by Rehder, Ben
So Marlin tried a favorite tactic of his own. He cuffed the kid and said, “Where are your keys?”
“My, uh…my keys?” The boy’s voice had a slight tremble to it.
“Yep.”
“In the ignition.”
“Hang loose. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Marlin climbed into the poacher’s truck and did a U-turn. He drove slowly, lowering it to a near crawl when he reached the vicinity where the shot had been fired. Sure enough, the other poacher—who by now had located the eight-point buck and dragged it closer to the road—saw his friend’s Chevy coming and emerged from the brush to wave him down. When Marlin pulled over, the kid swung the carcass into the bed of the truck and hopped in, failing to notice who was driving. He said, “My house, man!”
Marlin said, “You mind if we stop by the county jail first?”
The boy nearly pissed in his pants.
Back then, Marlin thought both boys had learned their lesson. Lately, though, he’d been hearing things about the kid who had done the shooting, and he suspected the delinquent-in-training was back at it again.
Moments earlier, sitting in his truck, Marlin had been thinking of making an unannounced visit to the ranch, just to let the boy know he was watching.
That’s when he heard it—a huge, quick boom, sounding like a cannon being fired in the Blanco town square. The resulting chatter over the radio told Marlin something big had just happened, but nobody seemed to know what.
Marlin cranked the engine, dropped it into gear, and bounced down onto the road. He cut the wheel to the right and floored it toward the small town of Blanco. As he headed east, it seemed every deputy in the county was on the air—but it was a full minute before anyone came through with an explanation. Deputy Ernie Turpin, his siren screaming in the background, said, “Dispatch, be advised we’ve got a house fire at the end of Heimer Lane. Flames out every window. This place is going up quick, y’all.”
Lucas Burnette was another local problem child, and had been since the age of fourteen. Now he was twenty years old and on a first-name basis with every cop in the county. The short version was, Lucas had a drug problem, and it dominated his life like a stack of overdue bills. His list of infractions was long. Breaking and entering. Possession of stolen goods. Possession of marijuana. Driving under the influence. Marlin had even busted him a couple of times for poaching.
Despite all of Lucas’s problems, most of the officers couldn’t help but like the kid. Not all that bright, but funny as hell, affable, easygoing. He’d make jokes at his own expense when you were arresting him, and then, riding in the cruiser, he’d ask, with sincerity, how your family was doing. He was respectful and courteous, and he never resisted. Lucas hadn’t seen state prison time yet, just county jail. Each time he was paroled, released to a halfway house in Austin, those who knew Lucas would hold their breath and cross their fingers. Grow up, kid! they’d think. Disappointment always followed. Lucas would do fine for a couple of months, working steadily, staying clean, keeping out of the system. Then one day he’d skip out—just walk away from his best chance at redemption. Invariably, he’d come back to Blanco County, an hour west of Austin, and lie low, enjoying his freedom until the deputies happened to cross his path and pick him up again.
This last time, though, it looked like he was finally shaping up. He’d been meeting the terms of his parole, including drug testing once a month. He’d been working full-time at the feed store, earning enough to move out of his parents’ place and make the rent on a small house on Heimer Lane.
The same house—Marlin realized as he arrived on the scene—that was currently on fire.
Ernie Turpin was right; the place was completely engulfed in flames, and the throng of emergency workers and curious onlookers was pushed back by the heat. Marlin knew there wouldn’t be any putting this inferno out, not until there was nothing left but the house’s charred skeleton. Regardless, Marlin spotted several firefighters in turnout gear dragging a hose from the only pumper truck on the scene. If nothing else, they could go defensive and knock down grass fires to protect the neighboring homes, the nearest of which was two hundred yards away.
