by Ben Rehder
Red answered the phone as he always did: “Barney’s Whorehouse, home of the two-for-one special.” There was a moment of silence on the other end, and then: “Uh, Red O’Brien, please.”
“You got him. Who’s this?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Brien, my name is Harold Cannon. I’m an attorney in Austin.”
“An attorney? Zat the same as a lawyer?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Well, then, whatever she’s sayin’, the kid ain’t mine.”
“Pardon me?”
Red chuckled. Some people just didn’t know a joke when they heard one. “I’m just funnin’ with ya, Harold.”
“Yes, I see. Sorry about that. Anyway, the reason I’m calling concerns Emmett Slaton, who is one of my clients.”
With that, Red’s smile slowly disappeared. It had been a full day now, and Mr. Slaton was still missing. Red had called the Sheriff’s Department earlier that afternoon, but they said there had been no progress on the case. It was the darnedest thing: Ever since last night, Red had had this strange feeling in his gut, something he couldn’t identify and had never experienced before. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might actually be concern for a fellow human being-or maybe gas pains.
“I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Slaton for the last twenty-four hours,” Cannon continued, “regarding some routine matters. But when my calls went unreturned, I got a little worried. See…how can I put this delicately? …Mr. Slaton has a medical condition, and I was afraid he might be having some trouble, all alone at his residence. This afternoon, I called the local police, just to have them stop by and make sure everything was okay. Unfortunately, as you are no doubt aware, they informed me that Mr. Slaton is missing.”
“Yessir, I was the one that discovered the problem. Called it in last night.”
“I see. In any case, in a situation such as this, I’ve been instructed to contact you regarding Mr. Slaton’s brush-removal business.”
Just then, there was a shot outside.
“Uh, everything all right over there? Was that a gunshot?” Cannon asked.
“Just the TV,” Red said. “Go on with what you were sayin’.”
“Well, Mr. Slaton had-or has, rather-confidence in your abilities to run the business. Several months ago, he instructed me, in the event that he is incapacitated, to appoint you as vice president of operations of the company.”
Red’s throat went dry. He reached for a beer on the bar and took a large swig.
“Are you there, Mr. O’Brien?”
“I’m here,” Red croaked.
“I know this is rather sudden, but I do have all the proper papers here in front of me. I can have them couriered out to you tomorrow, if you’d like. That is, if you’re interested in the position.”
Red’s mind was racing so fast, he could barely hear the voice on the other end. Me? Vice president of something? Vice presidents drove Cadillacs and smoked big cigars!
“Mr. O’Brien?”
“Well, hell yeah, I’m interested,” Red managed to blurt. “Now, what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means you’d be responsible for lining up new customers, assigning projects to the work crews…just managing the day-to-day operations of the company in general.”
Red thought that over for a minute. “You mean I wouldn’t be runnin’ a BrushBuster myself?”
Cannon chuckled. “No, not as a vice president. I should also mention that the position includes a fifty-percent salary increase.”
Red’s knees buckled and he had to grab the bar for support.
Fifty percent! That was nearly one and a half times what he was making now! “That sounds fair,” Red said.
“Further, he has instructed me to inform you that, in the event of his demise, he has bequeathed the company to you.”
Now Red slumped to the floor, pulling the phone with him. He was having a hard time catching his breath. Suddenly, that fifty-percent raise seemed like small potatoes. He’d have to look up the word bequeath, but he was pretty sure it meant Mr. Slaton had left the company to Red in his will.
“Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Red panted. “It’s just, with Mr. Slaton missin’ and all…”
“Yes, I understand. It’s a very difficult and sad time for us all.”
Red was thinking fast now, his mind buzzing. This all seemed too easy. Things didn’t just fall into your lap like this.
“Of course, for now, we all just have to wait and see what develops,” Cannon said.
There it was. Red knew there had to be a catch. “You mean, like, they haven’t declared him dead yet-”
“Well, no. Probably not until they find… well, to be direct, not until they find a body. Until they do, this matter could be tied up for months. Maybe even years.”
