Bone Dry bcm-2

by Ben Rehder

  But what the fuck did Vinnie care? Nothing would point to him because he wasn’t actually murdering T.J. T.J. would be killing himself, without even knowing it. Yeah, it was much easier this way, not having to do the deed. Not having to put a gun to the back of T.J.’s head and pull the trigger.

  Sitting there on the boat, in the dark, Vinnie smiled. It was pretty clever, really.

  Peabody was locked securely in Marlin’s truck, and now Marlin was tending to Sal Mameli, trying to keep him comfortable. It was a pretty bad fracture, and Mameli appeared to be slipping into a mild shock.

  Mr. Briggs appeared at Marlin’s elbow. “Just got hold of Jean,” he said, referring to his niece, the dispatcher. “There’s an ambulance on the way, but it sounds like they’re having a little excitement over at the sheriff’s office.”

  “Oh yeah? What do you mean?”

  Mr. Briggs gave him a small jerk of the head, pulling him aside. In hushed tones, the elderly man said, “The details are a little rough right now, and Jean’s not really supposed to share this stuff with me anyway….”

  Marlin nodded. “Between you and me.”

  Mr. Briggs’ expression was grave. “Apparently, Jack Corey just shot Wylie Smith.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The small building that housed the Sheriff’s Department and the county jail was surrounded by vehicles and people, mostly deputies and other personnel who worked inside the building. Marlin saw two black-and-whites from the Texas Department of Public Safety, and he spotted a couple of staff members from the newspaper office across the street. The rest of the crowd was composed of curious bystanders, locals who had been eating or shopping in the small downtown area. An ambulance idled out front.

  Marlin backed up and found a spot as close as he could get, a block away. He turned to Peabody, whose eyes were still puffy and wet. “Stay put,” Marlin said. “I’ll be right back.” He didn’t wait for a sneer, but then again, Peabody hadn’t seemed too lively on the trip over.

  Marlin jogged toward the building, swerving through the milling crowd.

  “John! Over here!” It was Bobby Garza, a few paces outside the front door, huddled in a conference with the DPS troopers and a couple of deputies. As Marlin approached, Garza stepped toward him and steered him against the outside wall of the building. “Here’s the situation. Corey…Jesus, John-what happened to your arm?”

  “Guy bit me. Long story.”

  Garza nodded and continued, speaking quietly and quickly with his back to the crowd. “Wylie came back from Corey’s house and decided to have another go at him. He felt pretty good about the evidence he has so far, and wanted to see if Corey would cop to it.” Garza took a breath. Marlin couldn’t remember the sheriff ever looking so grim. “Next thing we know, there’s a shot from inside the interview room. I don’t know if Wylie went in there with his weapon or what, but Corey’s barricaded in there, he says Wylie’s been shot, and he’s not coming out.”

  “Any word from Wylie?”

  “Yeah, he hollered that he was wounded but okay before we evacuated the building. There’s nobody in there now but Corey, Wylie, and Darrell.” Darrell Bridges was one of the night dispatchers. “Corey insisted that we clear the building, and the damn place is so small, he’d know if we tried to keep a couple of guys inside. But Corey said it was okay for Darrell to stay when I told him that we had to have a dispatcher in there, otherwise nine-one-one would be down. I got Darrell wearing a vest. Jean was still in there at first, right when this thing got started, but Darrell’s shift started at eight and he insisted on relieving her. Acted like it was no big deal, but man, in my book, that makes him pretty brave.”

  Marlin appreciated the information, but wondered why Garza had called him aside. After all, Marlin was a game warden-an employee of the state, not of the Sheriff’s Department.

  Garza gave him a quiet stare. “We tried talking to him earlier on Wylie’s cell phone,” Garza said, “but he wouldn’t listen. Said he’d only talk to you. Then he hung up. We’ve called back a dozen times, but all he says is, ‘I want Marlin.’”

  “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

  “No, sir. Not a good time to kid.”

  Marlin glanced around the crowd, noting the worried looks on the deputies’ faces, the excitement in the civilians’ eyes.

  He looked back at Garza. “You know I’m not trained for this. I don’t know the first thing about negotiation.”

