Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  Garza knew all he could do at this point was wait. It was past midnight now, and he was on Miller Creek Loop nearing his house. On a straightaway, he saw headlights from an approaching vehicle. Damn, Garza thought, they are really moving. Probably teenagers out with their daddy's pickup. Garza's unmarked cruiser was equipped with radar, so he flipped it on. Ninety-seven miles per hour. Garza pulled onto the shoulder and waited. In a flash, the vehicle roared past him…a battered red Ford truck that looked just like Red O'Brien's.

  Garza cursed silently. He was tired and just wanted to hit the hay. At eighty, eighty-five, he would have let them go. But ninety-seven, that was just too much. He wheeled his Crown Victoria around and headed after them.

  “Shit, Red, that was Bobby Garza!” Billy Don whined, bracing himself against the dashboard. “Slow the fuck down!”

  Red glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing nothing but darkness now. His old truck still had plenty of life left in her. Let the cop try and catch up. “Can't do it, man. I'll take the old Kerrville highway. He'll never find us on that old road.”

  Red banked clumsily around a curve, then began to brake hard to make the turn just ahead.

  But the turn was coming up much too quickly. The brakes wouldn't bite and the truck began to fishtail. Red oversteered and the truck straightened again, but they were off the road now, bouncing over the bar-ditch. Red covered his face as one particularly large oak tree rushed toward the windshield.

  When Garza came around the curve, dust was still floating in the air. He saw plowed earth leading to taillights at the base of an oak tree, so he braked gently, knowing the chase was over.

  After pulling to the side of the road, Garza grabbed his portable radio. “Jean, you there?”

  “Ten-four.”

  “We've got a ten-fifty on Miller Creek Loop. About three miles east of the Circle S. Need an ambulance, over.”

  “Ten-four. On the way. Over.”

  Garza grabbed his flashlight, jumped out of the cruiser, and trotted over to the red truck. Just as he had suspected, it was those two local rednecks, Red O'Brien and Billy Don Craddock. Garza had dealt with them plenty of times in the past, mostly for minor offenses, and he actually kind of got a chuckle out of them. They were like Andy Griffith's Otis.

  Billy Don appeared to be unconscious and Red was moaning gently. Both men were bleeding from the head. That's what you yokels get for not wearing seat belts, Garza thought. How many times had he written them up for that one?

  Neither of the men was bleeding profusely, so Garza decided it was best to let them remain in the truck until the medics arrived.

  “Red, you okay?” Garza asked.

  “Aw, man,” he moaned softly. “My fuckin’ truck.”

  At that point, Billy Don stirred, looked over at Red and said, “Gimme a beer.”

  Garza had to smile. Both men seemed to be okay.

  “Screw your beer, man!” Red said, clawing for the door handle. “I just wrecked my truck!”

  Red pushed on the door, but it wouldn't give.

  “Red, why don't you just stay in the truck?” Garza said gently. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  “I want out,” Red said, slurring. He either had a mild concussion or had had a few too many, Garza decided. Red tried again, this time using his shoulder, and popped the door open.

  A videocassette clattered to the ground at Garza's feet. Garza picked it up and looked at the label. “Looks like you boys been havin’ an interesting evening.”

  JUST AT SUNRISE, Clyde Webster pulled on his overalls and headed out to his barn to collect eggs like he did every morning. He wasn't sure if the rooster had begun crowing yet, because Clyde was getting on in years—nearly eighty-five now—so he couldn't hear quite as well as he used to.

  A significant portion of his hearing loss had occurred during World War Two. “The Big One,” that's the only thing he and his friends would call it. If you'd been there, Clyde would tell people, you'd call it the Big One, too. He'd been in the middle of some damn nasty maneuvers, where mortars lit up the night like the Fourth of July…fights where you'd have to pile the bodies up like cordwood the next day, or even worse, you'd have to pick up pieces and put them in a canvas bag.

  Despite all the bombing, the gunfire, and the near-constant screams of anguish, there was one sound Clyde remembered more grimly than all the others. The sound of a round hitting an infantryman's helmet. It was almost the same sound as a raindrop falling into an empty bucket. You hear that sound, brother, you know right off someone's dead. He still shuddered when he heard anything like it.

