Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip

by Rehder, Ben

  “Sweetie, if you did, just tell Mommy so—”

  “I said no!”

  Donnelle took a deep breath. Her mother was watching the whole spectacle, shaking her head. They’d had some serious debates over the whole discipline issue.

  “I wish you wouldn’t use that tone of voice, honey,” Donnelle said. “Haven’t we talked about that?”

  No reply.

  “Mommy doesn’t like it when you yell like that.”

  Still no reply

  Donnelle worried at times that she was too lax with Britney, especially since Bubba moved out. Her daughter was going through a stage—Donnelle expected her to sprout horns and a tail any day now—and she wondered if the pending divorce was the cause of it. Like the episode with the panties last week. Britney had gotten angry because her mother wouldn’t let her stay up late, so she had flushed a pair of Donnelle’s red bikinis down the toilet. Clogged the pipes and made a big mess.

  “What’s missing now?” her mother asked.

  “Pair of leopard-print panties.”

  That earned her nothing but a cocked eyebrow.

  “Now don’t you start, Mama. I haven’t got time for it.”

  She turned her attention back to Britney. “Sugar, I know you like to dress up like a big girl, but you need to stay out of Mommy’s things, okay?”

  Like talking to a brick wall. Or Bubba. Donnelle had read some magazines, and she knew that little girls tended to “assert their independence” more when they had an audience. That’s why Britney was ignoring her. Because she was showing off for her grandma.

  “If you want to be treated like a big girl,” Donnelle said, “you need to act like one. Now tell me where you put—”

  That’s when Britney dug her spoon deep into the applesauce and flung it at Donnelle. A thick gooey wad caught her right in the cheek, ruining her makeup.

  Britney giggled and began to roll on the floor.

  Mama said, “I’d give her a good swat for that, if I was you.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Donnelle wanted to cry.

  She never did find her panties.

  John Marlin returned to the sheriff’s department in the early evening, ready to take care of a few things in his office and then head home.

  As soon as he stepped through the glass door, Darrell said, “Phil Colby was just here. Somebody took some shots at him.”

  Marlin stopped in his tracks. “Do what?”

  “Yeah, he came riding up on an ATV. Busted in here hollering about someone shooting up his house and his truck. Said he fired back and thinks he hit somebody. He found blood.”

  “But Colby’s okay?”

  “Madder’n hell, but yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you radio me?” Marlin snapped.

  “I was about to.”

  “Where is everybody now?”

  “They all just left.”

  “Where to?”

  “Back to Colby’s place.”

  Darrell kept talking, coming around the counter, but Marlin didn’t hear much of it as he busted through the doors and hopped back into his truck.

  They were back in the motel room now, and Little Joe said for the tenth time, “I never even felt it. Never felt the damn thing.”

  “That’s how it works sometimes,” Buford said, though he didn’t have any firsthand knowledge of that himself.

  Joe was tough, he’d proven that much. When he’d pulled his shirt off in the Caddy, they’d both seen a small hole low on his gut, on the right side, about six inches over from his belly button. A couple more inches and the bullet would’ve missed entirely. Of course, a couple more inches upward, through the lung or the liver, and Joe’d be lying dead on Colby’s ranch.

  The exit wound wasn’t quite so tidy—ragged, ugly, about the size of a quarter—and it had Buford concerned.

  “Think I need a doctor?” Joe asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

  “It’s not bleeding much,” Buford pointed out. Yeah, but it could be bleeding bad inside, he thought. “Let’s just wait and see.” He’d never say it out loud, but Buford couldn’t take Joe to a hospital. Not with a gunshot wound. That kind of thing meant an automatic call to the cops.

  “Let’s just get a bandage on it,” Buford said, trying to sound upbeat. “Looks like it went clean through without hitting anything major. Day or two and you’ll be good as new.”

  Joe didn’t look so sure.

