by Rehder, Ben
Now Ernie Turpin spoke again. “We also found a bunch of vials in various places around the house. Most of ‘em empty, but some of them filled with meth. Totaled about three grams.
“Then there’s this,” Turpin added, opening a manila folder, placing several documents on the table. “According to these, Scofield was several months behind on his car payment and his mortgage, and he owed… let’s see…forty-seven grand in credit card bills. A big chunk of that went to Lone Star Fencing.”
“Jack Chambers,” Marlin said. “The high fence.”
Garza made a noise of frustration and said, “All of this supports everything David Pritchard told us. Young girls, drug and money problems, et cetera.”
“And then there was the one thing we couldn’t find,” Turpin added. “A safe. Pritchard said Scofield had a safe, right?”
Marlin said, “Maybe it’s at his office.”
“He works from home,” Turpin said. “No, all we can figure is that it was a pretty small safe. Something portable.”
Nobody had anything to add, so Brooks switched gears.
“There were a lot of tire tracks in and out of there,” she said. “Most were washed out pretty bad from the rain, but there were a couple of decent patches, so we went ahead and casted them. Might give us a clue if the Corvette was driven recently.”
“Okay,” Marlin said slowly, “where does this all leave us?” He had the feeling the group had reached a conclusion before he came in.
Garza said, “We’ve been bouncing all kinds of theories around, but I don’t think we’re in danger of figuring it out in the next few minutes. Bottom line is, I think the chances are slim we’re gonna find Vance Scofield in the river. Let me ask you something, John. What does your gut tell you? What are the odds Scofield’s still out there—or Stephanie Waring, for that matter—if one of them was in the SUV?”
“That’s a tough one. If there is a body, yeah, I’d normally expect it to be found by now. But it could be miles downstream.”
“You think it is?”
“I just don’t know. All I’d be doing is guessing.”
Garza laughed. “That’s what we’re all doing at this point.”
Bill Tatum, silent until this point, said, “Let’s all remember, we’re dealing with a druggie. Who knows what went on? I can picture a scene where Scofield is high as a kite and says, ‘Screw it, my life is a shambles, I might as well take off on a big ol’ road trip.’”
Marlin said, “Maybe so, but I’m still having trouble with the Explorer in the river. I mean, it had to get there somehow.”
Tatum said, “Maybe he put it there himself, thinking it would keep everybody off his back for a while. Hell, maybe it’s his idea of a practical joke.”
“But if the river was already high, how does he get the Corvette across?”
Tatum opened his mouth, then closed it.
Garza said, “Guys, we might be making this too complicated. It could’ve been some kids on that side of the river going for a joy ride. You gotta drive right through Mucho Loco to get to Scofield’s ranch, and you know there are plenty of punks around there who might pull that sort of thing. This is all guesswork anyway. We’re working in the dark, really, until we can find Scofield. Or Stephanie.”
With the mention of the girl’s name, Marlin picked up her photo again, wondering. Something so familiar. Then he had it, like suddenly remembering a hard-to-place tune. He hadn’t recognized her at first, because the one time he had met her, she had barely been a teenager. “Y’all aren’t gonna believe this,” he said. He looked up at Garza and the deputies. “Do you realize it was Stephanie Waring’s stepfather who died in the flood five years ago?”
Judging from the startled looks on the faces around him, Marlin knew they hadn’t made that connection.
“You’re kidding. The guy that ended up in Lake Travis?” Garza asked.
“Yeah, that’s him. Doyle Metzger. In fact, his truck went in at the same crossing as Scofield’s SUV.”
“Oh, come on,” Bill Tatum said. “What are the odds of that? We’re being played.”
“If I remember right,” Marlin said, “the Metzgers lived over in Mucho Loco.”
“And now Stephanie Waring is missing,” Tatum said. “Hell of a lot of coincidences here.”
“See, you’re just a natural part of the team,” Garza said to Marlin, smiling. It was a running joke between the two of them. Garza, on several occasions, had tried to persuade Marlin to join the sheriff’s department. But the way Marlin saw it, as a game warden, he had the best of both worlds.
