Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip

by Rehder, Ben

  “How’s the beer in this place?” the man asked, and Lucas couldn’t imagine a more idiotic question. Worse, the man had a funny accent.

  “It’s, uh, cold.”

  Lucas hadn’t meant to be funny, but the man let out a hearty chuckle. Then he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Rob Norris.”

  Lucas reluctantly shook hands and said, “Luke.”

  Rob Norris ordered two beers, then jerked a thumb to his right. “Luke, this here’s my wife, Fiona.”

  Fiona leaned forward, looking past Rob, and said, “We’re from Wisconsin,” making it sound like an explanation for something.

  Lucas nodded and turned back to the bar.

  “Where are you from?” Fiona asked, refusing to let the conversation end.

  “Texas,” he said, without offering anything more.

  “Oh, really!” Fiona replied. “That’s funny because—”

  “My parents are in Texas right now!” Rob said.

  Fiona shook her head. “Traveling in an RV. Can you imagine?”

  “We talked to them this morning.”

  “They said it’s hot down there.”

  “And the people drive like maniacs!”

  Lucas gave them a weak smile.

  “Have you been to the gift shop next door yet?” Fiona asked, her eyes glowing with excitement.

  “It’s the first place we went!” Rob added.

  “Look at this key chain!” Fiona demanded. “Only five dollars!” Now she was emptying all kinds of crap from a paper bag. “We got a paperweight and a cigarette lighter—”

  “Of course, we don’t smoke,” Rob interjected.

  “And a snow globe and golf balls—”

  “Don’t play golf, either.”

  “But the deals were just too good to pass up!” Fiona gushed.

  “Great prices,” Rob agreed.

  “I’m doing all my Christmas shopping,” Fiona whispered. “Right here in Key West. Can you imagine?”

  “We’ll probably ship everything home.”

  “It’s worth it, though.”

  “But I don’t think your mother is going to like the shot glass, honey. She doesn’t drink.”

  “I know, Rob. That’s the joke!”

  Now they both chortled, their bellies jiggling under their shirts.

  “The beach towels were pretty, but they were too big to carry around all day,” Fiona confided.

  “We’ll buy them later,” Rob said. “Right before we leave.”

  They both smiled at Lucas, expecting him to add something to the banter.

  “Smart plan,” Lucas said.

  Fiona nodded, and as she opened her mouth again, Lucas felt an overwhelming urge to run from the bar screaming. But right then a smooth voice over an amplifier said, “Hello, folks, we’re the Sea Breezes.” Three men were onstage, preparing to play. “Thanks for joining us today. Well be playing until happy hour, but judging from all the empties on the tables, I’d say most of you are plenty happy already.”

  A few people whooped, and someone raised a beer mug in salute.

  “Do we have any Jimmy Buffett fans here?” the cheesy guy with the microphone asked, and of course most of the customers applauded with enthusiasm, including Rob and Fiona. So the Sea Breezes launched into a nearly unrecognizable version of “Margaritaville.”

  Thank God, Lucas thought. Finally these two bumpkins will shut up.

  “It’s our ten-year anniversary!” Rob shouted over the synthesized sounds of a steel drum.

  “We’re here to celebrate!” Fiona proclaimed.

  “I grew my beard just for the trip,” Rob said, rubbing his furry jaw.

  “On account of Ernest Hemingway used to live here,” Fiona hollered.

  “They have a look-alike contest in July,” Rob pointed out. “Maybe I’ll come back and try to win it.”

  Sorry, dude, Lucas thought. Your wife looks more like Hemingway than you do.

  “First prize is two plane tickets!” Fiona screeched.

  “Not bad for sitting on your butt all day drinking beer!” Rob said.

  It went on like that for several more minutes until the band finished the first number and proceeded to butcher the opening chords of “Open Arms” by Journey.

  The couple suddenly went quiet, and Lucas couldn’t help but risk a glance at them. Fiona was beseeching Rob with her eyes. “Oh, Rob. It’s our song,” she said.

  To Lucas’s amazement, the couple stood and began to dance—even though there wasn’t a dance floor. They held each other close and began to weave slowly among the tables, as graceful as two bull elephants, banging into tables, knocking over one customer’s piña colada in a top-heavy souvenir glass. Some patrons cheered; others yelled for them to take it outside.