Marlin parked behind a cluster of deputies’ cruisers, an ambulance, and a dozen volunteer firefighters’ vehicles. As he climbed from his truck, Marlin saw two deputies—Ernie Turpin and a new woman named Nicole Brooks—working traffic control, keeping a path clear for emergency vehicles. Ernie and Nicole working closely together—no surprise there. Marlin gave them a wave, signaling his intentions, and proceeded in a wide arc around the home. For fifteen minutes, he walked the perimeter of the property, five or six acres, working his flashlight, searching for victims—people who might have staggered from the house and then collapsed—or for evidence of what might have caused the explosion. He’d once seen a water heater with a faulty relief valve turn a garage into kindling. Gas leaks, too, were a major problem, so Marlin scanned the backyard to see if the house was fed by a propane tank. There wasn’t one, which was just as well. Now the only question was whether anybody had been trapped inside.
Coming around the front, Marlin spotted Senior Deputy Bill Tatum near the road, finishing a conversation with the fire chief. Marlin walked over.
“You bring the weenies?” Tatum asked, nodding toward the flames.
Marlin grinned. Somebody always broke down and used that corny line. “Any word on Lucas?”
“Nope. We called his friends, next of kin. Nobody knows where the hell he is.”
There wasn’t much to say to that. Now it was a waiting game, and the firefighters would give them their answer in a day or two when they sifted through the extinguished rubble.
“No cars,” Marlin said, noting the empty dirt driveway. There was no carport or garage. Lucas drove a crummy little import, and it was nowhere to be seen.
Marlin could barely stand the irony. It would be even more of a tragedy if Lucas had died right when he was getting his life straightened out.
Neither man spoke for several minutes, transfixed by the fire, listening to pine knots popping like fireworks, watching the firefighters do their job.
Tatum said, “I heard you took a trip up to Dallas last weekend.”
Sparks flew high as the west wall of the house buckled and collapsed inward.
“Just visiting an old friend,” Marlin said, as fat marbles of rain began to fall.
Senator Dylan Herzog was sitting in front of a rancher named Chuck Hamm, and he felt like a kid called to the principal’s office for shooting spitwads. Hamm was leaning back in a leather chair behind an obscenely large desk made from burnished walnut.
“You know it’s a goddamn impossibility, don’t you?” Hamm said.
Herzog nodded. He continued to stare at the calfskin rug on the floor. Sunday evening now, and his insides were still jelly. One phone call. Hard to believe that’s all it took to drop his life into a blender and hit PUREE. He’d been reluctant to take his troubles to Hamm, but Herzog hadn’t been able to think of any alternatives.
Hamm said, “Even if we did what he’s asking—and we damn sure ain’t—it wouldn’t make no difference anyhow. Didn’t this moron realize that?”
Herzog shook his head, noticing, of course, the rancher’s presumptuous use of “we” instead of “you.” “I tried to reason with him,” Herzog lied, “but he wouldn’t listen. You know how those guys are. Like rabid dogs.”
Hamm grunted, a sound that befitted his personality. “I mean even you—the all-powerful senator—you can’t do it all on your own. Didn’t you point that out?”
Herzog hated Hamm’s smug sarcasm. “I’m afraid this man couldn’t grasp the fundamentals of legislation.”
“And you got no idea who he is?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Someone you know, maybe? Someone you met already?”
“Could be, Chuck, I really don’t know. You have to understand, this fencing issue makes people angry as hell. I get letters, phone
calls, e-mails.”
“You think it was one of them?”
“I guess it’s a possibility, but the point is, there are plenty of people it could be. That’s what makes this such a difficult problem.”
“You didn’t get a number off your caller ID?”
Herzog shook his head. “Came through as unavailable.”
Hamm eyed Herzog over the rim of a bourbon glass. It made the senator squirm. Hamm was tall, like Herzog, but older and heavier. Most of the extra weight was stored in a belly that strained the lower buttons on Hamm’s shirts, but underneath the flab one could still recognize the hardened musculature of a rural working man. He had a weathered face, eyebrows that looked as if they might crawl off his forehead at any moment, and a square jaw that was just getting jowly. His skin was the color and texture of a pancake left too long on the griddle. “What’s he got on you?” Hamm asked.
Herzog sighed. “I told you already. Photographs.”
“Yeah, but of what? Snorting coke, pissing in public, what?”