Marlin shrugged at Garza. “Lucky.”
“Well, let’s keep after it. I think we need to have a face-to-face with Stephanie’s mother.”
8
RED WAS IN the Friendly Bar with Billy Don, drinking a cold one, thinking about what Jack Chambers had said that morning.
When it got right down to it, Red didn’t really know where his three-year-old marriage to Loretta stood. Were they still married? He hadn’t heard from her since the day she left, and he hadn’t ever received any legal papers saying it was over. But then again, was their marriage even really legal? He thought so, and he still had the marriage license tucked away somewhere. Yeah, okay, Loretta had apparently married Billy Don before she married Red—without a divorce in between, if you wanted to get all technical. But did that mean the touching ceremony he had shared with Loretta, performed by the best dadgum Elvis impersonator in all of Las Vegas, wasn’t legit? If that was the case, he’d just as soon go home and burn the secondhand leisure suit he’d bought for the occasion, because he’d never get married again. He just couldn’t stand the heartbreak.
Back then, he’d been so happy that he’d finally found a woman who liked all the same things he liked—pro wrestling, pork rinds, welding, and all kinds of other neat shit. He should’ve known it was too good to last.
Sylvia, the bartender, came over to ask if they wanted another round. Red nodded that yeah, they did. Sylvia was wearing a low-cut top today, but Red was too preoccupied to even comment.
Loretta was a prize, and he knew that. No, she wasn’t good-looking in the traditional sense. That skin condition of hers was a little distracting, and so was the lazy eye. But she had a sturdy, reliable look about her, like the kind of woman you might find working at a diner in a coal-mining town. Or behind the counter at a bait shop.
So the question was, what would Red do if it was true, that Loretta was actually back in town? There was Billy Don to consider. The big man had feelings, too, Red knew that much. He’d even seen a few tears leak from Billy Don’s eyes during a rerun of The Waltons just last week. And now that Billy Don was Red’s best friend, there was loyalty and all that bullshit to think about. Plus, he sure didn’t want another brawl on his hands, like the one they’d had the first time they’d met. It happened when Billy Don tracked Loretta down at Red’s trailer. They were both laying claim to her, one thing led to another, and the next thing Red knew, they were going at it like two yard dogs fighting over a dead squirrel. That’s when tires squealed and Loretta took off in Billy Don’s car, never to be seen again. The memories made Red choke up a little, and that Ray Price song in the background wasn’t helping.
“What’re you thinking about?” Billy Don asked.
“Truck needs a tune-up,” Red said.
To Marlin, the words “prom queen” brought to mind visions of a beautiful girl from a nice middle-class family. And yes, Nicole Brooks was right, Stephanie Waring had the first part covered. But as they approached the Metzger residence, it became apparent that the home where Stephanie had been raised didn’t quite deliver on the second part of that equation.
Riding in the backseat of Bobby Garza’s cruiser, behind Bill Tatum in the passenger seat, Marlin saw that Stephanie’s mother—Rita Sue Metzger—lived in an aging mobile home surrounded by brush that needed to be cleared. The front lawn, mostly weeds and native grasses, was bathed by a pair of floodlights bolted above t
he front door. To the side of the house was a rusting metal shed, with an equally unsightly truck parked in front of it.
There were three steps up to a covered plywood porch that groaned under the weight of the three men as they knocked on the door. On the porch was a large freezer, and on top of the freezer, a basket of wet laundry that, judging from the smell, had soured. An empty clothesline stretched from an eyebolt in a porch post to an oak tree in the yard. Next to the freezer was a tattered recliner, a small-block engine resting on some newspaper, half a dozen milk crates filled with mason jars, several cans of paint, and other assorted junk.
Then there was the lady of the house. Marlin, having met her before, was prepared for the sight of Rita Sue Metzger. But apparently Bobby Garza was not, because the sheriff actually moved back about a half step when Rita Sue opened the door. She was easily six feet tall and well over two hundred pounds—but she wasn’t specifically fat, merely big-boned and thick all over. When Marlin had met her five years ago, she had been a large and imposing woman, but she had bulked up even more since then. Rita Sue was wearing thick-lensed eyeglasses, slippers, and a smudged blue housecoat, and she held a trembling Chihuahua in her arms.