Red’s spirits dropped for a moment, but he consoled himself with the whopping promotion and raise he had just received.
Cannon said he would make arrangements to have the paperwork delivered to Red’s home, and then wished Red a good night.
Red hung up the phone, still sitting on the floor. Billy Don stepped through the screen-door frame carrying a large raccoon by the tail. “I got one, Red! A big sumbitch!”
Red rose from the floor and took the dead animal out of Billy Don’s hands. “Screw that coon,” Red said, tossing it back out the door. “Tonight we’re doin’ it up right.”
Billy Don’s eye grew large. “You mean…?”
“Hell, yeah,” Red said proudly. “We’re eatin’ at Dairy Queen.”
Marlin was slumped in a chair in front of his television set, exhausted by the events at the sheriff’s office. The adrenaline rush had finally subsided and left a bone-weary void in its place. He had stopped at Blanco County Hospital on the way home to have his bite wound treated, and now he was ready for a quiet night Marlin had the TV tuned to KHIL, a station that covered half a dozen counties in the Hill Country west of Austin. The situation at the sheriff’s office was, of course, the big story, and they had preempted regular programming to carry live coverage.
As the reporter droned on, Marlin wondered how long it would be before Garza decided to take action. Would he wait Corey out, or make a move of his own? Marlin had no idea what the experts advised in hostage situations. But he did know that it would be a fairly simple matter to knock down the wooden door and take Jack Corey out for good. Theoretically, Wylie would have sense enough to know something like that might be coming, and he’d stay hunkered on the floor, out of the line of fire.
If only Corey would give it up-just let Wylie walk out of there before things got even more out of hand-Marlin might feel a little better about it all. As it stood, Corey was under the impression that Marlin was planning to launch his own investigation into the murder of Bert Gammel. I flat-out lied to the guy, Marlin thought. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Bobby Garza had agreed that Marlin had handled it just right. When Marlin had told Garza what Corey wanted, Garza had simply shaken his head and said, I’d say we’ve got our man already, right in there. The thing was, Marlin was inclined to agree. He wanted to believe in Corey’s innocence, but there were just too many things stacked against him. The tire tracks. The muddy boots. The motive. If the DNA came back against him, it was Corey’s one-way ticket to Huntsville.
Marlin shook his head and tried to drive it all from his mind. Why the hell should I feel bad about all this? After all, the lie had gotten the results everyone wanted: They now knew that Wylie was stable, not in need of immediate medical attention. The deputy would probably need surgery on his hand, but there wasn’t any hope of reattaching the thumb because there wasn’t any thumb left to reattach.
Marlin fetched a beer from the fridge and settled back into the chair. Then the reporter-standing in a harsh circle of light, the sheriff’s office in the distant background-reminded Marlin of the other big screwup that was bothering him tonight. Glowering into the camera, the reporter said,
; “As we mentioned earlier in our broadcast, the events at the sheriff’s station aren’t the only problems facing the local law-enforcement community tonight. We also have reports of a fugitive on the loose here in Blanco County. Earlier this evening, the area game warden arrested a man for assault and was transporting him to the jail for booking. According to Sheriff Bobby Garza, in the turmoil resulting from the hostage situation, the current fugitive-Thomas Collin Peabody-managed to free himself from the game warden’s vehicle and escape on foot. He is, however, handcuffed, and authorities do not consider him a danger to the community.”
Just great, Marlin thought, feeling like an idiot. While he had been inside the sheriff’s office with Corey, Marlin had completely forgotten about Peabody. He should have asked Garza to put a deputy on Peabody, but it had slipped his mind.
He hadn’t figured the guy as a flight risk-and on top of that, his hands were cuffed behind him. But the little scumbag had slipped away, probably just to spite Marlin. Normally, Marlin would have expected some good-natured ribbing from the deputies, but nobody had said a word. Probably because Marlin had just successfully negotiated with an armed gunman, a probable murderer.
