Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4)

by Ben Rehder

  “I talked to the deckhand for a few minutes about Jeremy Sawyer, and then Holloway showed up and ran me off. Said I was trespassing. Of course, he doesn’t own the property, so...”

  “And what else?” Bricker asked.

  “We swapped chicken salad recipes,” I said.

  “Come on, Ballard. Quit screwing around.”

  I turned to the other deputy and stuck my hand out. “I’m Roy Ballard.”

  She shook my hand. “Shandra Lewis.”

  “I hope you’re teaching Leo how to be a proper deputy,” I said.

  “He does all right,” Lewis said.

  “Ballard,” Bricker said. “Give me your side of the story. That’s why we’re here.”

  “My side about what?”

  Mia came up beside me wearing tan shorts and a blue T-shirt. “Hey, Leo,” she said.

  “Hi, Mia,” he said.

  “This is Shandra Lewis,” I said.

  Mia and Shandra shook hands.

  “What’s going on?” Mia asked.

  “I was asking Roy about an incident at a marina on Lake Travis earlier today,” Bricker said.

  “It was an incident?” I said. “And here I thought it was merely an occurrence.”

  “You always gotta joke around like that?” Bricker asked.

  I started to answer, but Mia grabbed me by the elbow.

  “Annoying, isn’t he?” she said. “But he has a heart of gold.”

  “Fool’s gold, maybe,” Bricker said, and then he grinned with surprise at his own joke.

  “Hey, not bad, Leo,” I said. “There’s hope for you yet.”

  “What was the supposed incident?” Mia said.

  “That’s what I’m trying to get from Roy,” Bricker said. “I want him to tell me what happened.”

  Everybody was looking at me now.

  “Am I suspected of a crime?” I asked.

  “We are conducting an investigation,” Bricker said. “I’m giving you the opportunity to explain what happened, and I’d encourage you to take it.”

  I had no idea what Gilbert Holloway was claiming I’d done, but whatever it was, the normal course of an investigation would flow as follows: Deputy arrives on scene, in this case the marina, takes the alleged victim’s information, and asks if he will come to the substation to meet with a detective and make a sworn statement. If the answer is yes, the detective receives the deputy’s report a few days later and makes contact with the victim to get the statement. Several days after that, the detective writes a probable-cause affidavit to get an arrest warrant. The county attorney’s office reviews the affidavit and might take several weeks to actually issue the warrant. All of this could take place without a deputy or detective ever contacting or interviewing the alleged perpetrator. But Bricker knew me, and he knew where he could find me, so he was giving me a chance to clear things up. Had to give him credit for that.

  So I said, “Like I said, I was talking to the deckhand—he calls himself Meatball—when Gilbert Holloway showed up. He asked who I was and what I was doing there. When I explained, he said I was trespassing and grabbed me by the arm. I could file on him for that, by the way, but my biceps are made of titanium and no damage was done. I did, however, inform him he’d better remove his hand before I removed it myself.”

  I stopped talking.

  Shandra Lewis said, “And what happened next?”

  “He removed his hand and I left.”

  “Nothing else happened?”

  “A couple of young ladies complimented my backside, but I’m used to that,” I said.

  Bricker had a poker face, but Shandra Lewis was grinning a little.

  “Do I get to hear what Holloway is saying?” I asked.

  “Okay,” Bricker said. “He says he asked you to leave, but you refused. So he told you he was going to call the police, at which point you punched him in the face.”

  “Ah, man,” I said, shaking my head. “Not true at all. He’s making it up. Look at my hands.”

  I held them out for the deputies to inspect. Even a well-thrown punch was likely to result in some abrasions or bruising. A poorly thrown punch could easily break a bone or sprain a ligament.

  Shandra Lewis glanced at them, but Bricker said, “Problem is, this guy Meatball is backing up Holloway’s story. Why would he do that?”

  I didn’t sleep well, but I woke up next to Mia, so I didn’t really have a right to be grouchy, did I?

