by Ben Rehder
Wheeling into the driveway now, Angela was on the verge of tears. She shouldn’t let her mind wander like that, because it always made her upset. And angry…oh, so angry.
Twenty yards from the garage, a black cat ran out in front of the Mercedes and froze. Angela’s foot immediately rose from the gas pedal, and lingered over the brake.
In a split second, though, something dark and macabre in Angela’s psyche took over. It was Maria’s cat, she knew, and here, finally, was a way for Angela to spread a little of the pain around, to share some of the misery. It was nonsense, of course. Sal was the one Angela wanted to hurt, not Maria. But Angela wasn’t thinking clearly; she was merely looking for a way to release some of the torment in her soul.
She lightly pushed the accelerator. The fine German engine responded, and the cat seemed to be swallowed up like a piece of lint in front of a vacuum cleaner.
“Mi gato!” Maria cried, as they both heard the thump beneath the wheels.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Another thirty minutes went by and Smedley was dozing off behind the wheel, his head bobbing to his chest every twenty seconds or so. Then, just as he was reaching for the bottle of Big Red, needing a caffeine jolt, he saw Angela Mameli’s car glide into her driveway. He thought he could see the pretty housekeeper-Maria was her name-in the passenger seat.
Finally. Smedley preferred to drop in when Angela and Maria were home. Angela was much nicer than the Mameli men. Sal Mameli could be a real bastard, and that smart-ass son of his wasn’t much better. They always brought up that tired bit about how their taxes paid Smedley’s salary, looking smug about it. But both men seemed to behave a little better when Angela was around. And she sometimes invited him to stay for dinner.
Smedley decided to give Angela a few minutes to get settled before he paid a visit.
Maria sprang from the car in a panic. She was dumbfounded. It almost seemed as if Mrs. Mameli had hit her cat on purpose. Maria knew Mrs. Mameli was a sad, angry woman, but surely she would not take out her emotions on a defenseless animal.
Behind the car, Tuco lay broken and bloody. Maria went to one knee and cradled the cat’s head, but it was obvious there was no life left in him.
“Maria, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Mameli was behind her, looking over her shoulder. “I meant to hit the brake but I hit the gas. I don’t know what happened. It was all so quick.”
A tear ran down Maria’s cheek.
“You poor thing,” Mrs. Mameli said. “I know that cat meant a lot to you. I feel just awful.” Mrs. Mameli patted Maria’s shoulder, then returned to her car and continued up the driveway.
Alone now, Maria gently lifted the mangled body-and saw something that surprised her: a small tuft of white hair on the cat’s chest. Tuco had no such patch. It was not Tuco!
Maria was momentarily elated, then was washed over with guilt for feeling happy while this innocent animal lay dead in her hands.
Sal placed the steam cleaner in the trunk of his Lincoln and slammed the lid just as the gears of the garage-door opener groaned and the door began to lift. Jeez, that was close, he thought.
The door open now, Sal could see Angela sitting out there in her Mercedes. She made an impatient gesture that said, What’s Vinnie’s car doing in my spot? then killed the engine and climbed out.
Sal planted a fake smile on his face and walked over to greet her, trying to gauge her mood; she had been such a bitch lately. He could already hear her carping about having to park in the driveway, asking why Vinnie had parked in the garage. Sal had a good lie ready: Vinnie was vacuuming the inside of his car and needed to be close to an outlet.
But Angela let him off the hook by speaking first. “What a goddamn day!” she moaned. “Poor Maria, I just ran over her cat.”
Sal looked down the driveway. “You hit her cat?” As far as he was concerned, that was good news. He wondered why he had never thought of that himself.
Angela jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Not to mention, we got company again out on the road.”
Sal’s heart fluttered and his balls shrank to about half their normal size. She was talking about that damn marshal! Even between trials, the Feds still dropped in now and then-usually a whale of a guy named Smedley, who always seemed to show up around dinner time. Angela would usually ask him to stay for a bite, despite Sal’s whispered protests. Did it to piss him off, he figured.