  Whenever Clyde thought about the war, which wasn't too often anymore, he considered himself pretty lucky. Sure, he had seen some horrific things—once saw a man cut clean in two by a mortar—but all Clyde got was some damage to his eardrums, thanks to a Jap land mine. He was almost too embarrassed to explain his injury to anyone who asked about his Purple Heart. Didn't seem right that some guys had to lose an arm or a leg or maybe go blind to get theirs.

  It was the damnedest thing with the hearing loss, though…he could hear low notes and high ones, it was just a few mid-level tones he lost. There was one Marty Robbins song where Clyde couldn't hear about half the lyrics. That made him sad in a nostalgic kind of way, but he always shook it off.

  Veterans of the Big One came home heroes, unlike those poor Vietnam veterans. In the 1960's and 1970's, many Americans seemed to forget that everything they enjoyed—from big, comfortable homes and nice cars, all the way up to the ability to walk down the street as free men—came at the expense of the casualties of war. Right there on television you'd see people burning American flags, for Chrissakes. Clyde had seen a young long-haired fellow doing that same damn thing down at the Capitol in Austin one Memorial Day. Clyde had walked right up to the fellow and, despite the bursitis in his shoulder, knocked that young punk cold. He'd do it again, too, if he had to. Nobody's going to burn the ol’ Stars and Stripes around Clyde Webster.

  But this morning, Clyde wasn't thinking about his old war buddies as he sometimes did. He was just thinking about collecting eggs, going back to the house, and waiting for the omelet Helen made him every morning. So when Clyde entered the barn, he wasn't expecting to see a man standing there with a gun. A Mexican man at that, with a big, droopy mustache. Before Clyde could react, the man grabbed him by the straps of his overalls and yanked him completely into the barn. The Mexican began to shout at Clyde, saying that he needed a car.

  The gun really didn't scare Clyde that much, or the shouting, or even the thought that the man might actually shoot him. But he was concerned for his wife in the house. This gunman had crazy eyes, a frenzied look that Clyde had seen too many times on the battlefield. As soon as he got the man a car, Clyde knew, he and his wife would both be dead.

  The man had released Clyde and was blocking the door now, yelling at him some more. Clyde heard some of it, but not much. He calmly reached over and grabbed a pitchfork that was hanging on the wall. Now the man would have to shoot him, he knew, but that would alert Helen. At least she'd be safe. She knew where the shotgun was.

  But the man didn't shoot Clyde right away like Clyde expected. He just yelled some more and waved his arms around. He seemed to want to approach Clyde to strike him, but the pitchfork kept him at bay.

  So, for a moment, they were at a standstill. Clyde then realized that the man might simply leave him here and go into the house to find the car keys. Then he'd find Helen, too, and who knows what would happen?

  Sunlight was beginning to stream though the rafters of the barn, and now Clyde did hear the rooster crowing. It was loud and strong, probably just a few feet outside the barn door. For just an instant, the Mexican man turned his head toward the sound in surprise. But it was long enough. Without hesitation, Clyde stepped forward, gave it all his strength, and ran the man through with the pitchfork. For a moment, they were locked in a grisly face-to-face stare. Then the gun fell to the ground and the man followed. Wi
th blood spilling out of his mouth, he tried to say a few last words to Clyde. But Clyde wasn't listening. He had already gone to make sure his wife was all right.

  Thirty minutes after sunrise, with all the hunters fed and sent off to their deer blinds, Roy Swank sat around one of the tables in the large guest house. He was sipping coffee, fighting a nasty hangover, but feeling pretty good overall. Hadn't heard a peep out of Oscar last night, and that was a blessing. He knew he'd probably been in tighter spots over the years, but he couldn't think of any right off. Now it was all over and done with.

  “Cletus, bring me some more coffee, wouldya?” he called out to the ranch foreman, who was washing the breakfast dishes.

  Cletus came over with the pot and filled Swank's mug to the top, then had a seat at the table.

