by Ben Rehder
Marlin waited for a gibe that didn’t come.
“I’m pushing everybody to the limit as it is,” Garza said. “Everyone’s on the clock, and most of them have been on duty since yesterday morning. If something doesn’t shake loose pretty soon on that Slaton mess—and this one here—I’m gonna have to call in the Rangers.”
The Texas Rangers, a division of the Texas Department of Public Safety, were available to smaller law-enforcement entities on an as-needed basis. But Marlin knew Garza prided himself on running an independent department.
Marlin mentioned what he’d just learned from Joe Biggs about Bert Gammel. When he was done, Garza tilted his head to one side and blew out a breath. “That’s the first I’ve heard of that. A lot of cash, huh?”
“Enough to buy a Ford Explorer a couple years old, according to Joe.”
Garza gave Marlin a sidelong glance. “You up for playing detective a little longer?”
Marlin didn’t really know how he felt about it, but he knew the Sheriff’s Department already had its hands full. He’d have to make a few calls to game wardens in neighboring counties, asking them to help pick up the slack on poaching calls in Blanco County. “What the hell,” he finally said.
“That’s my boy,” Garza smiled.
They talked it over and agreed that Garza would secure subpoenas first thing in the morning so Marlin could check into Gammel’s financial affairs at the local banks. Apparently, a couple of deputies had already searched Gammel’s home—including the only financial records they could find: his checkbook—and nothing had raised a red flag. Marlin would have to look a little deeper.
“After the banks, you might want to talk to his friends and coworkers,” Garza said, with a pained look on his face. “Wylie obviously didn’t cover those bases very good.”
Marlin nodded.
Garza grinned and said, “Man, it would look so good.” He waved a hand across Marlin’s left biceps, as if reading an imaginary patch on his arm. “Blanco County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Here we go again,” Marlin said as he climbed out of the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Handcuffs were nothing new to Thomas Peabody. He had been shackled several times before, and had even managed to extricate himself from the infernal devices on a couple of occasions. Those were pleasant memories. It was always amusing to see the puzzled expressions on the officers’ faces (oppressive pigs!) when Peabody managed to slip his delicate hands free.
But this time, the cuffs were just too restrictive. Yes, he had been successful at “walking through” the cuffs backwards (the benefits of yoga were wonderful, indeed), so now his hands were cuffed in front of him. But there was simply no hope of slipping his hands through the metal manacles. The game warden had been too perturbed when he had clamped them on Peabody’s wrists, and Peabody could feel them biting into his skin ever since. Therefore, Peabody would have to be a bit more resourceful. In time, he’d find a way out of this puzzle, and then he could proceed with the more urgent task of shutting down Sal Mameli, just as he had threatened to do. In truth, Peabody regretted making such a bold statement in front of Inga. But he had, and now he must live up to it.
He surveyed his surroundings and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was in a stable, complete with a gassy old horse. The hayloft where he had slept last night was fairly comfortable, but the foul—and quite audible—emissions from the horse’s hind end had wreaked havoc with his sinuses. All things considered, however, he had been fortunate to stumble across a structure this accommodating. After all, he was a fugitive now. A wanted man. An escapee. He thought it sounded quite romantic, actually, and wondered if Inga, wherever she was at the moment, was impressed with his new status. Perhaps he would become a man of some renown, like Robin Hood or one of the Three Musketeers. A hero for the common man; a strident force for good in the battle against evil.
He let loose a violent sneeze, which brought him back to reality. He’d have to contemplate his place in folklore later, after he found a way out of his current predicament. He was filthy and hungry, a forlorn soul straight out of a Dickens novel.
Peabody carefully descended the ladder from the hayloft. The horse stared from its stall with unconcerned eyes and broke wind. Peabody scowled at the horse, got no noticeable response, and was thankful the neighboring stall was empty: Twice the gas would certainly make the stable uninhabitable.
The only other structure in the stable was a small closet in one corner. Peeking in, Peabody saw a saddle hanging on the wall and a pair of rough-woven blankets on a shelf. There were also a couple of brushes and several oddly shaped metal implements—items that had something to do with riding this malodorous beast, Peabody assumed. No hand tools to be seen.
Even if he found some sort of useful tool, how was he to operate it? This quandary would require quite a bit of thought, he knew. But never fear: The brain is the most powerful tool of all, and he owned a dexterous one.
Weighing his options, Peabody turned to the peculiar contraption squatting just inside the stable doors. It looked like a golf cart on steroids, with four large knobby tires and HONDA painted on what seemed to be the gas tank. Not quite a motorcycle, but related to one. Peabody had no experience with such vehicles. Unfortunately, it appeared that he would have to look elsewhere for salvation.
Peabody strode to the wooden double doors of the stable and peered outside. Just a few minutes past sunrise, he surmised. Forty yards away stood a shambling old house with a rusty truck parked in front.
