Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries)

by Ben Rehder

  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.

  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 ma
ybe 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.