Oh, well, Marlin thought. Too late to do anything about Peabody now. At least the damn reporter didn’t mention me by name.
“We have been unable to reach Game Warden John Marlin for comment.
Marlin groaned and changed the channel. A rerun of Andy Griffith, with Barney doing something idiotic, as usual. Marlin could relate.
The ringing of the phone pulled him out of Mayberry. Answer it or no? Probably a reporter. He let the machine get it.
“This is Marlin. Leave a message.”
After a pause: “John, you there? It’s Becky.”
His heart leapt at the familiar voice and he rose to pick up the handset. “Hey, I’m here.”
“God, John, what in the world is going on down there?” she asked, concern in her voice. She said that Vicky-a nurse she had worked with at Blanco County Hospital-had been watching the news, including the earlier report of Peabody’s escape. Vicky had heard Marlin’s name and called Becky to let her know.
Marlin shook his head in disgust. “I can nail a dozen poachers in one night, but does that ever make the news?”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He told her a little about the murder of Bert Gammel and the hostage situation. From what Marlin had seen, the news report didn’t mention that he had been inside with Corey. He decided not to worry Becky with it. The conversation swung back around to Thomas Peabody. “Little bastard’s runnin’ around with cuffs on,” Marlin said, “so how far can he get?”
Becky giggled. “I remember those cuffs.”
Marlin smiled, but felt sad at the same time.
Becky noticed the silence and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Hey, no big deal. How are things going up there? How’s Margaret?”
“About the same. She hates the chemo, and I think she’s wondering whether it’s worth it at this point.”
“What do you think?”
“If she wants to stop treatment, that’s what we’ll do.”
“I’m sure y’all will make the right decision.”
“Thanks, John. Listen, I better go. I’m calling from work right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“A bruised ego, as they say, but fine otherwise. Give your mom a hug for me.”
“I’ll do it. Talk to you later.”
The first thing Vinnie did when he got home was strip off all his clothes, including his shoes, and put them in a garbage bag. He’d get rid of it all tomorrow, maybe dump it in a trash barrel out on the highway. Couldn’t be too careful about shit like that. Sure, if it came down to it, he could argue that he had been in T.J.’s boat dozens of times, and that was why the fibers were there. But why let them find a specific shirt or pair of jeans that matches a specific fiber? Say maybe one of his fibers was wrapped up with one of the fibers from the clothes T.J. was wearing today. Then maybe they could link him to being in the boat when T.J. died.
And he had died, just like Vinnie thought he would.
Poor guy came sputtering to the surface, frothy blood spilling out of his mouth, trying to speak. Vinnie had had to stifle a fucking giggle, he was so pleased with himself, how his plan had worked out. A few minutes later, T.J.’s eyes rolled back and he floated facedown.
Now the Gibbs family boat was floating unmanned, T.J. bobbing in the water nearby, waiting to be discovered. Could be days, though. The reservoir wasn’t busy this time of year.
Vinnie had swum to shore in the chilly water, hopped in his car, then crushed the LoJack and scattered it along the roadside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It’s your own fault, ya know. You’re always pissing people off with your smart mouth. Why ya have to piss people off like that?”
Angela had been going on like that for about ten minutes. Or maybe it just seemed that way-who the hell knew? Sal was so stoned on painkillers, he really didn’t give a fuck about Angela, the doctors, the hospital, or his damn broken leg. The only thing he really felt-the one emotion that was eating away at the tattered edge of his slippery consciousness-was rage. That fucking tree-hugger. Smart-ass little bastard thought he was gonna shut Sal Mameli down? That’d be the day. Son of a bitch was lucky Sal hadn’t gotten a good hold of him. Goddamn cop-what was he, a game warden or some shit? — had stuck his nose in the middle of it.
