by Ben Rehder
Bone Dry
( Blanco County mystery - 2 )
Ben Rehder
Ben Rehder
Bone Dry
CHAPTER ONE
On the morning of Saturday, November 5-opening day of deer season-a statuesque blonde beauty strolled out of the trees, pulled down her khaki shorts, and peed beneath Cecil Pritchard’s deer feeder.
“Well, suck a nut,” Cecil said to himself, sitting in his deer blind a hundred yards away. He looked down at his coffee mug, blinking dumbly. Maybe he’d added a little too much Wild Turkey. And this was his fourth cup. But when he looked up again, the Nordic goddess was still there, hiking up her shorts. His brother-in-law would never believe it.
The day had started normally enough. Cecil climbed out of bed at four A.M. sharp, pulled on his camo coveralls, and brewed a pot of Folgers. Nothing gets you going like the smell of fresh coffee, Cecil thought, whistling happily. He would have loved a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon on the side, and a basketful of biscuits, but Cecil wasn’t much of a cook, and his wife, Beth, was still drowsing in bed. Goddamn woman was as useless as a negligee on a nun. On weekdays, when he’d come home from the machine shop at lunchtime, he’d usually find Beth staring at the soap operas or Jerry Springer on TV, and Cecil would be left to make his own lunch. The way Cecil saw it, that was a serious infraction of the marriage vows. So, as he had prepared for the morning hunt, Cecil made sure to stomp around the mobile home as heavily as possible, kind of get the whole floor vibrating. It’d serve her right if she couldn’t get back to sleep after he left.
He met up with Beth’s brother, Howard, at the ranch gate at five in the A.M., just as planned-plenty of time to reach the blinds before first light. Seeing as how they had a few minutes to spare, Cecil took the opportunity to remind Howard what a lazy, good-for-nothing sister he had. Howard heartily agreed while munching a breakfast taco his own wife had prepared for him. Sorry, I ain’t got but one, Howard said around a mouthful.
The men split up and Cecil proceeded to his elevated tower blind, a beauty he had ordered from the Cabela’s catalog last spring. Once inside, Cecil readied himself for a long, relaxing morning hunt. He loaded his Winchester.270, double-checked the safety, and leaned the rifle in the corner. He pulled out his binoculars and gave the lenses a good cleaning. Then he poured a hot mug of java, added a generous dose of bourbon, and waited for sunrise.
The black night slowly gave way to gray, and then the rolling hills of Central Texas started to take shape. The birds began chirping tentatively and then went into full chorus. Cecil leaned back and soaked it all in. He was sitting twelve feet up, with a view that God Himself would appreciate. Man, this was living! Cecil waited all year for this morning, and he just knew there was a big buck somewhere in the woods with his name all over it.
That’s when Cecil heard a car rambling along the gravel county road that paralleled the ranch’s eastern fenceline. Weeks ago, Cecil had considered relocating his blind, but the road saw such little traffic, he’d decided to leave everything as is.
Looking through his binoculars, Cecil saw a rusty mustard-yellow Volvo easing down the road. It disappeared behind some trees and then the motor faded away. Cecil had thought the occupants were gone for good. But apparently he was wrong.
Now Cecil was staring slack-jawed at the blonde trespasser, knowing that all his preseason plans and preparations were wasted. He was furious. The woman might as well have erected a flashing neon warning sign-DEER BEWARE! — because no self-respecting buck would come within a thousand yards of so much human scent.
Finally, Cecil managed to get over his astonishment and do something. He stuck his head out the small window of the deer blind and yelled, “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass away from there!”
The tall blonde casually buttoned her shorts, smiled, and flipped Cecil the bird.
Cecil decided enough was enough, and rose to go give the woman a serious tongue-lashing, maybe escort her back to her damn rattletrap car. But as he stood, he spilled his coffee, dropped his binoculars to the floor, and-Goddamn it all! — banged his rifle scope against the side of the blind. Cussing loudly now, Cecil opened the blind door and began to climb down the ladder-only to hear a car door closing and the Volvo gently puttering off into a fine Texas morning.