  When Marlin arrived at Colby’s place, just before sundown, he wondered if he’d find a scene reminiscent of the OK Corral. But all he saw was Nicole Brooks, alone, stringing yellow crime-scene tape around Phil’s truck and the empty trailer behind it. The other deputies and Colby were nowhere to be seen.

  Brooks gestured west, toward the brush line and the orange-bottomed clouds on the horizon. “He’s showing Ernie and Bill where he found the blood. A rifle, too, laying in the cedars. But it probably won’t do much good, since Colby says it’s one of his own.”

  “Where’s Garza?”

  “He went home earlier today. His kid’s still pretty sick, and I think he was pretty out of it, too.”

  Marlin nodded. “Any idea what happened?”

  She wrapped the tape around a small oak tree, then tied it fast. “Guess we don’t really need tape out here,” she said, “but maybe it’ll keep the cattle away.” She smiled at Marlin, and he tried to smile back, feeling a bit awkward about it.

  Brooks continued, “Colby says he loaded some cows around four o’clock, then stopped at the house before leaving town. He found a note taped to his front door. We’ve got it bagged, but I can tell you what it says: ‘Back off.’”

  “Back off?”

  “Yep. That’s all. And darn the luck, whoever left it forgot to sign his name. So Colby’s standing at the door, wondering what the note means, when a shot takes out the glass window in the door. He ducks inside and grabs a rifle of his own.”

  “Why didn’t he call it in?” Marlin asked. He hoped there was a good reason, because he could too easily picture Phil trying to handle the situation himself.

  “Says the phone wasn’t working, and it wasn’t, because somebody had opened the box on the side of the house and unplugged the line. So Colby sets up in the bedroom, watching out the window. After about twenty minutes, the shooter takes out his tires. Colby’s watching, and he sees movement out in the trees, so he returns fire. Says he shot something like fourteen times. He had to reload in between.”

  Fourteen times?

  “I don’t blame him,” Marlin said.

  Brooks had a noncommittal expression on her face. “No. No, I don’t, either. Then he waited another hour, hoping somebody might’ve heard all the shots and called it in. Guess nobody did. So he starts holding up a baseball hat in front of the window, seeing if the guy’ll take a shot at it. Keeps doing that off and on at different windows, and finally decides the guy’s gone. Waits another thirty minutes, just to be safe, then goes outside and has a look around.”

  “But the shooter’s long gone.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What about the rifle he found? You said it was one of his?”

  “Yeah, someone busted into his gun case. The front door was unlocked. Used Colby’s own weapon to shoot at him. At least, that’s what it looks like.”

  “Tell me he didn’t touch it.”

  “Nope, left it where it was.”

  The sun had dropped well below the horizon now, and darkness was setting in. Marlin thought he saw a flashlight through the trees. He decided to wait for Colby and the deputies to return, rather than walking out to them, because he didn’t want to compromise the scene they were working. He faced Brooks. “You need any help with anything?”

  “I was about to see if I could round up one of these slugs,” she said, nodding toward the two flat tires. “Then we’re gonna dust his house. You mind starting on the telephone box? See if they might’ve left some prints?”

  “Not at all. I’ll get after i
t.” He turned to retrieve his evidence kit from his truck, but stopped after a few steps. He faced Brooks again. “Listen, about our conversation yesterday—”

  “My overactive imagination,” Brooks said. “I shouldn’t have even said anything.”

  He nodded. “I just don’t want you to have the wrong idea.”

  She gave him a quizzical look. “Yeah, okay.”

  They both heard footsteps approaching. Phil Colby, alone. Even in the twilight, Marlin could tell from the set of his best friend’s jaw that Colby still hadn’t completely calmed down.

  “You believe this shit?” Colby asked, looking at Marlin. “You’ve heard the whole story?”

  “The basics, yeah. You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Goddamn lucky is what I am.”

  Marlin looked back at Brooks, just a dim figure in the dark now, but she had removed her flashlight and was crawling under Colby’s truck to look for lead.