Where the hell did that little tree-hugging jamook come from, anyway? — and that blonde broad, the one stirring up all the trouble. What a pain in the ass those two were. How’s a man supposed to go about his business with people like that breaking your balls all the time?
“You listening to me?” Angela whined. “Can you even hear me, Sal? Sal?” She leaned over his hospital bed to peer into his half-open eyes.
Well, if they wanted to play hardball, then Sal’d show ’em the heat, the ninety-mile-per-hour fastball right under their chins. Nobody fucks with Roberto Ragusa… oh, wait, that’s not the right name. Sal something. Boy, these drugs really sneak up on ya. Sal Mameli, that’s it. Nobody fucks with Sal Mameli and gets away with it. That old rancher-Emmett something-he had tried, and look where it got him.
“Are you asleep? Because if you’re asleep, I’m going home.”
Christ, why won’t she shut the hell up? Let a guy have a little peace and quiet for once. Sal had important things to figure out and he had to concentrate. What had he been thinking about? Yeah, the old man. Sal had taken care of that little problem, him and Vinnie. Vinnie was a good boy. Learning quick. It was a good thing, too, because Vinnie would have to take care of this situation, too.
“Okay, I’m going home.” Angela stood and grabbed her purse off the floor. In a surprisingly gentle voice, she said, “You get some rest now, Sal. The doctors’ll take good care of ya.” She leaned and gave Sal a light kiss on the forehead, then left the room.
Yeah, Vinnie was turning into quite a soldier. Sal would have a long talk with him tomorrow, when he had a clearer head. Vinnie could handle it.
Marlin must have dozed off for a few minutes, and now something was nagging at him, telling him to wake up. He lifted his heavy eyelids and looked around in a daze, wondering why his bedroom looked so much like his living room. The phone rang again, and he pulled himself out of the chair in front of the television. He noticed that KHIL was still broadcasting live from the courthouse. Apparently, the standoff was ongoing, and Marlin figured it might be Bobby Garza calling.
“This is Marlin.”
It wasn’t the sheriff. It was a man who lived off Sandy Road, a photographer who had bought a couple hundred acres west of Johnson City a few years ago. According to the man, there had been half a dozen shots in the last half hour on the place east of his. He suspected poachers and wanted Marlin to check it out. Marlin glanced at his watch. Two-seventeen A.M. He told the caller he w
as on his way.
Normally, Marlin wasn’t thrilled with middle-of-the-night phone calls. Half the time, there was a reasonable explanation for the gunfire: someone shooting raccoons or scaring a fox away from their chickens. The rest of the time, the shooters were gone before Marlin arrived.
But tonight, Marlin was kind of glad the call had come in. This was just a plain old “shots fired” call, no dead bodies lying in cedar thickets, no suspected murderers to negotiate with. Now he could forget about the Jack Corey mess and get back to business as usual.
Ten minutes later, he was pulling through an open gate off Sandy Road. He quickly came to a large pasture, where he saw a truck with its tailgate down, three men standing behind it. Marlin gave the truck a quick blast with his spotlight, letting the hunters know who he was, then bounced across the pasture toward the truck.
As he parked, he aimed his headlights at the three men: all locals, men he recognized, each with a beer in hand.
Marlin climbed out and said, “’Evenin’, Joe.”
The owner of the property was Joe Biggs-a tall, slender man with black hair, an insurance agent in Johnson City. Joe said, “Hey, John. Soon as I saw your truck, I figured somebody musta called in.”
“One of your neighbors.”
Joe grimaced. “Sorry about that. We woulda called and let you know we were huntin’, but it was kinda late and it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of deal.”
Marlin played his flashlight across the truck bed. Three dead hogs lay inside. Due to their devastating impact on the environment, feral hogs could be legally hunted at night in Texas, but hunters were encouraged to contact the game warden first and make their intentions known.
“No big deal. Looks like you had some luck.”
“Hell yeah. I been seeing about a dozen every night. Figured it was time to thin ’em out a little. They been runnin’ all the deer away from my feeders.”