  “I know. But I’m not sure we have any other options.”

  Marlin batted the idea around in his head, wondering how much guilt he’d feel if the deal went sour. On the other hand, what if he refused to act, and Wylie-or Corey, for that matter-wound up dead? Either way, he was taking a gamble. “Well, hell,” he finally said. “Where’s the phone?”

  “That’s the other thing,” Garza said, giving Marlin a smile that said, Don’t kill me when you hear this. “He kinda wants a face-to-face.”

  Marlin opened his mouth, but Garza shook his head and said, “I know…one of the first rules of hostage negotiation is, don’t send in other potential hostages. You should know that straight-out. I’m not gonna lie to you. But you seem to have a pretty good rapport with Corey, and since Wylie might be wounded in there, I thought I’d at least run it past you. I’m willing to give it a try.”

  “You’re willing to give it a try?”

  Garza shrugged. “You know what I mean.” He lowered his voice. “Look, John, don’t get me wrong here. I’ll understand completely if you tell me to screw off. It’s not your job, and the guy’s probably killed one man already….”

  Marlin let out a snort. “Boy, that’s a pep talk. You and Knute Rockne, two of a kind.”

  Garza grinned at him, but there wasn’t much behind it.

  “No weapons, right?” Marlin asked.

  “No, you leave your belt out here. We can get you a vest.”

  Marlin rubbed the nape of his neck, feeling the sweat back there. He made his decision quickly, because he knew if he mulled it over too long, he’d never go in. “Wylie is gonna owe me a damn six-pack for this one.”

  Garza placed a hand on Marlin’s shoulder, an attempt at emotional support. “I hear ya.”

  The office of the Sheriff’s Department occupied roughly two thousand square feet, and that included a recent expansion. The county jail occupied the other half of the stone building, with no interior doorway leading between the two sides. It was a hassle for officers to shuttle prisoners back and forth, but in this instance it made things simpler. There was only one way in and one way out, and that was through the glass door on which Marlin’s hand currently rested.

  Looking through the door, Marlin saw that everything looked quiet inside. Plenty of lights on. Desks stacked high with paperwork. But it looked odd without any people in it. Down the left wall-what used to be an exterior wall-Marlin could see two wooden doors. The first was a small coffee room, and that door stood open. The second was the door to the interview room, which was closed. The small eye-level window was dark. Marlin eased the glass door open and yelled, “Corey? Can you hear me? It’s Marlin. I’m coming in.” He waited, but there was no answer.

  He glanced back at the crowd, which had been pushed back now by about fifty yards. Marlin could see a couple of news-station vans from Austin or San Antonio already setting up shop, bright lights shining on reporters who were covering the breaking story.

  Garza, a handful of deputies, and the two DPS troopers stood about thirty yards away.

  Marlin took a step into the office and let the glass door close behind him. He glanced toward the dispatcher’s cubicle, a small partitioned area in the right-hand rear corner of the large main room. “Darrell, you back there?” he called out.

  “I’m here.”

  “Just stay put, you hear me?”

  “Ten-four.”

  A little louder, Marlin repeated, “Corey! Can you hear me?”

  After a beat, a muffled response: “I hear you.”
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br />   “I’m coming in, Jack. I have no weapon and I’m all alone.”

  “I’ve been waitin’ on ya, John. Come on back and join the party!” Corey sounded on edge, kind of hyped-up. Not a good sign.

  Marlin walked slowly down the left side of the room past a row of desks until he was outside the closed door to the interview room. In a softer voice, Marlin said, “Okay, I’m here, Corey. All alone, like you asked. Everybody doing all right in there?”

  “Oh yeah, we’re all just dandy.” Corey sounded like he was just on the other side of the door.

  “Jack, we need to talk. I need to see Wylie, make sure he’s okay.”

  “Sure, we can do that. But no bullshit, all right? I mean, we’re friends and all, but…”

  “You got my word. It’s just me out here, and I only came to talk.”

  Marlin saw a crack of light appear at the bottom of the door as Corey turned the interior light on. He heard Corey’s voice again, addressing Wylie: “You don’t move a damn muscle, you hear me?”