  It was 6:24 in the morning and light was just beginning to sneak around the edges of her bedroom curtains. She was still asleep, so I lay still and continued to ponder the two issues that had kept me awake most of the night.

  What should we do about Dennis Babcock?

  More important, what should we do about my own damn self? Despite giving my side of the story to the two deputies, I would eventually get arrested for the bullshit assault charge. When an alleged victim had an alleged witness to the alleged assault, it was more or less a given that the alleged perpetrator was screwed. Allegedly.

  But why would Gilbert Holloway concoct the story? And why would Meatball play along with it? No matter how I looked at it, I could only arrive at the conclusion that they wanted to stop me from investigating the drowning of Jeremy Sawyer. It sounded so cliché—like something out of an episode of The Rockford Files—but what other explanation was there?

  And if they were trying to stop me, the next question was... why?

  Mia stirred, stretched, and yawned. Then she turned her head toward me and said, “You’re still here? Thought you’d be in lock-up by now.”

  “No cell can hold me,” I said.

  “Good to know.”

  “And I’m glad you could sleep so peacefully while certain imprisonment looms over my head.”

  “It’s a gift,” she said.

  I could hear a wren starting to chirp in one of the trees outside the bedroom window. We didn’t speak for several minutes.

  “Meatball is the weak link,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I think so. He was actually somewhat cooperative until Gilbert showed up. Then he didn’t want to be seen talking to me. Maybe he’s just dumb.”

  We hadn’t discussed the problem much after the deputies had left. I had simply assured Mia that I had not punched Gilbert, but we were both too tired to discuss it beyond that.

  “Unfortunately,” Mia said, “Meatball is off limits.”

  He was a witness, which meant I, as the defendant, could get in trouble for contacting him. Even if I simply asked questions, I would be exposing myself to a charge of witness tampering. If Meatball was willing to lie about the alleged assault, he would have no problem saying I tried to coerce him into changing his story. He might even claim I threatened him.

  “Roy?” Mia said, because I hadn’t responded to her last comment. “He’s off limits.”

  “Of course he is,” I said.

  “You have to leave him alone.”

  “I know I do.”

  She grabbed me by the chin and turned my head so she could look me in the eye. “I mean it,” she said. “Let the sheriff’s office sort it out. They’ll pick Holloway’s story apart, or Meatball’s, and charge them with filing a false report.”

  “And perjury,” I said.

  “Right. So let the detective handle it.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

  I drove out to the marina later that morning and checked the barge from the parking lot with my binoculars. Meatball—whose actual name was Adam Dudley, according to the deputies—was nowhere on the barge. Neither was Gilbert Holloway or anybody else. Too early. Or maybe they didn’t have a cruise today. After all, it was Monday. Not a busy day on the lake, even during the pleasant early fall days.

  Mia, meanwhile, had left her house not long after our conversation, because Dennis Babcock was on the move again, or at least his truck was. We had not reached a conclusion about that situation. I suggested the best she could do right now was f
ollow Babcock and see if he dropped another note. Or, even better, if she could get a moment with him alone. Maybe he would tell her what was happening. We had wondered if we should contact Babcock’s sister, but had decided against it. If Roscoe, the brother-in-law, really was threatening Dennis, his sister could very well be in on it. It can be difficult for anyone with ethics to imagine that sort of betrayal, but I was long past any such naiveté.

  Now I had time on my hands, so I drove south to Fitzhugh Road, west of Austin, and turned on a caliche driveway between two cedar posts. I continued another fifty feet and parked. This was a nine-acre tract with one hundred feet of frontage on Barton Creek. Heavily wooded, gorgeous, and all mine.

  I got out of the van and walked several hundred feet downhill to the creek. I stopped five feet from the water and simply stood still, enjoying the solitude.