Herzog desperately wanted to avoid this issue—but he knew he’d have to share the basic facts eventually. Otherwise, Hamm might not comprehend how dire the situation really was.
Hamm gave Herzog a skeptical look and said, “I’ve wondered about you, Herzog, to tell the truth. The way you dress, your aftershave, all that. Maybe you was chasing some tail in one a those special nightclubs in Austin?”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“I think you do.”
“No, Chuck, I really don’t.”
“Fine, then. Are you a fairy? That’s what I’m asking. Or maybe you swing both ways, like that governor up in New Jersey.”
Herzog rolled his eyes. It had been obvious to him for quite some time that Hamm had little, if any, respect for him. Just because Herzog didn’t get a little dirt under his fingernails now and then? Just because he didn’t have a farmer’s tan from repairing a fence on the back forty? Just because—yeehaw!—Herzog had never milked a cow? It was damned unfair. Herzog worked hard, too—hell, he exhausted himself—but he did it with brainpower, not mindless manual labor.
Herzog noticed that Hamm was waiting, indeed expecting an answer to the whole gay question. “Of course not,” he huffed.
“‘Cause that kinda scenario could fuck things up real bad,” Hamm said quietly, a grimace on his face, as if the room were suddenly swarming with prancing homosexuals. Hamm lifted one boot onto the desktop and stared at the ceiling, thinking. “Maybe it’s something you could, you know, just ride out. Hunker low in your saddle and see if it’ll pass. Hell, most folks aren’t even surprised by what you people do nowadays. Guy gets a bee-jay right in the Oval Office and what do we do? Elect his wife to the U.S. Senate, that’s what. Damn pitiful, if you ask me.”
Herzog wasn’t sure if he was supposed to comment or not, so he remained silent. He let his gaze roam upward to a Cape buffalo mounted high on the wall behind Hamm’s desk. Fierce-looking animal, with eyeballs that seemed to penetrate Herzog’s very soul. Underneath the ferocity, though, there appeared to be a touch of embarrassment on the animal’s part at finding itself displayed above a credenza that held a combination scanner/copier/fax machine.
Herzog realized Chuck Hamm had just said something. “Excuse me?”
“I said if I’m gonna help you out—and that’s an if at this point—you gotta give me some idea what we’re dealing with. The photos. It’s not like you robbed a liquor store or something, right?”
Herzog shook his head. If only it were something that respectable.
“Jeez, gimme a clue, here,” Hamm snorted, sitting up, losing his patience. “What ballpark we’re playing in, something like that.”
Herzog grasped for the right words. This was all so humiliating. Finally, he took a deep breath and just said it. “The photographs are of a sexual nature, but I’d rather not go into details.” He could feel his face flushing a deep red. But deep down, it felt good, unexpectedly good, to share his burden with someone. Even a troll like Hamm.
The rancher didn’t smirk or leer or make sophomoric comments, as Herzog expected, but rather seemed to be contemplating the implications. “Not your wife?” he asked.
“Uh, no.” It pained Herzog deeply to admit that to another human being.
Hamm nodded as if he understood completely. “Just one woman?”
Herzog emitted an exasperated breath. “Well, yeah, what else?” Jesus, what does this guy take me for?
Hamm grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Some guys, you know, they like a coupla gals at a time. You oughta try it.”
Herzog fought hard not to form a mental picture of Chuck Hamm in a threesome. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no, it was only one.” He was already revealing far more than he had intended to.
“And what? They caught you coming out of a hotel room? Playing a little grab-ass at her car door?”
Herzog closed his eyes and said, “It’s worse than that.”
Hamm laughed unexpectedly, a big booming rumble that made Herzog’s cheek twitch. “Shit, don’t tell me. Are you nekkid in the pictures, Herzog? Is that it?”
Nearly, Herzog thought. “I…I fail to see why that’s funny.”
Hamm continued in a merry chuckle, and Herzog was beginning to get angry.
Hamm said, “Hell, son, when you decided to have yourself a scandal, you dove in head first, huh? Just went straight for the big leagues.”
