty bucks, flat, for a ride to Johnson City. A good deal for the cabbie, but more than Colby could really afford to pay. Screw it, he thought. He was tired and just wanted to get home.

  His house was dark when he arrived and there were no messages on the machine. Not a very welcoming return home. Of course, everybody thought he was still in the hospital. He tried to call Marlin again but got no answer. Colby figured he was out looking for poachers.

  Colby undressed and took a long, hot shower, trying to keep his stitches dry. It was nice to be back in his own surroundings. Tomorrow he would hook up with Marlin, and then he'd find out the latest on Buck. Last he knew, Swank still had the deer but was planning to return him. That was a strange deal. It almost seemed like a dream, Marlin telling Colby in the hospital that Swank wanted to “do the right thing.” Swank doing the right thing was about as likely as George Foreman turning down a hamburger.

  Colby finished showering, then went to the kitchen and dug some cold pizza and a longneck out of the refrigerator. Can't get a meal like that in the hospital, he reflected. He sank into the living-room sofa and aimlessly flipped through the channels, exhausted, but not yet ready for bed.

  Finally, Colby drifted into a deep sleep on the sofa.

  Tim Gray, the veterinarian, is floating, scooting, flying, billowing under a starry, starry, oh-so-starry Texas sky, heart pounding but feeling mellow, mellow, mellow, trees swaying, reaching toward him, talking to him as friends, sometimes as strangers, tall strangers, cattle lowing, eyeing him with confusion, marvel, admiration, this sentient being who has it all in front of him, has it all figured out, whose life is so much more complete with this altered consciousness, this supreme clarity, revelations of universal secrets descending on him like asteroids as the tall grass strokes his bare calves, his knobby knees, his naked thighs, the soles of his feet melting into the earth with each step, unseen birds with long, monstrous beaks watching him from shadowed limbs, moonlight bouncing off flagstone, piercing his skin with welcome warmth, making him drowsy and suddenly he is on his back feeling the ground spin, vague memories of grotesque antlered deer, grinning, morphing into dark-skinned men clutching at his arms his legs his soul, laughing, spitting, and then they're gone and everything feels right as he slips under, to wake, he now knows, never again…

  “I've gotta pee really bad,” Becky said. She looked at Marlin as if he would know what to do about that particular situation. Now
that he thought about it, he had a pretty urgent need himself. At least his head was starting to feel better, he thought.

  Marlin glanced around the small room, which was a little more well-lit now, the morning sun beginning to sneak in where it could. Other than the blanket, the flashlight, and the water jug, the room was bare. Not even an old coffee can. “I guess you could go over in a corner,” Marlin offered. “Maybe we should designate a spot…in case we're…we're in here for a while.”

  Marlin and Becky had not discussed their situation at length. He kept expecting her to ask him what they should do, what the men would do with them, but she didn't. Either she was scared to ask or she realized that Marlin's guesses were as good as hers. In any case, he didn't want to say anything that might frighten or dishearten her. Marlin actually felt fairly safe; if somebody wanted them dead, they'd be dead already.

  Becky shook her head at his suggestion. “Don't think so. Maybe I'll just hold it for a while longer.”

  Earlier, Becky had been the one to stamp her foot and demand medical supplies. Now, Marlin felt, it was his turn to do a little negotiating. He walked to the door and hollered, “Anybody out there? Hey, amigo!”

  Seconds later, Marlin heard a muffled voice just inches from the other side of the door. “Que pasa?”

  “The lady needs to go to the bathroom,” Marlin answered. “El baño.”

  “Use the floor. It ees dirt.”

  “Aw, come on now…be a sport. Let her out for a minute to take a leak. Would you want your mother treated this way?” Marlin knew that traditional Latin American men treated their mothers with great respect. Maybe that fact would work to his advantage.

  Marlin smiled at Becky as he heard the board slide from its brackets. Then the interior of the room was bathed in sunlight.

  Their captor, the smaller man from earlier, stood in the doorway. He smiled and said, “Juss couldn't hold it any longer?” An onlooker never would have guessed he was a kidnapper—except for the nine-millimeter handgun dangling loosely in his right hand. He waved it in Marlin's direction. “You…move to the back.” Marlin did as he was told. Now the man spoke to Becky. “Come on out…don’ be shy.”

  Becky exited and stood to the man's right. He tossed an empty milk jug into the room. “That is for your needs,” he said as he shut the door. Marlin heard the board slide back into place. While she was gone, Marlin searched the room once again—every shadow, every corner. There was absolutely nothing that could be used as a weapon. He kicked at the dirt floor. They could try digging under, but chances were good that the small man was circling the cabin regularly, keeping an eye out for just such an attempt. He looked up. The sloped ceiling was built with solid pine laths under heavy-duty sheet metal. Couldn't get through all that without alerting the entire county. Plus, there was no way to even reach the ceiling without a ladder. So, basically, there was no way out. At least not quietly.

  Becky was ushered back through the door a few minutes later, looking relieved. “He let me go behind a bush, down by the river. We were right, he's the only one out there. And your cruiser is parked just a few yards from the door. No other vehicles. If you can believe this, we made small talk about the weather. He's kind of a funny guy.”

  Suddenly Marlin had an idea…or at least the beginnings of one. “Could he see you, what you were doing?”

  “Not really. It was a small bush, though. I couldn't have slipped away.”

  “No, I wouldn't want you to try that. But I've got something else in mind.”