CHAPTER TWO
At nine A.M. on Saturday, November 5, a thick-chested man with crow’s-feet, jowls, and graying hair was throwing a hump into his live-in Guatemalan housekeeper-but his mind was elsewhere and his erection was starting to droop. The distraction was laying right there on her nightstand: the “Travel” section of the newspaper. He could see an ad that read, BARBADOS-FROM $549! CALL YOUR TRAVEL AGENT TODAY!
Shit, if only it were that easy. But Salvatore Mameli-formerly known as Roberto “The Clipper” Ragusa-couldn’t just pick up and go like normal people. His life was way too fucked up for that.
A few months back-maybe it was more like a year now-Sal had forced himself to take stock, to figure out how he wanted to spend his golden years. After all, he probably still had a couple of good decades left. He was only fifty-seven-knock wood-way past the average age of most men in his former line of work. So what is it, he had asked himself, that I really want out of life? It boiled down to this: He wanted to live his life in peace, away from the Feds, in some distant country where he wouldn’t have to worry who was waiting around the next corner. He wasn’t asking much, really, but it would require a lot of dough.
The irritating thing was, Sal still had plenty of money from the old days-a small fortune that the government couldn’t seize because Sal had actually earned those particular assets through legitimate businesses. But those accounts were being eyeballed like a stripper at a bachelor party. If Sal tried to make a sizable withdrawal-especially in cash-red flags would go up and he’d be surrounded before he made it to the airport.
No, what Sal needed was fresh money that could be easily concealed. Lots of it. Then he could make his break.
He could picture the location in his mind: Definitely somewhere tropical, like this Barbados place. Maybe a small island that had no extradition treaty with the United States. Better yet-no rednecks, pickup trucks, or country music. He’d had his fill of that shit.
Sal had lived in Blanco County, Texas, for three years now, which was about thirty-five months more than he could handle. And Johnson City, the county seat? Forget about it. You couldn’t find decent Italian food anywhere. You had to own a satellite dish to catch most of the Yankee games. And everyone was so damn friendly, it made his asshole pucker.
For two and a half years, Sal had simply lain low, trying to figure out his next move. Unfortunately, the U.S. Marshals Service always had its eyes on him, so closely he could barely take a crap without a marshal there to offer him toilet paper. Just a few more trials, they kept saying, and then you’ll be free to do what you want. Leave the country, we don’t care. But for now, you owe us. With your life. And Sal had to admit that was true. He knew he could be rotting in federal prison right now-assuming some wiseguy didn’t shank him in the ribs out in the yard. All of Sal’s pull from the old days wouldn’t mean shit. Some greaseball would waste him without batting an eye. That’s the way it was nowadays: No respect for men like Sal anymore.
So, three years ago, as much as he hated to do it, Sal had chosen the only alternative. The problem was, the trials could take years to wind their way through the judicial system. After all, the Feds were in no hurry. They were going after some heavy hitters, so they wanted to dot every i and cross every t. And, of course, there could be mistrials, appeals, and all kinds of delaying tactics that could keep Sal Mameli squarely under the U.S. District Attorney’s thumb for years to come. With each day that passed, Sal couldn�
�t help worrying that his former associates were closer to tracking him down.
And he knew the kind of justice they would exact if they found him.
After all, Sal used to be one of the guys in charge of dealing out punishment. That’s where he had gotten his nickname, “the Clipper.” He had done some nasty things to some nasty men, left bodies in the kind of condition that would make the most hardened medical examiner shudder. Sal knew what the horrifying possibilities were, and that’s why he kept a loaded.38 in his nightstand and a sawed-off twelve-gauge under the front seat of his Lincoln. Every noise in the hallway at two A.M. could be a goon with a garrote, instead of his son, Vinnie, making a trip to the john, or his wife, Angela, sitting like a zombie in front of late-night TV, a bottle of vodka by her side.