Herzog was not amused. If I ever get out of this, he swore to himself, I’ll never again do business with a man like Chuck Hamm. I don’t care how large his campaign contributions are.
The rancher finally regained his composure. “Tell me this. Was she a hooker?”
Now Herzog had to wonder if Hamm was merely having a little fun at his expense. “No, she was not a prostitute.”
“Porn star? Titty dancer?”
Herzog refused to dignify that line of questioning with an answer.
A look of sudden panic creased Hamm’s leathery face, and he set his bourbon glass down deliberately. “For fuck’s sake, we are talking about a white woman, ain’t we?”
Herzog wanted to lecture Hamm on the racist undertones of that remark, but he simply nodded instead.
“Well, Christ, why’re you getting so damn uptight?” Hamm asked. “She sounds like a perfect angel.”
3
THERE’S AN OLD saying in Texas: If you don’t like the weather, just hang around a few minutes; it’ll change. And while Texas weather is notorious for its unpredictability, the natives know that its sheer intensity is a force to be reckoned with, as well.
The infamous Galveston hurricane of 1900 decimated the island and took with it more than eight thousand lives—the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history. Texas is plagued by more tornadoes than any other state, and in one year alone, 1967, suffered through 232, more than half of those coming in a single month. In the early fifties, the state was gripped by a drought so severe and unrelenting, most of Texas was classified as a disaster area. When it finally ended, the pendulum swung wildly in the other direction and the rains came hard.
Tucked between the state’s coastal plains and the southern rim of the Edwards Plateau is the Hill Country, with its limestone and granite peaks, box canyons, and spring-fed rivers and creeks. The area includes Blanco County, and all of it is prone to flash flooding, more so in the springtime than other times of the year.
So when John Marlin woke in the middle of the night to the heavy roar of rain on his metal roof, he was naturally concerned. It had been pouring all evening—which had been a boon to the firefighters at Lucas Burnette’s house—but now it was really coming down. The kind of storm that can quickly swell waterways to three or four times their normal width.
Marlin’s dog, Geist, a pit bull who was terrified of thunderstorms, had sought refuge under the bed hours ago. Marlin could hear her panting nervously.
Marlin flipped his bedroom TV to the weather radar channel and sa
w a massive storm stretching from Waco to Uvalde, shaped like a boomerang as it struggled to move eastward. The problem was, this damn storm was lingering in place, rebuilding upon itself. For Marlin, this was cause for alarm.
In addition to enforcing hunting and fishing laws, game wardens are often tasked with leading water-rescue and victim-recovery operations on Texas lakes and waterways.
And Marlin had been on the job long enough to know: The water would rise, and somewhere in the county, for some reason, some half-wit would try to drive through it.
“Think we oughta chance it?” Red O’Brien asked, staring through the windshield of his old Ford truck. The wipers were having a tough time keeping up with the amount of rain coming down. Hell, his headlights could hardly penetrate the curtain of water.
His longtime friend and poaching partner, Billy Don Craddock, gave him a look. “You plumb outta your mind? This ain’t no submarine you’re driving. The road’s gotta be four feet under.”
That’s about what Red had expected. Billy Don was a huge, scary-looking ol’ boy, but he had no gumption at all. Never willing to take risks.
“I’ll just back it up and get a running start,” Red offered. “We’ll scoot across like we’re on damn water skis.”
“Yeah, water skis made from two tons of steel.”
Red tried to reason with him. “Planes weigh a bunch, too, but they can fly, can’t they? Hell, the principle’s the same here. There’s all kinds of complicated formulas and variances involved, but I’m telling you, it would work. I saw something just like it in Popular Mechanics.”
“Include me out.”
At this point, Red was thinking he ought to leave Billy Don behind to fend for himself. “You know what’s gonna happen if we get caught again?” he asked.
Billy Don didn’t answer.
“Do ya?” Red repeated.
“No, what?”
Red snorted. “Well, now, I ain’t exactly sure, but it won’t be pretty, I’ll tell ya that much.”