  “I found two drops of blood, John,” Colby said. “Not much, but they’re looking for more. Whoever it was, I hit him.”

  “This is crazy,” Colby said. He’d been oddly quiet so far. He was holding a flashlight while Marlin dusted the telephone box on the side of the house. The area surrounding the box was cedar planking, and the rough texture of the wood wouldn’t hold any collectible prints.

  “You get a look at the guy?” Marlin asked.

  “Not really. Jesus. All I saw was a guy in camo running through the brush.” Colby was too agitated to stand still, and he was doing a poor job holding the light steady. “It’s one of those high-fencers, that’s my guess.”

  Marlin didn’t respond. He wasn’t having any luck finding prints. He hadn’t expected to.

  Colby said, “What’s the name of that hunting club Scofield belonged to? The Wallhangers or some crap like that? None of those guys like me, that’s for sure.”

  Marlin still didn’t reply

  “But shooting at me—that’s completely out of line, don’t you think?”

  “Of course it is. But we don’t know who it was yet.”

  “I feel like driving my truck through every high fence in the county. Just tear the shit out of them.”

  Marlin shook his head. “You gotta remember, Phil, they have a right to build those fences. You keep harassing them about it and you won’t do anything but get yourself in trouble. You lost the court case, remember?”

  “Hell yes, I remember,” Colby said, raising his voice. “You don’t have to remind me. But this…I can’t even tell you how pissed I am. That first shot missed me by inches.”

  Marlin finished with the telephone box, finding nothing.

  “You’re not saying much,” Colby muttered.

  Marlin took a breath, his cheeks getting hot. “I’m working the case, Phil. Just take it easy and let us do our jobs.”

  He walked around the house toward his truck, leaving Colby standing in the dark.

  An hour later, things had changed dramatically, and Marlin was confused. He was sitting in his truck, simply waiting, when Bobby Garza arrived. The sheriff parked his car and climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

  “You feeling all right?” Marlin asked.

  “A little rough around the edges, but I’ll be okay.”

  “How’s your boy?”

  “I think he’s about over it. Where is everybody?”

  “In the house, looking for prints.”

  “Colby?”

  “Still talking to Bill. Going through the whole story again, I think. I’m not real sure, to be honest, because when I started to go inside, Bill said it might be better if I waited out here for you.” It was that one small request by the senior deputy that had set off alarm bells for Marlin. Something critical had happened, but he didn’t know what. He was being left out of the loop. He tried to gauge the sheriff’s expression, but it was difficult in the dim light.

  “What’s going on, Bobby?”

  Garza took too long to answer. “I called Bill on his cell phone and told him you probably shouldn’t work the case. Colby is your best friend.”

  “Yeah? How does that impact on this? We’re not investigating Phil, we’re looking for—”

  “He’s a suspect, John. At the moment, anyway.”

  “A suspect in what?” Somehow Marlin knew what was coming.

  “Travis County just called me thirty minutes ago. Vance Scofield didn’t die in the flood. He was dead before he went in the water.”

  17

  BUFORD WAS SLEEPING hard when his cell phone rang. He sat up, fumbling for the phone on the nightstand, answering before it went to voicemail. “Yeah?”

  “What in the hell are you doing?” a voice growled on the other end.

  Here we go, he thought.

  “Uncle Chuck. Damn. What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty in the morning, son. Rise and shine and answer one fucking question for me: Have you put a name to this blackmailer yet?”

  “Yes, sir,” Buford said proudly. “That part was easy. Guy’s name is—”

  “Phil Colby.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “You know him?”

  “Hell yeah, I know him. He sued a guy I know about a high fence. Real pain in the balls.”

  “How was I supposed to know you knew him?”

  Uncle Chuck didn’t answer, and Buford knew he’d made his point.

  “Besides,” Buford said, “what difference would it have made? I still gotta go after the guy, right?”

  “Damn right you gotta go after him, but I don’t want another supreme fuckup like you got into last night. I heard all about it.”