But then, just six months ago, things had begun to look brighter. Opportunity had pounded firmly on Sal’s door, as it had done so many times in the past. For some reason-a drought, a low aquifer, or who the hell knows why-residents all over Blanco County had begun clearing their lands of cedar trees and other brush. At first, Sal had barely glanced at the newspaper articles addressing the situation. Then, on a drive through the country with Angela, Sal noticed the tractorlike machines that were used to clear brush. They seemed to be everywhere, rumbling over ranchland like so many Sherman tanks.
After doing a little research, finding out precisely what this land-clearing was all about, Sal realized there was an enormous amount of money to be made in the brush-removal business. This, Sal thought, could be exactly what I’ve been looking for.
Hell, he had run a successful concrete company back in Jersey, and had even taken on several juicy projects here, before the water issue brought new construction to a screeching halt. And this brush-removal business, how hard could it be? The concrete business required large machines; cedar-clearing required large machines. All you needed was some operating capital and some big, dumb guys to run the equipment. Piece of cake.
So Sal had jumped right into the brush-removal business with only two things in mind: Number one-stashing away some serious cash. Number two-buying a one-way ticket to some off-the-map Caribbean island where nobody asked questions, checked for proper papers, or cared who the hell you had been in a past life. Sal could almost smell the salty breeze and the coconut oil. He could picture a tanned, nubile body-definitely not his wife’s-lounging in the chair next to him.
Sal had noticed something else in the last few months: The Feds seemed to be loosening their grip a little. He no longer had a team of deputies on his tail every time he left the house, no longer heard strange clicks on the line during every phone call. There was still a plain vanilla sedan outside his home on occasion, government plates, but the fat putz inside was easy to handle.
It made Sal laugh to think they actually trusted him.
On the other hand, he had been their star witness half a dozen times already, and they seemed to think he was a man of his word, that he’d stick around to the end. With more freedom than he had had in three years, now was the time to make a break for it. Or at least get the plan in the works.
With his new business in full swing, the money starting to pour in, Sal was consumed around the clock by thoughts of flight. That’s why, on this particular morning, as Sal was getting a piece of tail, his heart really wasn’t in it. He had too much to think about, including tomorrow’s meeting. Sal was getting together with a rich old bastard named Emmett Slaton, Sal’s largest brush-removal competitor. Sal was going to offer Slaton twice what his business was worth. Hell of a deal, most people would say. Of course, the “deal” consisted of a reasonable down payment now, and a balloon payment next year that, in reality, poor old Emmett would never see. It was the same arrangement Sal had with several other area business owners. Better yet, Sal had secured the down payments via a small-business loan at a local bank, another obligation he had no intention of fulfilling. The idea was to have as much money as possible coming in, and as little as possible going out. Then, when the time was right, he’d skip the country, leaving his creditors holding the bag.
If he tried the same stunt back home, he’d wind up with his throat cut and his body tossed in the Hudson River. But down here? Shit-who was gonna stop him?
At ten o’clock Saturday morning, Susannah Branson, senior reporter for the Blanco County Record, wheeled her Toyota into Big Joe’s Restaurant in Johnson City. There was a scattering of vehicles in the parking lot, including John Marlin’s cruiser-a green Dodge Ram pickup issued by the state.
She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror and fluffed her wavy brunette hair. Susannah had been looking forward to the interview with the county game warden for several days. Rumor had it that John Marlin would soon be back on the singles market, and Susannah had had her eye on him for a long time. Ever since high school, actually. He was just her type: a big, strapping guy, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and dark eyes. No sense in wasting time, Susannah thought, and unsnapped one more button on her blouse.
She entered the small cafe and spotted Marlin at a booth, sipping coffee. He rose to greet her. “’Morning, Susannah.”
“John, thanks so much for meeting me,” she said with a smile. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you lost weight?”
“Tapeworm,” Marlin replied.