  Skip Farrell, the columnist, thought it would be an excellent photo for his article: the main house at the Circle S Ranch, a sprawling wood-and-stone affair surrounded by hundred-year-old oaks, early-morning dew sparkling on the native grasses in the foreground.

  To the left of the main house was the large guest house, a hunting lodge, really, with rows of bunk beds, a full kitchen and four bathrooms. Plenty of room for at least thirty people. He snapped a few shots and then turned to the small guest house on the other side of the main house. He saw a dark face in one of the windows and waved, but the man didn't wave back. A moment later, a huge man with a buzz haircut, muscles bulging beneath a tight, black T-shirt, emerged from the house. “’Mornin’,” Farrell called out.

  The man walked straight toward him and stuck out his monstrous hand, palm upward. Farrell reached to shake the extended hand, but the man shook his head. “The camera,” he said.

  Farrell was starting to get nervous. He didn't like the dull look in the man's eyes. “Uh, yeah, it's my Nikon. Just taking a couple pictures for the article. You here for the big hunt this weekend?” The man certainly didn't look like a hunter, at least not the type that went after deer.

  In reply, the behemoth grabbed Farrell's twelve-hundred-dollar camera and yanked it from his grasp, snapping the strap that was looped around Farrell's neck.

  Farrell backed up a few steps, rubbing his neck, and watched in astonishment as the man fumbled with various controls on the camera. He finally popped the back of the camera open and exposed the film. A few strange sounds came out of Farrell's mouth as he struggled for words. He truly had no idea what to say, and he quickly realized it would probably be best not to say anything at all.

  The big man yanked the film from its spool, dropped it on the ground, and then casually tossed the camera back to Farrell, who barely had the presence of mind to catch it.

  Marlin and Becky sat on the dirt floor with their backs against the wall as Marlin outlined his plan in hushed tones. He knew it would take both of them to carry it off—and if Becky showed even the slightest trace of hesitation, he wouldn't risk it. When he finished, he waited for her reaction. But instead of speaking, she leaned over and kissed him once again.

  “How's your head?” she asked.

  “Better by the minute,” Marlin said, and returned the kiss.

  They made love with no regard to their surroundings or their circumstances. For the little attention they paid it, the crummy blanket on the dirt floor could have been a satin-sheeted bed in the Waldorf-Astoria. The flashlight hanging on the wall could have been a fading candle flickering its last sensuous light. For Marlin, the pain was gone, replaced by a joy, a sense of completeness he hadn't felt in years.

  Afterward, they lay in each other's arms as the flashlight finally went dark. The room was dark, until their eyes adjusted and the sunlight sneaking through the old building's cracks and crevices cloaked everything in gray. Neither spoke for quite some time, both wanting to postpone the inevitable return to reality. Becky was the first to break the silence. “This has been quite an interesting first date,” she said.

  “I do my best to generate a little excitement,” Marlin replied. Then he added, “But it's really our second date, isn't it?”

  “Oh, so you were counting that lunch we had as a date? I wasn't sure. I thought you were just wanting to talk to me about Phil Colby's condition.”

  The mention of Phil's name brought Marlin's mood back to earth, reminded him of people, places, events outside of this twenty-by-twenty shack. Whatever this abduction crap was, he didn't have time for it. He had a best friend to check up on—and a new relationship with Becky that he couldn't wait to explore. Despite his wounded head and sapped strength, he felt a burning resolve to escape.

  PHIL COLBY AWOKE at eight-thirty feeling pretty good, considering. He grabbed a quick shower then started the coffeepot. While the coffee was brewing, he called Marlin again. Still no answer. And still no answering machine. Colby was starting to get a little concerned.

  He hung up and called Junior Barstow, his boss at the Snake Farm and Indian Artifact Showplace. Junior was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice, asked about his health, and said no, it was no big deal if Colby didn't want to work for a few days. “Hell, take a week if you need it,” Junior said. “Rest up. Lord knows you deserve it. Just be ready for some serious butchering when you come in. You know how backlogged we get at the beginning of the season.”

  Colb
y poured the coffee into a traveler's mug and headed out for John Marlin's house, five minutes away. When he pulled into the long gravel driveway, he saw a strange car, but Marlin's cruiser was gone. Ah, thought Colby…maybe Marlin's made a new lady friend. It wasn't Louise's car, and besides, she never stayed the night.

  Colby climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. Then he rang it again. Finally he pounded on the door, but still nobody answered. Maybe they went into town for breakfast, Colby speculated.

  He peered into the house through a living-room window, but everything looked normal.

  He turned and started to leave, but then he decided to have a better look. After all, he had a key to the place. Might as well stick his head in and double-check on everything.

  “Your veterinarian, he ees gone,” Oscar said, exasperation evident in his voice. He was calling Swank from the small guest house.

  Swank was a little surprised to hear from the Colombian because they hadn't talked in two days. And no news was good news as far as Swank was concerned. But now they apparently had a problem. “What are you talking about, gone? That's ridiculous. Maybe he's just grabbing some breakfast somewhere.” Swank had checked on Tim Gray just last night, and everything seemed fine. Sure, he was flying high, packing both nostrils on a regular basis, but that was typical.

  “You think I am focking stupid? Hees truck ees still here, but he ees not. What does that tell you?”

  Swank pondered it for a minute. “He could be asleep in the barn, or passed out somewhere. Did y'all look around real good?”

  “He ees not in the barn, he ees not in hees truck, he ees not in your house. Did he not agree to work until the job was complete?”