  Buford had figured word would get around. Blanco County was a small place, tongues wagging every morning at the coffee shop. And with Uncle Chuck knowing who Phil Colby was, it must have been pretty easy to figure out what the shooting was all about.

  “Just puttin’ a scare into him,” Buford said, glancing over at Joe. Still sleeping. Something smelled bad. The room was stuffy and hot.

  “Don’t sound like it worked all that good,” Hamm said. “I hear he came after you loaded for bear. I’m thinking y’all mighta underestimated this guy. Word is, deputies found some blood. We got a problem?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I got it all under control.”

  The old man snorted. “I think you better run the whole mess past me. If this thing’s getting out of hand—”

  “No, sir, it ain’t. It’s all part of the plan.” And Buford explained what had happened so far. He told him how they had posed as hunters two days ago, and Little Joe had searched Colby’s house. Then he told him about yesterday—how they had started with reconnaissance in the morning, cruising Miller Creek Loop, looking for a place to stash the car. They’d pulled into an overgrown driveway and found a neglected hunting cabin way back in the trees. Later, in the afternoon, they parked behind the cabin and hiked onto Colby’s place, then they got into position and simply waited. Everything had gone smoothly—until Colby fired back.

  Buford could hear Uncle Chuck let out a small groan of impatience. “So you’re thinking—what?—he’ll freak out and turn the photos over?”

  “That pretty much sums it up.” Looking back on the plan now, Buford knew it made him and Little Joe sound like rank amateurs. Emphasis on the word “rank.” Damn, something smelled bad.

  Uncle Chuck took a long pause. “I’d say you boys screwed the pooch on this one.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll work something out. I always do.” Buford kept it short and to the point, not wanting to get into a discussion with his bullheaded uncle. He looked over at Joe again and saw that the bandage around his partner’s lower torso was soaked through with blood. Not a good sign.

  “He’ll be ready for you now,” his uncle said. “He knows we know who he is.”

  “Let me deal with it.” Buford didn’t want the old man nosing into all the specifics.

  “Well, keep me in th
e loop.”

  Little Joe’s color was way off.

  “You hear me?”

  “I hear you,” Buford said. “Just give it a little time.”

  Buford stood up in the small space between the two beds, looking down on Joe now. He pulled the covers back, and the smell got worse. The kind of odor that comes from bowels letting loose.

  “Here’s what you oughta do…” Uncle Chuck said, but Buford folded the phone, ending the call.

  He placed a hand against Joe’s cheek. Aw, Christ. Stone cold.

  Red woke up Friday morning feeling like a new man, with a hardy resolve to quit drinking completely. Then he decided, heck, there was no reason to go overboard, so he made a silent vow to cut back a whole bunch. Or if nothing else, he was going to keep a bottle of aspirin handy on his nightstand. Right about then, before Red could even shower, Lucy showed up fifteen minutes early. She was carrying a bag filled with all the fixings for Bloody Marys.

  “I kinda figured you didn’t have any horseradish,” she said, lining up all the ingredients on Red’s kitchen countertop. She’d marched right into the trailer, Red following behind in a T-shirt and a pair of dirty denim shorts.

  “You figured right,” he said, watching her work, running a hand through his matted hair, trying to make himself presentable.

  Lucy was looking as good today as she had on Wednesday night, wearing black sweatpants and a shirt with a picture of Jeff Gordon on it. Red judged her to be about five-seven, going about one-fifty. Perfect. He liked a woman he could hold on to.

  She opened a cabinet and found two plastic cups with the Austin Wranglers logo on them. She peered into the cups and made a face, then shrugged and placed them on the counter.

  “We’ll need three of those,” Red said.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Billy Don’s here already? I only saw one truck outside.”

  “He ain’t got a vehicle.”

  “You’re shitting me. How’d he get here?”

  “Well, uh, he kinda lives here. He’s still sleeping.”