Then he heard a noise, the low growl of a motor. A few seconds later, another truck, a newer model, bounced its way up the driveway and stopped next to the first. A lanky gentleman in overalls and no undershirt climbed out and proceeded into the house.
Peabody was nervous now. He eased the door closed and focused on the decision at hand: Should he try to slip away undetected, or wait until the occupants of the house left the vicinity? Peabody was pondering the possibilities when the choice was made for him.
He heard two voices coming his way—a man and a woman, giggling. Peabody quickly scrambled back up the ladder into the hayloft, finding refuge just as the door to the stable swung open.
“—and we could get caught,” the woman said. “Frank is sleeping right on the couch.”
“I got news for ya, sugar. He ain’t sleepin’, he’s passed out.”
“Well, we gotta be quiet, you hear?”
More giggling followed, finally replaced by a lustful moaning. Peabody chanced a cautious peek over a bale of hay and saw two figures—the man in overalls and a brunette in a long nightshirt—kissing passionately. Peabody watched as the man clumsily fondled the woman’s breasts through her nightshirt.
The woman pulled free, gave a coy smile, then tugged the shirt over her head. Well. She was quite naked now, and Peabody couldn’t help admiring the woman’s sturdy physique. She had the solid build of a Midwestern girl. Large hips, ample bosom.
Ogling the woman with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing a pork chop, the man let his overalls fall to his feet. “Come to Daddy,” he said.
Peabody almost chuckled out loud. Surely the woman would be offended by such a crass come-on. The woman responded by jumping into the man’s arms, her legs wrapped around his torso.
My lord, what type of woman is this? Peabody wondered. She had no more couth than a common... a common... He lost his train of thought for a moment.
The man shuffled toward a wall, the woman slid into place, and now they were coupling with remarkable vigor.
Peabody noticed that his own breathing had become rapid and shallow. Well, that was understandable. He was on the run and these people could possibly catch him. That’s what accounted for the changes in his respiratory patterns. It certainly wasn’t due to the tawdry scene unfolding before him. He was of too high a moral fiber to be seduced by the sight of two rednecks copulating like barnyard animals.
Peabody decided it was beneath his dignity to watch the whole sor
did affair, so he quietly eased back and settled into the hay. A few grunts later, an idea struck him. These frolicking fornicators could be his ticket to freedom!
He peeked at the couple again, and it appeared they would be at it for quite some time. The woman’s eyes were closed and the man was facing the wall. Perfect. Ever so stealthily, Peabody made his way to the ladder and began a painstakingly slow descent. This was the vulnerable point. If the woman opened her eyes now, she would scream in terror and all would be lost. But she continued with her moaning, calling out, “Bubba, oh, Bubba.”
Peabody reached the ground, tiptoed over to her nightshirt, scooped it up, and scampered back up the ladder. The handcuffs rattled against the ladder a few times, but that was irrelevant at this point. He already had what he needed, and besides, the couple was still oblivious to his presence.
After ten more minutes, the couple finally reached a grunting, squealing crescendo. Peabody had decided letting them finish was merely the polite thing to do; he certainly had no voyeuristic interest in the event. The man—named Bubba, apparently—sagged forehead-first against the wall as the woman lowered her feet and stood on her own. She glanced over Bubba’s shoulder and said, “Where’s my nightgown?”
Bubba, in his postcoital bliss, didn’t reply.
The woman smacked him on the arm and asked him again.
“Right up here,” Peabody called.
He had never seen two people so startled. The man quickly tugged his overalls back up his torso while the woman cowered behind him. “Who the hell are you?” Bubba growled, glaring up at Peabody.
“There’s no time for that,” Peabody replied. “I’m afraid I’m in need of some assistance.”
They both gaped at him for a moment with all the intelligence of sheep suffering from heatstroke. Finally, Bubba said, “Mister, are you plumb out of your mind? What the hell are you doing hidin’ up in that loft?”
Peabody summoned his patience. “As I said, I’m in need of a favor.” He raised his arms so they could see the handcuffs. “Once you’ve helped me out of my current difficulties, I’ll gladly return the nightshirt.”
Bubba stared at Peabody as if he had just landed a spaceship on Main Street. “What the hell? You kidding me? Throw that goddamn nightgown down here or I’ll whup your ass for ya.”
Typical, Peabody thought. He had noticed these Texans were quite bossy. Always ordering you around like an old schoolmaster. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve miscalculated your leverage in this situation. Now, if you’ll just—”
But Bubba wasn’t listening anymore, he was moving toward the ladder, muttering obscenities along way.
Before Bubba’s feet hit the first rung, Peabody called out, “Frank! Hey, Frank!”
Bubba froze. “Shut the hell up, will ya! Goddamn, you tryin’ to get us all kilt?”
Peabody smiled. “No, actually, I had something quite different in mind. But it will require some sort of cutting implement.”
