Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  THE FIRST OF the hunters began showing up at the Circle S Ranch at one o'clock on Friday. A cold front had come through and now it was a crisp, partly cloudy afternoon, temperature in the high fifties, a light northerly breeze…ideal weather for deer hunting. But Roy Swank's thoughts were miles away from the big hunting extravaganza he was hosting over the weekend. He was eleven hours away from a gruesome deadline. Oscar and his men were bound to come calling at midnight, just as Oscar had promised, and the deer situation would be no different than it was now. Tim Gray was dead, there was no getting around it. And without him, there was absolutely no hope of getting the drugs out of the deer…at least not while they were alive. Swank had already resigned himself to the fact that he was going to lose some big money on the remaining deer. Oscar and his men would simply kill them, splay them open and get the goods. They had no concern for Swank's hunting operation, no respect for a herd of bucks that would make the average hunter's eyes bulge and heart race.

  Roy Swank remained isolated in his den, watching the hunters arrive, from behind the large, leaded-glass windows. At the moment, Swank wasn't concerned about being a good host, rushing out to greet his visitors. He was worried about keeping these two separate worlds—the Colombians and the hunters—from colliding. My god, there were senators and congressmen coming! What would they think if they saw these dark-skinned thugs lurking around the property? Swank couldn't dismiss them as ranch hands because they were all dressed like Cubanos out for an evening on Miami Beach.

  Then, inevitably, Swank came to grips with what he had to do. Go to Oscar…tell him the truth. The veterinarian was dead, the drugs were still in most of the deer. Ask Oscar to leave, come back late, when his guests were asleep, and take the drugs out of the deer however he needed to do it. But please, do it quietly. Swank would even give him a couple of tranquilizer guns. That way, at least, Swank could walk out of this thing with his dignity, not to mention his freedom. He'd take a big hit on the lost deer, but there simply was no other choice. Frankly, Swank had been surprised that Oscar had waited as long as he had. He couldn't see why Oscar wouldn't go for it. That was it, then. Finally, a plan that would end this fiasco. Not with the greatest results, but the best that could be hoped for.

  Swank was feeling better, reaching for the phone to call the small guest house, when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Skip Farrell, the columnist.

  “Mr. Swank?”

  The ex-lobbyist put on his biggest smile. “Skip! Come in, come in. Would you like something to drink?”

  Farrell accepted a bourbon and Swank's apologies for being a poor host. “I'm really sorry I've been so tied up with some other matters the last day or so. I wanted to show you around the ranch a little bit.”

  “No problem. Beautiful place you have here. Cletus gave me a tour, like you asked.” Cletus Hobbs was the current foreman of the Circle S, a loyal, hardworking man. He knew every detail of Swank's deer-importing operation…except the most important part. The drugs. Swank never saw any reason to clue Cletus in, and he wasn't sure he could trust him with that kind of knowledge anyway. No, it was just Tim Gray and Swank himself who knew how valuable the deer really were.

  Farrell said, “Listen, I ran into a guy down by the small guest house who exposed the film in my camera. Kind of rude, really.”

  Swank gave him a concerned look. “What'd he look like?”

  “Big guy, like a Marine.”

  Swank pulled a lie out of the air. “Oh yeah, that guy works for me. Doesn't like to have his picture taken—some kind of religious deal. To tell the truth, he's a little strange. Best to keep your distance.”

  “I got no problem with that,” Farrell replied.

  “All right, then, let me tell you about this weekend.” Swank ran down the guest list with Farrell, along with the daily agenda. Big welcoming dinner tonight. Hunting all day Saturday and Sunday morning. Then a celebration barbecue Sunday afternoon, when Swank would award a trophy to the hunter with the biggest buck. There might even be a few TV crews here for that. Plenty of photo ops for Farrell's article. “I can set you up in a blind with one of the hunters, if you'd like,” Swank said.

  Farrell beamed. “That'd be great. I could get some nice shots of deer coming to the feeders.”

  “How ’bout I put you with Tony Morales tomorrow morning?”

  “The Speaker of the Texas House?”

  “That's him.”