  I had purchased the property with the intent to build a house on it. And it was right here that I’d finally worked up the nerve to tell Mia that I loved her. It had been the most nerve-wracking moment of my life. I’d had no idea how she would respond. Would it freak her out? Alienate her? Ruin the friendship and partnership we both valued so highly? It was risky, but I’d reached the point where I couldn’t bear the status quo anymore. I had to take the gamble. So I told her. And her reaction had been better than I’d ever hoped. She had grabbed me and kissed me and things had progressed from there, and we’d ended up wrapped around each other in the pristine waters of the creek.

  Best day of my life. Truly, it was. Only one thing could have made it better, if I were going to quibble. She could have told me she loved me, too. She didn’t, though, and she still hadn’t, but I was being an idiot for fixating on that.

  Right?

  Give it time. No need to rush things. After all, just a few months earlier she had gotten out of a relationship with a guy named Garlen Gieger.

  Garlen, it turned out, had been a drunken, lying scumbag, but he’d managed to hide it from Mia until she’d developed serious feelings for him. Ultimately, I had been instrumental in breaking the two of them up, which had angered him enough to chase me down in a fit of road rage that had covered more than thirty-five miles and crossed county lines. I’m happy to say it had ended poorly for Garlen—both the chase and his relationship with Mia.

  On the other hand, if Garlen hadn’t forced my hand, would I have told Mia how I felt? Maybe not. Maybe I owed Garlen a debt of gratitude. What a weird twist that would be.

  Okay, but what about this tract of land? I didn’t regret buying it, but I had to wonder about the future. I wasn’t being presumptuous, and I certainly hadn’t broached the issue yet with Mia, but where would our relationship go? If I had my way, it would go on and on, for years and years, and—dare I think it?—might even lead to the M word.

  If that happened—if I was that damn lucky—where would we live? Mia’s home in Tarrytown had been in her family since the 1920s. No way would she part with it, and I wouldn’t expect her to. On the other hand, I could sell this tract in a year or two and probably make a decent profit. Wouldn’t be easy, though. The place already had special meaning to me, because of the aforementioned moment when I told Mia I loved her. So, for now, I was simply holding on to the property and waiting to see what would happen.

  I could hear a deer snorting somewhere in the brush on the other side of the creek. The gurgling of the water was almost mesmerizing. White-winged doves cooed steadily in nearby live oaks. Occasionally a vehicle passed by on the road seventy yards away. Then I heard a noise behind me—a heavy thud, followed quickly by another, and another.

  I spun around and saw a very large man charging right at me.

  10

  There wasn’t time to step aside or try to run, so I braced myself as best I could. He hit me in the upper torso—like he was hitting a tackling dummy—and drove me backward. The force knocked me completely off my feet, airborne for a moment, and then I was plunging upside-down into the cool waters of Barton Creek, the stranger on top of me as I resisted the urge to gasp for breath.

  He was trying to grab my throat when my back hit the creek bottom, which was about four feet deep with the water at its current level. The only good news was that his weight advantage was minimized here in the water. I managed to grab his shirtfront and twist him off of me, and now I was able to burst to the surface and get some air.

  And then he was all over me again, trying to wrap me up with powerful arms. I snapped a hard left jab and got him directly in the nose. Blood began to flow.

  I finally had a decent look at the guy—and I had no idea who he was. Average height, but stocky, with broad shoulders. Short blond hair. Clean shaven. Late twenties.

  I noted all that in my head in half a second, and then he was coming after me again, surging forward in the water and trying to grab me, blood still dripping from his nose.

  I backed away, saying, “This won’t end well for you.”

  Mind games. Always show confidence. Talk trash.

  He grunted and grasped for my shirt again, but I managed to lean back and make him miss.

  Ever walked backward in four feet of flowing water with rocks on the bottom? Not easy.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “Doing Gilbert Holloway’s dirty work?”

  He wasn’t going to respond. He had a look of pure animal aggression on his face—totally focused on harming me. I doubted my words even registered.

  “You’re leaving here in an ambulance,” I said.

  If he was concerned, he didn’t show it.