Five minutes later, Bubba returned with a pair of ratchet-action bolt cutters, scavenged from the cuckolded Frank’s toolshed. Peabody instructed the woman to climb up to the loft with the tool. Bubba started to object, but by then all the fight had gone out of him. He was nervously looking over his shoulder, just wishing to bring the ordeal to an end.
The woman did as she was told, bashfully climbing the ladder stark naked while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed miserably.
While Peabody attempted to conceal his perusal of her body, she pumped the handles of the bolt cutter and snipped the linked chain between the two handcuffs. “Thank you. You are quite kind,” Peabody said. Regardless of the circumstances, it was only proper to extend his courtesies.
After Peabody reminded Bubba that Frank was still within earshot, the woman climbed back down the ladder. Peabody followed.
Just as his feet touched the ground, there was a loud crack—the slamming of a screen door—followed by: “Sally Ann? You out here?”
Sally Ann grabbed the nightshirt out of Peabody’s hand and pulled it over her head. Bubba peeked out the door. “Oh, shit! Frank’s headed this way! He’s got a shotgun!”
Peabody had not counted on this development, and was struck with panic. There was only the one door, and Frank was rapidly approaching it. Certain death was closing in, but for some inane reason, Peabody had only one thought: What would D’Artagnan do in such a situation? An idea took root. The obvious solution squatted near the doorway. That bizarre vehicle, the Honda. Yes, D’Artagnan would ride that modern-day steed to freedom.
Peabody raced over to it, hopped on, and spotted a set of keys dangling in the ignition. Bubba and Sally Ann retreated to the rear of the stable.
The door of the stable swung open, and there stood a mountain of a man. The shotgun in his hand looked like a child’s toy. Small mammals could have gotten lost in his beard. With his brow furrowed, Frank surveyed the stable. When he saw Sally Ann, his eyes seemed to glow with fire. “Sally Ann? Bubba? Either of you care to tell me what the hell’s going on out here?” He glared at Peabody. “Who the hell is this guy?”
Before the two dimwits could respond, Peabody said, “I’m Jay Gatsby, with the Agriculture Department, here to inspect your barn.”
Frank appeared momentarily perplexed. But suspicion quickly clouded his face once again. “And what exactly are you doing in my stable with my wife?”
“I’m sorry, that’s out of my jurisdiction,” Peabody responded. “However, I will need to take this vehicle for a test drive.” With that, he turned the key. Amazingly, the vehicle jumped to life.
“Now hold it right there!” Frank shouted over the engine noise. “You ain’t going nowhere!”
Peabody spoke loudly. “Just a quick trip around the property, sir. Bear with me. You are aware that the ozone output on these vehicles can’t exceed ‘E equals MC squared,’ aren’t you?”
“I... I don’t... what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Frank frowned and took a step forward. Peabody noticed that the man’s finger was tightening around the trigger of the shotgun.
“Don’t thank me, sir,” Peabody yelled back. “Just your tax dollars at work!” Peabody started pulling on various levers, stomping on various pedals…and the vehicle shot forward—directly at the wall of the stable.
With Frank shouting angrily, Peabody braced for the impact, then busted cleanly through dry cedar siding, and ducked low as the shotgun roared behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“How far back you wanna go?” Jose Sanchez asked over his shoulder. Sanchez was the branch manager of First County Bank in Johnson City. Marlin was standing behind Sanchez’s chair, both men eyeing the computer on the manager’s desk.
“I’m not sure,” Marlin said. “How about a year?”
“No problem. Why don’t we go back two, just to be sure?”
Marlin nodded. He had spent half an hour on the phone this morning, calling employees of various banks in Blanco County. It appeared that Bert Gammel did all of his banking at First County. It wasn’t much, though—only a single checking account. No savings account or CDs or any other type of deposit account.
The banker brought up Gammel’s most recent bank statement. There was remarkably little activity, mostly small checks written to pay utilities, plus a small mortgage note written to a bank in Austin. There were only two deposits, identical amounts transferred electronically from a county account.
“That’s his paycheck,” Sanchez said, anticipating Marlin’s question. “Direct deposit, twice a month.”
“Not much of a balance, really.”
The banker quickly navigated through several months of statements, none showing anything out of the ordinary.
“Can you tell me specifically what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asked.
“Just any large deposit, probably in cash, in the last year or so.” Marlin thought about the Ford Explorer Gammel had purchased with cash. A call to Kyle Parker, the owner of the car lot, had re
vealed that Gammel had purchased the car nine months ago. “Especially in the springtime,” Marlin added.
But the statements showed nothing. According to the paper trail, nothing unusual had happened to Gammel’s financial condition in the past two years. Just the same deposits made by the county like clockwork, the same checks written monthly to the same creditors.
Marlin was disappointed, but not really surprised, since Gammel seemed to have an affinity for carrying cash. He thanked Sanchez for his time and went outside to his truck. Next stop: a meeting with Maynard Clements, the county employee who worked most closely with Bert Gammel.