“Oh, y’all come on in,” Rita Sue said, swinging the door open as if they were next-door neighbors coming over for dinner. “I got some coffee going, if y’all want any.”
The three men stepped inside, wiping their feet on a mat, but the multicolored shag carpeting had seen plenty of muddy boots in its time. The house smelled of dog urine and milk that had turned.
“Ma’am, I’m Sheriff Bobby Garza, this is Sergeant Bill Tatum, and I believe you’ve met John Marlin.”
Rita Sue gave Marlin a long squint. “You’re the game warden, right? The one that fished Doyle out?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that was you. Been a long time, but I ‘member it.” She plopped the Chihuahua onto the floor, and it instantly bounded onto a nearby easy chair, then sat eyeing the men suspiciously.
If Marlin were to estimate Rita Sue’s age, he’d put it in the early sixties, meaning Stephanie had come along fairly late. Marlin seemed to remember that Stephanie had two or three brothers, all much older, who had driven in from various parts of Texas to help in the search for Doyle Metzger five years ago.
Rita Sue bustled her way into the kitchen without asking who wanted what, then came back a minute later with a tray holding four cups of black coffee. The men thanked her, didn’t ask for cream or sugar, and had a seat on a stained sectional sofa.
Rita Sue lowered her massive rear end into the easy chair, the Chihuahua scrambling to get out of the way, and said, “I sure hope Stephanie ain’t giving y’all any trouble. Lord knows she’s good at it.”
“No, ma’am,” Garza said. “It’s just that we really need to verify her whereabouts.” He outlined all that had unfolded, beginning with the discovery of Vance Scofield’s SUV. When Garza was finished—after making it clear that it was possible that Stephanie had either drowned or run off with a drug-using financially bankrupt older man—Rita Sue hardly seemed fazed.
Her first question was, “Who’s this Scofield fella?”
“You don’t know him?”
“Heard about him yesterday in the news, but Stephanie never said nothing about him.”
“Like I said, we’re under the impression they’ve been dating.”
Rita Sue frowned, running a massive hand over the dog’s tiny head. Marlin noticed a can of Copenhagen on the TV stand next to the easy chair, and he realized that Rita Sue had a boyfriend. He figured there was somebody out there for everyone. She said, “Could be. Of course, my Stephanie, looking the way she does, she always has a lot of boys after her. Kinda hard to keep track of ‘em.”
“She, uh, dated a lot of men?” Garza asked.
“Always did, even during high school. But she’s living away from home now, so I don’t hear much about it. Have you checked her duplex? Them ones off Lady Bird Lane in Johnson City?”
“Yes, ma’am, a deputy stopped by and left a note. We were wondering—could you let us in to have a look around her place?”
“I sure enough would if I had a key.” She shook her head. “I hate to see y’all going to all this trouble. Steph is liable to be anywhere. Maybe off on a camping trip, or down at the beach this time of year.”
Marlin said, “She’d just take off like that? Without telling you?”
Rita Sue chuckled, and Marlin could see dark strands of wayward snuff between her front teeth. No boy friend after all. “Oh, heavens, yes,” she said. “That girl’s a handful, I’m tellin’ ya. Got fired from her last job ‘cause she took off for Vegas, no word to nobody.”
“Do you know who she went with?” Garza asked.
“To Vegas?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I believe it was a girlfriend from work. I hadn’t ever met the gal, so I cain’t remember the name.”
Marlin asked, “Was Stephanie friends with Lucas Burnette?” He’d been thinking about Lucas a lot lately. Another mystery, the third day now with no sign of the kid whatsoever. To Marlin, the odds seemed slim that Lucas and Vance Scofield could vanish from sparsely populated Blanco County just hours apart without the cases being somehow tied together. The deputies had already checked for a connection between the two men—after all, Lucas might’ve been running a speed lab, and Scofield looked to be a user—but they hadn’t found anything. No phone calls from Scofield to Lucas. No friends or relatives saying they knew one another. Marlin was hoping Stephanie would be the link between Lucas and Scofield.