  Then the door opened about an inch and Marlin could see Corey eyeing him through the vertical crack. You’re lucky I’m telling the truth, Marlin thought. You’d be easy pickings right now if I was armed.

  Corey said, “Grab a roll of tape offa one of those desks.”

  Marlin found a Scotch-tape dispenser and slipped it to Corey.

  The door swung open and Corey stood to the side, Wylie’s handgun held at his hip. “Hurry up, now.”

  Marlin entered the room and Corey quickly closed the door. The small table that normally sat in the middle of the room had been pushed against one wall, along with the four chairs that went with it. Along the opposite wall was the only other piece of furniture in the room-a ratty sofa one of the deputies had hauled to the station one weekend. On that sofa sat Wylie Smith, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. He was clutching his bloody right hand, which looked like any other hand-except that the thumb had been blown off by a high-powered handgun. There was nothing left but a mangled stump.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Marlin said. Judging from the front of Wylie’s uniform, the thumb had bled a great deal. But the bleeding appeared to have stopped.

  “Yeah,” Corey said. “Wylie won’t be hitching rides anytime soon.”

  The deputy’s face was extremely pale, either from fright or blood loss. “Wylie, you all right?”

  Wylie began to speak, but Corey interrupted. “No! You don’t say a word,” waving the gun in Wylie’s direction. “That’s our only rule in here, John. He can’t speak. Nothing but horseshit comes outta his mouth anyway. Now, you go have a seat along that wall.”

  Marlin eased himself to the floor opposite the door. He wasn’t sure what the experts would advise in a situation like this. Was he supposed to comply with Corey’s every demand? Do exactly what he said? Or try to resist, dole out the commands himself? He decided he needed to control the room as best he could. “All right, so tell me: What the hell happened in here, Jack?”

  Corey was busy taping a few pages of newspaper over the small window in the door. Marlin noticed that Corey had already jammed one of the sofa cushions in the frame of the exterior window, blocking the view from the outside. Corey got the newspaper in place, then leaned with his back against the door. Marlin thought: Careful, Jack. One good shotgun blast and this whole thing will be over before you know it. And the truth was, Marlin had no idea what Garza might be organizing out there. It wouldn’t be all that difficult for an armed officer or two to station themselves outside the door, waiting for an opportunity.

  Corey glared at Wylie. “It’s all his fault. He pulled me from my cell and drug me in here again. Started in with the same ol’ shit-how I was gonna end up on Death Row, him tryin’ to be all big and mean. I told him he could go to hell, and that’s when he pulled his gun and jammed it against the back of my head.”

  Marlin was mortified. Could Wylie possibly be that stupid? He looked at the deputy, who gave a slight shake of his head.

  Corey exploded toward him. “Don’t goddamn lie! At least be a man, own up to what you done!” Corey made a gesture with the gun, as if he was tempted to aim it at Wylie, but he pointed it back at the floor. Corey continued, his words nearly sobs now. “I thought it was all over, man! He was gonna shoot me and say I was tryin’ to escape or somethin’. So I spun around, grabbed for the gun, and it went off.”

  Marlin held both hands up, palms out. “Take it easy, Corey. Settle down. I believe you.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, though. Marlin wasn’t sure what to believe at this point. It seemed to appease Corey, however, and he returned to the door.

  “Now, I can see you’re awfully pissed off, Jack. And hell, I don’t blame you. You’ve really been through the wringer in the last twenty-four hours. But I gotta tell you, Wylie is gonna need some medical attention real soon.”

  “Screw him.”

  Marlin tried a small laugh. “I’ve felt that way many times myself. Let’s face it: The guy can be a real asshole.”

  Corey nodded, wiping his sleeve across his nose.

  Marlin said, “But are you gonna let an asshole ruin the rest of your life for you? You’re not in too deep yet, Jack. I mean, most people could understand what you’ve done so far. You’ve been under a lot of stress, you’re scared… and then, to have a gun at your head? Most people would do the same thing. And, like you say, if you had nothing to do with Bert Gammel, you could still come out of this okay.” Corey seemed to be listening, relieved that someone was finally taking his side. Now Marlin had to go for the big payoff. “But Jack, listen to me, man. You gotta let Wylie go. He needs a doctor.”