Angela was grabbing shopping bags out of the trunk, asking Sal to give her a hand, but Sal turned and raced into the house. Vinnie had to get his car the hell out of there.
When Smedley pulled up to the house, Mrs. Mameli wasn’t in sight. But Maria was standing in the middle of the driveway, down a ways from the house, looking disoriented. Wait a minute-was that blood on her blouse? Had something happened to Sal, right here under Smedley’s nose? Panic gripped him.
Smedley shoved it into PARK and struggled out of the sedan, his hand fumbling for his revolver under his coat. Then he saw the dead cat at Maria’s feet. What a relief-just a dead cat.
Smedley looked at Maria, who was wiping the tears off her cheeks. “You okay?” he asked.
Maria nodded, wrapping her arms around her torso as if she were cold.
Smedley glanced around for help, maybe Angela or even Sal. Somebody to step in and take care of this poor gal. But they were all alone, standing in silence. Meanwhile, Maria continued to look miserable. Smedley knew he should do what a real man would do: Step up, be gallant, console the damsel in distress. But the problem was, he had always been so awkward around women. Especially beautiful women. He became klutzy and tongue-tied and sweaty and… and, oddly, none of that was happening right now.
Whatever it was, Maria was somehow different. She didn’t look at him with disdain or mockery, as American women did. Her eyes held compassion, even now, with her dead pet lying in front of her. So Smedley swallowed his doubts and walked over to Maria. He gently wrapped an arm around her, this woman he barely knew. She surprised him by pressing her head against his chest and accepting his comfort.
She looked up into his eyes and Smedley felt his heart flutter. She was so vulnerable and beautiful, with soulful brown eyes, high, sculpted cheekbones, and skin as smooth and creamy as a Hershey bar.
Maria said something to him in Spanish. He didn’t understand a word, so he just said, “There, there, everything will be all right.” It sounded corny to him, but she placed her head back on his chest.
Smedley’s heart was beginning to race. It had been-what? — three years since he had held a woman close. He had forgotten how good it felt. He could feel the warmth of her cheek on his chest, the rhythmic cadence of her breathing. And, wait a minute, he could also feel her large breasts pressing against his belly. Oh, God. How could he be such a cad? This woman was in emotional pain and he was thinking about her hooters.
He made a hushing noise, trying to provide solace and take his mind off her anatomy.
Then he realized, with incredible embarrassment, that the little federal agent in his pants had decided that now was a good time for an interrogation.
Maria pulled away from him, and he was waiting for a fierce tongue-lashing, maybe even a slap, certain that she had taken offense at the hardness in his crotch.
But she simply walked around the side of the house and came back a few moments later with a shovel. Jesus-this was worse than he thought. She was going to attack him with a gardening implement! But instead, she asked him a question in Spanish.
Smedley didn’t understand, but at the same time, he knew exactly what she wanted. He nodded, then grabbed the deceased feline by the tail and followed her to the rear of the property.
Sal poked his head out of the garage and saw the agent’s sedan sitting in the middle of the driveway. But no sign of Smedley.
He gave a thumbs-up to Vinnie, who fired up his Camaro, raced out of the garage, whipped around the sedan, and drove off into the dusk.
“Where’s he going in such a hurry?”
Sal jumped. Smedley was standing right beside him now, holding a shovel.
Sal licked his lips nervously. “He’s, ah, just heading into town, gonna see a coupla friends, to….”
He noticed Smedley sniffing the air, catching a whiff of Angela’s dinner. “Whaddaya say?” Sal chirped. “You gonna stay for supper?”
The sunlight was fading as Marlin watched Wylie fashion a small, shallow frame out of cardboard and duct tape. The deputy placed it gently around the footprint, then produced a can of hairspray from the canvas bag he had retrieved from Garza’s patrol car.
“Having a bad hair day?” Marlin grinned, making a genuine attempt to be friendly. Maybe Wylie could be a decent guy if anyone took the time to get to know him, Marlin was thinking. Nobody had given the man much of a welcome, so far.
Wylie shook his head as if he were dealing with a three-year-old. “This helps the plaster hold together better. Something I’m sure they don’t teach at game-warden school.”