But Rita Sue seemed surprised by the question. “The boy from the feed store?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I imagine they know each other from school. He was a year ahead of Steph, I believe.”
“But they didn’t see each other on a social basis?”
“Uh-uh. He’s a sweet boy, though. Always carries my chicken feed out for me. A shame to hear about that fire. I sure hope he’s all right.”
Garza said, “We’ve left voicemails for Stephanie. Do you know if she carries her cell phone?”
“You know how those things are. Half the time you cain’t reach nobody, or you cain’t hear each other talking. Pieces of junk, if you ask me.”
“But does she carry it most of the time?”
“Far as I know. Most of them kids do, right? You see ‘em all over the place gabbing on them. Driving. In the malls. Plain rude sometimes.”
Marlin could see that this interview was getting them nowhere. He wondered if Garza would explore the fact that Scofield had disappeared in the same manner as Rita Sue’s husband. But the sheriff simply asked a few more questions. When was the last time you talked to Stephanie? Who are her closest friends? Can you name anyone she was dating recently? Nothing useful came from any of it.
Ernie Turpin and Nicole Brooks had stayed behind at the office to take care of a few things, including calling David Pritchard. Brooks got him on the phone and asked if he knew Stephanie Waring.
“Yeah, she’s another one of the car models. I met her at the fairgrounds in April. The chili cook-off. We were selling tickets there. Well, she and Vance were.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Like, in general terms?”
“Sure.”
“Very pretty girl. Kinda wild, I think. Kept asking me to buy her a beer.”
“Did you?”
“No, she’s underage.”
“You said Vance Scofield was there?”
“Yeah, he drove her over in the Corvette. I just stopped by to see how things were going. A friend of mine was in the chili contest. Got second place.”
“Do you know if Vance and Stephanie were dating?”
Pritchard laughed. “Like I told the sheriff, Vance did like to date them kind of young. But to answer your question, I don’t know for sure. I guess you should ask her.”
“We would, but we’re having some tr
ouble tracking her down.”
“Oh. Oh. Okay, I see why you’re asking. You’re thinking Vance and Stephanie might be together.”
“It crossed our minds. Or that Stephanie might be in possession of the Corvette.”
“I don’t think so. At least not alone. Stephanie couldn’t drive a stick.”
“The Corvette is—”
“Yeah, one of those six-speed models. I remember Vance asking if she wanted to drive it around the parking lot, sort of stir up some interest, but she couldn’t handle the stick shift.”
Buford liked the look of the Best Western motel in Johnson City. Big enough, with enough vehicles in the parking lot that they could keep a low profile. They were in the room now, queen beds, Buford leaning back against the headboard, boots off, sipping bourbon from one of those sorry foam cups you find wrapped in plastic next to the sink. At least the ice machine worked.
Little Joe was sunk into a chair over by the air conditioner, drinking straight from the bottle. Buford knew the quart would be half gone before Joe’s eyelids would begin to sag. The little guy was the most wired-up man Buford had ever met, not counting druggies. Boy couldn’t hardly ever sit still. Always tapping a toe, drumming on the dashboard, something. Feisty as hell. Prone to violence.
Buford had met Joe a couple years ago in the city lockup in Fort Worth, them sharing a cell overnight.
“What’d they get you for?” Joe had asked him right from the get-go, sitting on one of the bunks, jiggling a leg.
“Stopped me for speeding and tossed my car. Bullshit search, but they found a gun.”
“All right.” Joe grinned, apparently liking what he heard. “Me, it’s assault. I was selling dogs to this Korean guy with a restaurant. I went out to see him and—”
“Whoa. Back up a sec.” Buford had been leaning against the wall, lighting a smoke, not paying much attention, but that caught his ear.
“What?”
“Selling dogs?”
“Yeah, just strays I’d round up. I’d take ‘em to his house.” Joe said it like it was no big deal. Like delivering pizzas.