“Oh, uh, well,” Susannah stammered, unsure whether to laugh. After all, the man was a game warden. Who knew what he might pick up out in the woods? “I know you’re busy today, with opening day and everything, so I won’t take up much of your time.”
“I appreciate that, but this is important stuff. Don’t rush on my account.” Marlin gestured toward the booth and they took a seat.
A waitress quickly took Susannah’s order-coffee only-and scooted away.
Susannah ran her hands through her hair and said, “What we’re working on is a piece that addresses the environmental effects of clearing brush. Any possible effects on wildlife, livestock, et cetera. I figured you’d be the best man to talk to-especially with Trey Sweeney in the shape he’s in.”
Trey Sweeney was the county wildlife biologist-an ace in his field, but somewhat eccentric. Sweeney had recently returned from a vacation in Brazil, where he had contracted a mean case of dengue fever. His health was much better now, but Trey had been acting a little more strangely than usual lately. The previous Saturday night, a deputy had found Trey at the high school football stadium, rooting wildly for the home team. Unfortunately, the football game had been played the night before.
Marlin nodded at Susannah. “I’m glad you called. I think it’s important that the ranchers and other landowners hear the other side of the brush-clearing story.”
Six months ago, with Blanco County in the middle of a severe drought, county commissioners had recommended that residents remove as much brush from their land as possible. After all, brush-chiefly small scrub cedar trees-consumed an enormous amount of surface and ground water. By removing it, residents hoped to replenish the aquifer and pump life back into sluggish wells.
Residents had responded by conducting an all-out assault on cedar trees. Across the countryside, the buzz of chainsaws became as persistent as the droning of summertime cicadas. Huge mounds of cut cedar waited to be burned on every ranch, deer lease, and rural homesite in the county. To date, officials estimated that ten percent of the cedar had been removed. To John Marlin and other wildlife officials, this was cause for alarm. They knew that a drastic change to the ecosystem-like clearing every cedar in the county-could have less visible long-term implications.
Susannah removed a small tape recorder from her satchel. “You mind if I tape this?” she asked. “Helps me get all the quotes right.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Well, Mr. Marlin,” Susannah said with false formality-something she herself found rather charming-“tell me what you think about all this cedar-clearing.”
Marlin paused for a moment and took a sip of coffee. “Let me start by saying that it’s not neces
sarily a bad idea. But it might not be a good idea, either. We obviously have a water problem, as we’ve all known for some time. Seems like every year we hear about how it’s getting worse. Wells run dry, springs and creeks quit flowing, and Pedernales Reservoir is at a record low, even though we haven’t opened a floodgate since the dam was built. And just looking at the face of it, clearing cedar seems like a good way to attack the problem.”
“But…” Susannah prompted him.
Marlin shrugged. “I think we’re all kind of rushing things. We need to step back, take a look at the bigger picture, and think about how our actions could affect the wildlife. Animals have four basic biological requirements-food, water, space, and cover. Whenever man interferes with any one of those, it can have major consequences. For instance, white-tailed deer need brush cover to survive.”
“But the deer don’t eat cedar trees, do they?”
“No, but they usually bed down in thick brush. And they use it to move around without being seen. Without all the cedars, they’d be a lot more vulnerable to predators like coyotes, cougars, and bobcats. Especially the fawns.”
“I never thought about that.”
Marlin shook his head. “Most people don’t. But for all the ranch owners who are making good money with deer leases, it’s something they should consider. They should be wondering what the deer population will be like in five or ten years.
“It’s not just the deer,” Marlin continued, speaking with obvious heartfelt intensity. “Wild turkey, rabbits, raccoons-they all need a fair amount of brushy habitat. And people should keep in mind that if you fool around with one link in the food chain, it can cause a domino effect. Let’s say-just as an example-we remove all the brush, and rabbits become easy prey. Coyotes will have a field day for a while and their population will explode. Pretty soon, we’ve got coyotes all over the place, but they’ve eaten all the rabbits. So what do they go after next? Livestock. Goats, sheep, calves. I know the ranchers don’t want that.