Or maybe Wylie is an absolute prick, Marlin thought, revising his theory.
Several other deputies had arrived, along with the county medical examiner, Lem Tucker. Earlier, Wylie had conducted a painstakingly slow search of the area, starting in wide circles that got tighter and tighter. He had found a few tire tracks in a dirt road about three hundred yards from the cedar tree where the killer had sat. The tracks could have been left by the ranch foreman, but Wylie would take casts and compare them to the tires on the foreman’s vehicle.
After Wylie had taken numerous photos, Garza had flipped the body over, revealing an exit wound in the center of Gammel’s back. This seemed to indicate that the bullet had traveled in a line parallel to the ground, rather than in an arc from a long distance. Marlin’s theory that there had been a shooter in the cedar tree looked better every minute.
After the body had been loaded into the M.E.’s van, Garza called Marlin and Wylie aside.
“We’ll wait and see what Lem can tell us, but Wylie, you can get started on other things. We’ll need to talk to the other hunters on the ranch, do some background on Gammel, the usual.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here to say that someone ambushed Gammel. And they did it with a rifle. That says ‘deer hunter’ to me. That’s why I want you to keep Marlin in the loop on this investigation.”
Inwardly, Marlin smiled. It was always up to the chief investigating officer to decide how much involvement a game warden had in a case like this. Garza was asking Wylie to keep Marlin in the inner circles, whether Wylie wanted to or not.
“But Bobby,” Wylie said, “I’m sure I can handle everything-”
“I know you can, Wylie,” Garza cut him off. “You’re an ace with forensics and questioning, and that’s what we need. But you’re new to the area, and Marlin’s been here all his life. He knows every deer hunter in this county and he might be able to turn something up. I’m not saying I want him actively working the case-that’s not his job-but when you approach some of the hunters on the ranch, I want you to take Marlin with you when you can.”
Wylie glared at Marlin. Marlin gave him his best Eat shit smile.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Vinnie drove around for an hour, thinking, trying to come up with a plan. He had picked up a twelve-pack of beer in Johnson City, and was now on his fifth can, desperately trying to steady his nerves. This shit was out of control. He knew his dad was in a rough line of work, but tooling around with a corpse in your trunk?
Vinnie took a long swig of beer.
To be honest, it was kind of exciting. This was way beyond any rush he got from Ecstasy or cocaine. Pure adrenaline, pumping through his heart like water through a hose.
Now, if he could just think of a way to get rid of the body. Man, he wished he’d had time to talk it over with his dad! But that goddamn marshal had showed up. Fat prick, always invading our home, sticking his nose into our business. And he has to pick today of all days?
But back to the business at hand. Vinnie knew he had to think clearly. He couldn’t afford to do something stupid, like toss the body on the side of the road. No, there’d be fibers from inside their home on the corpse, maybe some blood leaking through the tarp into his trunk. So he had to make the body disappear for good, put it somewhere it would never be found.
He considered burning it. Just find a dead-end county road, drench it with gas, and let the evidence drift away in the wind. Sounded okay at first, but there would probably be bones left. Vinnie wasn’t sure, but the Feds could probably get a DNA sample from one little shard. And the teeth, too, could give it away.
He could bury the corpse. Find a large, isolated ranch, cut the lock on the gate, and plant it out in the middle of nowhere. But that had flaws, too. Animals might dig it up. Plus, it was hunting season, and you never knew who might come along. You were always hearing in the news about hunters finding corpses out in the fucking boonies. Anyway, the ground around here was full of big rocks. Vinnie remembered T.J. griping one day about having to dig some fence posts.
T.J.
Vinnie mulled it over, and something came to him now: a good, workable plan. A way to dispose of the old fucker for good-and T.J. could help, without even knowing it. That was the beauty of it. Vinnie thought it through for a few minutes, trying to find the flaws in his scheme, the little screwups that would come back later to bite him in the ass.
But there weren’t any. The more he thought about, the more perfect it seemed.
He aimed his Camaro back toward Johnson City, ready to find a pay phone. This was one call he wasn’t going to make on his cell.