  “So what do you think?” Swank asked. “Gonna be a good morning?”

  Cletus nodded. “Weather's perfect, and I think the rut is in full swing. We should hear some shots any minute now, once the big boys start to show themselves.”

  Swank rose and headed for the door. “I'll be in the house. Come and get me when the hunters start coming back.”

  “Will do.”

  Swank walked out into the brisk morning air and turned toward the barn. Now that the sun was up, he could see that the gate to the adjacent five-acre pen was open. That cinched it, then. Oscar had been here—and now Swank's troubles were over.

  Swank walked over to the pen and began wandering through the thickly wooded areas. He had told Oscar to stack the carcasses in a secluded spot, so the hunters wouldn't see them. If Cletus or anyone else found them, Swank already had a story made up: He had received a call from Mexico informing him that the deer were diseased and needed to be destroyed.

  But as Swank continued to roam the pen, he became a little nervous. He hadn't seen a single carcass, much less a drop of blood. By the time Swank had covered the entire five acres, his heart was palpitating. The deer were gone. That meant one of two things. Either Oscar had taken the carcasses with him, which was highly unlikely…or—Swank didn't even want to think about the alternative—the deer were loose on the Circle S Ranch.

  Cletus put the newspaper down and stood to answer the phone in the guest house. “Circle S.”

  “Hey, Cletus, it's Marlin.” The men knew each other well.

  “What are you doing, you old buzzard?”

  “Well, you know, opening day. Gotta start making some rounds, keep all you old poachers in line,” Marlin said, falling into his hunting-camp drawl.

  Cletus laughed. “Hell, you won't be writing me up for anything this weekend. I'm not about to go out to the blind with all the city boys out here. Liable to get myself shot.”

  “I've heard about the big shindig over there. Big-time senators and the like. Heard any shots yet?”

  “Just a couple, so far. But it's early yet.”

  Marlin tried to keep his tone from sounding serious. “Listen, I'm gonna head over there later and see what kind of bucks y'all are growing nowadays. How late you imagine they're all gonna be hunting?”

  “Swank told ’em all to keep with it till about ten. Told ’em to stay out there even if they get one, so they won't disturb the other hunters by driving through the ranch.”

  “All right, then. I'll see you about ten o'clock.”

  “Wanna rub elbows with the big wheels, don't you?” Cletus said, giving him a hard time.

  “You got me, Cletus. You got me.”

  ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 6, some of the biggest bucks in Blanco County history were harvested on the Circle S Ranch. The highlight was a twelve-point with eight-inch drop tines and a twenty-four-inch spread. By ten-thirty, all the hunters had returned and were now gathered at the butchering shed, exchanging excited handshakes, comparing deer and swapping tales from the morning hunt. Skip Farrell, the journalist, was making the rounds, asking the men to pose for publicity shots with their trophies. They were all happy to oblige. Many of the men were already enjoying the day's first Bloody Mary or cold beer.

  Off to one side, apart from the hunters, stood John Marlin, Phil Colby, Becky Cameron, and another man who, from his dress, was obviously not a local. His name was Art Collison, Marlin's roommate from Southwest Texas State University, now an agent with the DEA.

  “Seen Swank yet?” Marlin asked Colby.

  He shook his head, eyeing the crowd.

  Marlin turned to Collison. “I appreciate you coming up from Laredo on such short notice.”

  “No problem, John. It was good to hear from you.”

  “And thanks for not bringing the entire cavalry with you.”

  “I thought about it, but I agreed with something you said on the phone.”

  “What's that?”

  “That you might be wrong.”

  Marlin started to reply, but the crowd suddenly broke into applause.

  Roy Swank was approaching from the main house, accompanied by a slender man in dark slacks and a golf shirt.

  Several of the hunters called out to Swank in appreciation, telling Swank what a great hunt it had been. Swank raised his hands in a gracious gesture, as if he were receiving the Nobel Prize…but his smirk was nowhere as self-satisfied as Marlin would have normally expected. In fact, the man looked flat-out worried. He even shot a glare over at Marlin and his group.