  Farrell smiled and raised his bourbon glass. “I can drink to that.”

  Phil Colby walked into the cramped Blanco County Sheriff's Department at lunchtime, when things would be quiet. The “department” consisted of a small windowless room with fluorescent lighting, and one drab office at the back of the room. Mackey's office.

  Colby recognized a young deputy poring over paperwork at a small metal desk against one wall. He saw Darrell Bridges, one of the dispatchers, on the phone at a switchboard against the other wall. Three other desks sat empty in the middle of the room. Pretty quiet. But then, law enforcement in a county with fewer than seven thousand residents did not require much manpower.

  Colby stood just inside the front door, waiting, wondering what, exactly, he was going to say when he found the sheriff. Then he took a few steps to the right and saw Mackey sitting at a massive wooden desk inside the single office. He was stuffing his face with what appeared to be a ham sandwich. Colby meandered through the desks and file cabinets and rapped on Mackey's open door.

  Mackey glanced up from a magazine but didn't say anything. A real people person.

  “Sheriff Mackey, you got a minute?” Colby asked, hating to be in the same room with this man.

  “Just finishing up my lunch,” Mackey said, popping one last humongous bite into his mouth. “Hab a seed,” he said with his mouth full.

  Colby walked in front of Mackey's desk but didn't sit in the ugly, armless chair worn shabby by the posteriors of burglars, thieves, poachers, speeders, and other assorted lawbreakers.

  Mackey drained the last of a Mountain Dew, stuffed a wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek, then looked up at Colby.

  “You seen John Marlin lately?” Colby asked.

  “Nobody has. We haven't been able to reach him on his radio since late last night. Jean told me about it this morning.”

  “You got men out looking for him?”

  “Naw, not yet. More'n likely he's just out hound-dogging some poachers. Could be his radio's busted. Or maybe he's spending some time with a lady friend.”

  “I think it's more serious than that. I think John's in trouble of some sort.”

  “Well, now, I wouldn't worry about him too much just yet. Marlin's a big boy, he knows how to handle himself. I'm sure he's just keeping busy, what with deer season coming up.”

  “Yeah, I know he's not exactly gonna be hanging around the Dairy Queen,” Colby said, putting a little attitude in it. “But I've been trying to reach him since yesterday evening. He's not at home, nobody at Parks and Wildlife has talked to him since the meetings yesterday.” Colby was reluctant to jump right into the heart of the matter, the whole issue with Swank, the drugs, Marlin's letter to the attorney general. He wasn't sure if he should even bring that stuff up at all. That was the whole problem with this situation: He didn't know if Mackey could be trusted. “In any case,” Colby continued, “I want to file a missing-persons report.”

  The sheriff looked at Colby with indifferent eyes for a moment, then spat a stream of brown tobacco juice into the empty Mountain Dew can. “Oh, come on now. Just give it a little time. Marlin will show up.”

  Colby could tell that Mackey truly didn't care if Marlin was missing or not. So he dove in headfirst. “There's something else you need to know. Something weird is going on out at the Circle S Ranch and Marlin knew about it.” Colby then laid out the facts as he knew them, most of which he'd learned from Marlin's letter. He told Mackey about Marlin finding the white powder on Thomas Stovall's ranch, about the powder getting stolen from Marlin's cruiser.
The deeper he got into the story, the more foolish he felt. It all sounded pretty ridiculous. The only good thing—as he told the story, Mackey's face seemed to be getting a little flushed, the smug look was slowly evaporating. Colby finished the tale and laid the copy of the letter on the desk in front of Mackey. “It's all right there, in a letter Marlin wrote to the attorney general. And, of course, you already know about the guys that busted into my shop and put me in the hospital. They were after Buck…one of Swank's deer. The one that was acting so crazy that night when Marlin tranquilized it. Marlin—and I—think that deer still had drugs in it. That's why it was acting so wild.”

  Mackey shook his head, but without much enthusiasm. “How do you know they were after the deer? I thought you didn't remember anything about that night. That's what you told my deputy after you woke up.”

  Colby clenched his teeth. “I just know. What else would they have been there for? They didn't steal anything.”