Vinnie had been glad that T.J. was already stoned when he got him on the phone. Vinnie had planned on getting T.J. high before he sprung the idea on him, but he had been able to skip that step.
Now, cruising in the Camaro, Vinnie whipped out a joint and passed it to T.J. wanting to keep him good and loaded so he wouldn’t back out. T.J. had been kind of lukewarm to it at first, then seemed to get excited as they talked.
They had already completed step one of “Operation Porsche,” as Vinnie had called it; they had driven T.J.’s sports car over to Pedernales Reservoir, near the boat ramp, and parked it.
Now Vinnie was driving T.J. to the marina where the Gibbs family kept their boat.
“Man, this is crazy!” T.J. said, but he was smiling, getting off on this wild scheme. “What if something goes wrong?”
“Trust me,” Vinnie replied, trying to sound confident. “I’ve done this a coupla times. Works like a fuckin’ charm. All you gotta do is call it in stolen, then get ready to pick out your new wheels.” He passed T.J. a lighter. “Smoke up, dude.”
T.J.’s face was briefly illuminated as he took a long hit.
“You don’t want to keep driving that dog, do ya?” Vinnie asked. “Thing’s a piece of crap, like ya said.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Won’t run for shit.”
“Then relax and leave it to ol’ Vinnie.”
Five minutes later, Vinnie punched in the security code at the gate and pulled into the marina. He drove down by the dock and let T.J. out. “Now, remember, we gotta use the strongest ski-rope ya got,” Vinnie said.
T.J. giggled, thoroughly stoned by now. “No prob. I’ll meet you in ten.” He reached in through the window. “Pass me that joint, man. I wanna get the full effect when that turd goes bye-bye.”
“That Sue Ellen is one fine piece of tail,” Billy Don stated, wallowing on Red’s sofa, his feet propped on the cable-spool coffee table. He and Red were watching a rerun of Dallas on cable. “If I had as much money as J.R., I’d be launching my love rocket with women like that all the time.”
Red wasn’t paying much attention. His mind was on the deerskin coat he was wearing, a fine piece of craftsmanship he had finished making for himself a few weeks earlier.
Damn thing was making him itchy.
He had read an article about tanning hides. Now Red was wondering whether he had made a mistake by skippi
ng the step that had to do with exterminating parasites. Seemed like a lot of trouble to soak the hide in alum, whatever the hell that was. He slipped the coat off and tossed it over the back of a chair.
Billy Don said, “Which would you rather bang, Red-Sue Ellen or Miss Ellie?”
Now, that caught Red’s attention. “You moron, Miss Ellie is the old one, J.R.’s mama. You must mean one of the younger ones, one of the babes.”
“Hell if I do,” Billy Don said, his eyes locked on the screen.
Red shivered at the thought of Billy Don groping the matriarch of the Ewing clan. He rose to grab a fresh beer from the fridge.
He popped the top and walked over to the TV set, an old wood-laden console he had picked up for fifty bucks at the pawn shop. “Billy Don, you ever think it should be me and you riding around in Cadillacs, drinking champagne, and all that high-society shit?”
Billy Don nodded eagerly, as Ellie Ewing brushed her gray hair while seated in front of a vanity. “Hell yes.”
Red took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I’ve been thinking about something. Sure, we’ve had a few minor setbacks working for Mr. Slaton. But overall, I’d say we’re doing pretty damn good. Wouldn’t you?”
Billy Don didn’t respond. Jock Ewing had come up behind his wife and was caressing her neck.
“I mean, hell, who’s clearing more land than me and you?” Red continued. “We’re working harder and longer than anybody else out there. I like Mr. Slaton and all-he’s giving us a fair shake and everything-but I’d say we deserve a raise. I think we oughta stop by tomorrow and discuss it with him.”
Red glanced down at the set, and now ol’ Jock was nibbling Ellie’s ear. Really putting the moves on her. Red looked over at Billy Don, who was off in his own little world now, rubbing a pillow against his crotch in a very unappealing manner.
“Aw, man.” Red shook his head. “Guess I’ll leave you three alone.”