  As the hunters finished clapping, Swank said, “It's you gentlemen who deserve the applause. Just look at all the fine trophies you took this morning. I'm impressed. I want to talk to each one of you personally, to hear your thoughts about the herd I'm raising out here, but what say we head back to the bunkhouse so everyone can clean up and get ready for lunch?”

  Before the crowd could start to dissipate, Marlin spoke up. “But Roy, don't you want to get some of these deer field-dressed…see what kind of weights we're talking about?”

  Swank acted as if he had just noticed Marlin. “Well, hello there, John. Our local game warden, folks,” he said to the crowd. Several of the hunters turned to look. Swank continued, a small nervous tic now apparent on his face: “There will be plenty of time for that, John. I bet these men are tired and would like to grab a hot shower.”

  But Marlin knew that the time was now. “I don't know, Roy. From my estimation, it looks like we could be looking at some county records here, if not state records. I know I'm curious. What about you?” Marlin said, addressing everyone but Swank.

  Several of the men spoke up.

  “Let's go ahead and dress ’em out, Roy!”

  “I know I'd like to know.”

  “Let's do it! Hell, we got a game warden right here to verify it all!”

  Without waiting for Swank to answer, Cletus Hobbs stepped forward, unfolded his hunting knife, and walked over to the heaviest deer. He looked over at the hunter who had shot it. “Want me to do the honors?” he asked, knowing that most of these men had never gutted a deer in their lives. The hunter told him to go ahead.

  The big buck was hanging spread-eagled by its hind legs. Cletus made the first incision, beginning at the pelvic bone, and expertly opened the deer up all the way to its sternum. As Cletus spread the abdomen open, preparing to split the sternum, a condomlike package fell to the ground. It was about the size of a golf ball and appeared to be filled with white powder.

  “What the hell?” one of the hunters murmured.

  Cletus, as intrigued as everyone else, opened the abdomen all the way. Dozens more packages cascaded to the ground.

  Skip Farrell stepped closer and took a quick series of photographs.

  “What in Christ's name is going on here?” Swank said, red-faced, as the crowd turned to look at him.

  Marlin's old roommate stepped forward, flipping open his wallet. “I'm Art Collison, Mr. Swank. With the DEA. I think we need to have a little talk.”

  “So you're telling us that you knew absolutely nothing about the drugs?” Marlin asked incredulously. It was an hour later and he was in Swank's den now with Collison, Swank, and the man in the gol
f shirt.

  “That's what Mr. Swank is saying,” said the golfer. He had introduced himself as Buddy Geis, Roy Swank's attorney, right after Collison had approached Swank at the butchering shed. Geis had agreed to talk to Marlin and Collison—providing that Swank would not be arrested and booked at this point. Nothing but a bunch of misleading circumstances, Geis had insisted, things they could clear up in no time. “We're not refuting the existence of the drugs…or of the other men involved…or the fact that they kept you and Miss Cameron hostage. We truly regret the ordeal you went through.”

  Marlin shot him a Fuck you look.

  “But these men,” Geis continued, “had identified themselves as Mexican nationals—wealthy landowners with trophy white-tailed deer for sale. Mr. Swank had invited them up here to see his hunting operation, but he knew nothing about the drugs; he thought he was purchasing and importing nothing more than some valuable wild game. Granted, he may have called in a few favors to get as many deer imported as he did, but there's no way he could have possibly known what was in those deer. As far as the men who kept you hostage…to be frank, we're not even sure they are who they said they were. You may never be able to track them down.”

  Marlin looked at Collison, who shook his head. “It was up to Swank to sell the deer,” Collison said to Geis. “The foreigners couldn't have known who he was selling them to, so how would they have gotten their drugs to their dealers in the States?”

  “We're not certain about that,” Geis said. “All we can figure is that they had men working in the U.S. who tracked the deer down and removed the goods…maybe after the deer were sold, or maybe even while they were right here on this ranch, without Mr. Swank knowing. It really makes perfect sense, if you think about it. That way, they had an accomplice who didn't even know what he was in on. So they didn't have to cut him in.”