  Mackey picked the letter up and looked at it like it was a dog turd. He read through it quickly. Then he stood, shut the office door, and sat back down.

  “Did Marlin send this letter yet?” he asked.

  “Hell, yes! I found it in his e-mail out-box,” Colby lied. Now Mackey had to act.

  Mackey leaned back in his chair and looked like he was trying to regain some of his composure. “Well, I'd say Marlin's really fucked himself this time. See, son, in my line of work you got to have a little something called evidence. Don't sound to me like Marlin has any evidence at all. If he'd been able to hang on to that powder—assuming it was drugs, and that's a big ‘if’—then maybe we'd have something. But without it, all you got is a lot of suspicions. And Roy Swank of all people? Come on! The man is a leader in this community. Hell, he does more for this county than most of the rest of the citizens combined. What in the world would he be doing with drugs? Sounds like a goddamn fairy tale to me.”

  Colby felt his heart pounding, his forehead beginning to bead with sweat. He battled an incredible urge to lean across the desk, grab Mackey by the collar, and drive a fist into his face. He slowly grabbed the letter from the desktop where Mackey had placed it. “So, what's your plan, then? You're just gonna sit on your fat ass and do nothing? Not even look for Marlin?”

  “You'd best watch your mouth, son. You're speaking to a man that can have you picking cotton for a year.”

  Colby decided it was time to leave…before he did something stupid.

  Mackey spoke to his back: “Whyn't you leave that letter with me? I'd like a copy for my files.”

  Colby looked him in the eye. “Fuck you. This stays with me.”

  Mackey stood abruptly, one hand on his holstered handgun. “I'm warning you, boy. Don't talk to me that way unless you want to spend some time in lockup.”

  But Colby was boiling over now and couldn't help himself. He gave in to the sweet temptation that lures a man to lose control. “Know what I think, Mackey? Swank paid you off to keep your mouth shut. You're just a lowlife yes-man who would do anything for a buck. You can take that tin star off your chest and cram it up your ass.”

  Mackey moved quickly despite his size. He came around the desk and popped Colby in the jaw before Colby could even prepare himself. Colby saw Mackey's big right fist arching back for another shot…but Colby beat him to it. He drove a left hand straight into Mackey's throat, feeling the windpipe give under the blow. Colby's father had always told him that nothing ends a fistfight like a punch to the balls or the throat…and he was right. Mackey staggered back and sat roughly on his desk, a confused expression on his face. His breath wheezed in and out like a fireplace bellows.

  Colby didn't know whether he should run for help—or just plain run. He yanked the door open and saw that the young deputy, Ernie Turpin, was already standing outside the office door, obviously concerned by the sounds of the skirmish.

  “Mackey's having a heart attack,” Colby blurted, just to buy some time, and then hurried out of the building.

  DIGGING A HOLE in Central Texas is never an easy undertaking. Typically, you go through about six easy inches of topsoil before hearing the shovel bite into a stubborn layer of limestone. From then on, it's a sweaty, bone-jarring nightmare. It's best left to professionals equipped with power augers and dynamite.

  Red and Billy Don finally finished their gruesome task at five o'clock.

  Both men had dug their share of holes before, for fence-posts, underground power lines, and the like, but digging a grave…that was an entirely different proposition. Swank had told them to go at least six feet deep. But as the afternoon wore on and each inch of earth seemed incrementally more difficult to excavate, the men quickly agreed that four feet—well, maybe it was really more like three—was just fine.

  They lowered the tailgate, removed the tarp, and stared at the corpse underneath. Red looked at Billy Don. Billy Don looked at Red.

  “Go ahead and grab hold,” Red said.

  “Why do I always get the nasty jobs?” Billy Don fumed.

  “All righty, we'll do it together.”

  Both men reached slowly for Tim Gray's body, stealing glances at each other like men looking over their shoulders during a duel. Then they each grabbed a leg.

  “Fuckin’ gross, man,” Billy Don said. “He's even stiffer than before. Stinks, too.”

  “Just think of him as a big white-tail buck,” Red advised.