  “Forget it.”

  “But-”

  “Forget it! If I let him go, I’m screwed, end of story. They’ll burn this place down with me in it. You know that.”

  On that point, Marlin couldn’t lie. It would be too obvious. Marlin reached into his shirt pocket and removed the package of Red Man he had been carrying. “Want that chew now?” He slid the package across the floor to Corey’s feet.

  Corey eyed Marlin for a second, then slumped to a sitting position on the floor, his back still against the door. He opened the package and stuffed a wad into his mouth.

  Corey chewed in silence for a few minutes, the ritual seeming to calm his nerves somewhat. He spat in the corner behind the door and said, “I didn’t call you in here to see about Wylie anyway. I asked for you because you’re the only one who seems to believe that I didn’t shoot Bert Gammel.”

  Marlin tried to sound sincere. “If you say you didn’t do it, then as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t.”

  “That’s why I need you to find out who did.”

  “Do what?” Marlin was taken aback.

  “Forget Wylie and the other deputies-I want you to work on it. To figure out what happened.”

  Marlin wrestled with his answer for a moment, wanting to choose the right words. “Jack, I appreciate your faith in me. I really do. But it’s not that easy. See, I’m not trained for this kind of investigation. But Wylie-”

  “Forget Wylie! He’s the one who got me in this mess to begin with. He’s not leaving until we get this straightened out.” Both men glanced at Wylie, who glared back in contempt.

  “Well, then,” Marlin said, “what about Bobby Garza? You trust him, don’t you? He’s a good man.”

  Corey fidgeted with the package of Red Man. “Yeah, I guess he’s all right. But even he said that the evidence don’t look good.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, staring at the floor. He looked sad, defeated. In a quiet voice, he pleaded: “John, you gotta help me, man. You’re the only one who can do it. You’re like me, born around here. You know everybody, and you can find the guy who done it.”

  Corey was giving Marlin an opening here, some leverage to negotiate. And Marlin intended to use it, even though he’d have to lie. “Tell you what. If you’ll let me come back in with some medical supplies, to fix Wylie up a little….”

 
Corey raised his eyes to meet Marlin’s. “Then you’ll do it? You’ll help me out?”

  Marlin nodded. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Raccoon meat was a lot tastier than most people gave it credit for; Red knew that firsthand. Most people were just too uppity to try that kind of thing, though. Hell, back when Red was a boy, he’d wander the hills late at night, just him, a spotlight, and his rusty single-shot.22. If he was lucky, he’d come home with a couple of fat coons and his mother would make a big pot of stew the next day. Nowadays, Red liked his raccoon barbecued or chicken-fried.

  He wasn’t quite the all-out hunter he used to be, either, preferring instead to let the coons come to him. He and Billy Don had worked out a pretty good system. They had a deer feeder set up in the oak trees about thirty yards behind Red’s mobile home, and the raccoons just couldn’t resist such an easy meal. They’d come ambling along just after dark and eat all the corn they could stuff into their greedy little faces.

  So Red and Billy Don would sit on the back porch, an ice chest full of beer between them, Billy Don working the spotlight, Red doing the shooting because he was a much better shot, even if Billy Don wouldn’t admit it. They couldn’t do this more than once or twice a month, because the coons got gun-shy pretty darn quick. Plus, after you shot up the local population, it took awhile for other neighbor coons to come along and fill the gap.

  On this particular evening, the hunting was pretty bad. They had seen only one coon, a big, fat bastard, and Red had missed it. They had resigned themselves to the fact that they’d have to eat store-bought food for dinner-Red wanting a frozen pizza, Billy Don arguing for burritos-when the phone rang inside.

  Red rose to answer it. “Don’t be shining that light all over creation while I’m gone or you’ll scare ’em all away,” he said, as he opened the screen door. He always forgot that he didn’t need to open the door-the mesh screen had been missing for several months and he could just step right through the frame-but old habits die hard.