  He moved closer, and I let him. I had my left foot in front of me, right foot trailing behind. Classic boxer’s stance. But the current made it difficult to keep my balance.

  I shot another left jab at his face, knowing it wouldn’t connect because he was still too far away. But he flinched, and that was a good sign. So I jabbed again. He pulled back, plainly wanting to avoid another shot to his nose. I threw yet another jab and he tried to grab my extended arm this time.

  I started to make my way toward the bank, but he moved to cut me off. I wanted to be on land, because if he managed to get ahold of me again in the water, he might have the strength to wrap me up and hold me under. Even better if I could reach the van, because I had my nine-millimeter Glock tucked in a secret compartment under the rear passenger bench. A weapon would give me a clear advantage.

  A weapon.

  Oh, man. Now the solution was obvious.

  I pumped another jab toward his nose, and when he flinched, I surged backward and dropped into the water. I kept my feet moving, pushing myself backward, while simultaneously feeling around on the creek bottom. Lots of rocks. Wonderful rocks. Most were too big or too small.

  Then I found a good one. About the size of a baseball.

  I came up out of the water and he was even closer than he’d been before. I had the rock in my right hand, just under the surface of the water, where he couldn’t see it.

  I jabbed with my left, and jabbed again, then raised my right and hurled the rock right at his upraised hands. The rock was slick with moss, so it slipped between his hands and caught him hard in the forehead, instantly opening a large gash.

  “Fuck!” the guy screamed. “Shit!” He was cupping his forehead with his right hand. A serious amount of blood was leaking between his fingers.

  “You might want to let a veterinarian look at that,” I said.

  “Ow!”

  I went under for another rock, but when I came up, he was already wading toward the bank, giving up. He was no danger to me now. Retreating to tend his wounds.

  I threw the rock anyway, hitting him squarely in the back as he stepped from the water. He let out an anguished moan and began to jog up the slope.

  Just for grins, I threw one more rock at him when he was about twenty yards away.

  Missed him, but it made him trot faster.

  Good times.

  A minute later, I heard a car door slamming.

  Right about the time I hea
ved that third rock, Mia decided to deal with the Dennis Babcock situation head on. Not honestly, necessarily, but head on.

  She parked in front of his house—not in her Chevy SUV, but in her classic Ford Mustang, which she can’t use for surveillance, for obvious reasons—and walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Gave the doorbell a good ring.

  A full minute passed.

  She rang the bell again.

  Remember, Dennis Babcock had made national headlines several times. He’d been the discussion of scores of heated online debates. This meant that Babcock had had dozens of uninvited visitors show up at his home since his name first went big. This included reporters and journalists. Conspiracy theorists and other nut cases. Neighborhood kids wanting a selfie. Homeopaths and naturopaths who were convinced they could cure him.

  This also meant that even if Babcock’s affliction were totally real and not a scam, nobody could blame him for not answering the door anymore. Who would want to deal with those kinds of headaches? The only real surprise was that none of the three residents had thought to put any no-trespassing signs on the property.

  Mia rang the bell a third time, and then she followed that with a firm knock. She knew that Dennis Babcock was probably home, because his vehicle had returned to the house, and his sister’s hadn’t left. Roscoe didn’t appear to own a vehicle, so that meant all three of them were likely inside the house, unless they had walked somewhere. Unlikely, because even though it was September, the daily high was still in the upper nineties.

  Mia thought she heard some movement inside the house.

  “Dennis?” she called out.

  No answer.

  “Hello?” Mia said. “I just need a minute of your time.”

  Nothing.

  “I don’t know how to get in touch with you,” Mia said loudly, “but I have something important I want to share.”

  They weren’t going to open up. So now Mia had to go for broke.

  She said, “My brother got a tetanus shot last weekend. Now he can’t walk unless he holds his hands behind his back. It’s really sad.”

  Mia waited to see if that would do it. Still, though, no answer. What if they really weren’t home?