  They dragged the corpse from the truck bed, keeping their heads leaned back as far as possible. Then they plopped the ex-veterinarian unceremoniously into the shallow pit and slowly shoveled the dirt and rock on top.

  Afterward, they stepped back and took a look at the small mound of rubble.

  “Don't exactly look like the graves out at Miller Creek Cemetery, does it?” Red said.

  Billy Don leaned on his shovel, out of breath. “I don't even know the guy, Red, but this don't seem right.”

  Red grabbed two cold beers from a cooler in the truck and handed one to Billy Don. After a long silence, Red said, “Maybe we should say a few words. Ya know…Bible kinda stuff.”

  “I ain't read much of the Bible,” Billy Don replied.

  So Red stepped tentatively up to the grave, removed his cap, and held it over his heart. “O Lord…we're gathered here today to unite…No, wait, that's the marriage deal. Uh, O Lord…please accept this good man into your divine flock up there. Grant him forgiveness for his sins and treat him good, please, and even though he walks through the valley of the Sodomites, he fears no evil. He's walking tall, Lord…and carrying a big stick. Please embrace him, in the name of Jesus and the holy smokes. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Billy Don echoed.

  Red glanced around furtively, as if to make sure nobody had seen the little religious ceremony. Then he poured the remainder of his beer onto the grave. “Drink up, Bubba. It's the last one you're gonna git.”

  At six o'clock, with the sun slipping behind the Central Texas hills, Roy Swank climbed up into the back of a pickup to give a quick speech. He looked out at the crowd—all the guests had now arrived—and was awed by the collection of powerful men surrounding him. He counted four members of the Texas legislature, both of Texas’ U.S. senators, the state attorney general, half a dozen judges, and many captains of private industry. Most of them were sitting at picnic tables in the shade under the towering oak trees next to the large guest house. Some were standing, drinking beer, chatting with old friends, meeting new ones. But the murmur came to a halt when Swank rose to address the crowd.

  “Good evening, and thank you for coming,” Swank began, beaming his best smile. “I think I know most of you personally…and most of you know each other. If you don't, I'm sure everyone will get a chance to get acquainted over the weekend. And what a weekend it's going to be.”

  Red was beside himself. He and Billy Don were finally getting the chance they had been waiting for. When they had gotten back from burying the vet, Swank had given them strict instructions to stay in the house and keep away from
all of his guests. With the welcoming dinner and the socializing and bullshitting that would follow, Red figured they had at least a good couple of hours to rummage through the house.

  To be honest, though, Red had kind of lost hope that they would find anything worthwhile. Sure, maybe some cash. But whatever was going on with the Mexicans…well, he had no clue about that. The daydream he had had earlier about Swank fiddlin’ with the genes of big deer? No way. That kind of stuff was accomplished by people over in Germany and Russia and Houston.

  But still, it would be good to look around. You never knew what you might find.

  As Swank continued with his speech, he began to feel the adrenaline kick in. He was a smooth talker, at his best in the spotlight, and he had used his natural advantage for years in social settings such as this. As a lobbyist, he had gotten more accomplished over toasts and informal addresses than most congressmen did in years of House debates and committee meetings. Up in the truck bed, it felt great to have all eyes on him, and this sense of control yielded the first traces of optimism that he had felt in weeks.

  “I've managed, through some kind input from state biologists and God's good grace, to grow some wonderful bucks on this humble ranch of mine,” Swank said, making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “And I've got a feeling several of you will be seeing them through a rifle scope real soon.”

  Many of the men nodded and smiled, no doubt picturing a Boone & Crockett deer in the crosshairs. Swank was buoyed even further by their enthusiasm. Yes, he thought, things were finally getting back on track. Oscar and his men had agreed to Swank's proposition. They had left just minutes ago, and Swank thought he could still see the dust lingering in the air from their departure. They would come back at midnight, take the deer with tranquilizer guns, and be gone—all while his guests slept. His worst troubles were almost behind him.

  “You find anything yet?” Red was in Swank's master bedroom, peering into dresser drawers, while Billy Don was investigating the gigantic walk-in closet. Red had read somewhere that most people hide their most valuable possessions in the master bedroom.