  Lucas recognized his opportunity, and he waved at Mike, the bartender.

  “Ready for another?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Mike brought a second draft, and Lucas dropped a ten onto the bar, saying, “Keep the change.”

  “Hey, thanks, buddy. I appreciate it.”

  “Listen,” Lucas said, “I lost my driver’s license.”

  The bartender waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. You look twenty-one.”

  “No, what I’m saying is, I need to get another one. I’m looking for a place to get another ID. Can you help me out?” Lucas had practiced the wording to get it just right, to make his point without flat-out saying he was looking for false identification. But Mike was confused. And now another customer was calling from down the bar, so Mike held up a finger in a give-me-a-minute gesture and scooted away.

  By the time Mike had come back, so had Rob and Fiona. Mike said to Lucas, “So what’s the deal? You need a new ID?”

  Rob and Fiona were cooing at each other, not paying attention to Lucas, so he quietly said, “You know where I can get one?”

  Mike said, “You mean, like, a real ID?”

  Now Rob was swiveling around, taking a drink from his beer, and Lucas was getting nervous about the whole situation. You don’t just let complete strangers know you’re looking for phony papers. “Yeah,” Lucas said, abandoning the plan. “You know where I’d go to replace my driver’s license?”

  Mike shook his head. “Sorry, man. I just moved here three months ago.”

  “You lost your ID?” Rob asked.

  “I lost my ID once,” Fiona said. “A real hassle.”

  “Took months to straighten it all out,” Rob groaned.

  “But I ended up with a better picture!” Fiona said cheerily.

  Colby no longer had possession of his truck, so Marlin drove south on Avenue F and spotted him walking past the parking lot at the electric cooperative. He pulled up next to him and said, “Want a ride?”

  Colby glared at him. “You were watching all that shit, weren’t you?”

  Marlin shrugged. “I had no idea what was going to happen.”

  Colby looked at him with suspicion.

  “Really,” Marlin said.

  Colby shook his head.

  “Garza doesn’t want me working the case,” Marlin said. “I probably shouldn’t even be talking to you.” A truck pulled up from behind, and Marlin waved him around. “Look, just climb in, will you?”

  After a few seconds, Colby opened the door and settled into the passenger seat. Marlin hit the gas and headed toward Miller Creek Loop.

  The crisp spring air whipped through the open windows of the truck as both men rode in silence.

  Colby finally said, “Those guys are so far off base it’s not even funny.”

  “I know, Phil. I know. But they’ve gotta check everything out.”

  “Total bullshit.”

  “Give it time.”

  “Time? It’s a waste of goddamn time.”

  Another mile went by.

  “The best thing you can do is answer their questions,” Marlin said.

  “Not a fucking chance.” Colby hadn’t cooled down, not even a little.

 
; “Right or wrong,” Marlin said, “when a suspect asks for a lawyer, well, it looks like…”

  Colby snapped his head around. “Like what? Like I’m guilty?”

  “That’s what gets into some people’s heads.”

  “Into your head?”

  “Nope.”

  Colby ran both hands over his scalp in frustration. “Oh, man, this is such an amazing crock of shit. Yeah, so I didn’t like Scofield. The man was an asshole, and plenty of people hated his guts. Why did they zero in on me?”

  Marlin kept his voice low and measured, hoping to bring some calm to the conversation. “The incident at the courthouse. That doesn’t look good for you.”

  “That was months ago.”

  Marlin followed the twisting road past a ranch called Selah, where a man with a vision had single-handedly redefined modern habitat-restoration techniques. Selah was five thousand acres of thriving grasslands and wooded canyons, an ecosystem as healthy as any in the state. On most days, the drive along this narrow, pitted blacktop instilled in Marlin an overwhelming sense of serenity. Not today.

  “The tire tracks, too,” he said. “That’s a problem.”

  “I get my tires at Save-Mart in Marble Falls,” Colby said. “Just like half the people in this county.”

  “Yeah, I know, and you didn’t even mention that back there.”

  “Are you defending them?”

  Marlin could feel a small pool of anger welling in his gut. “I don’t have to defend them, Phil. They’re cops, and they’re doing their jobs. End of story.”

  Marlin slowed and steered through the gate to the Circle S Ranch, just as he had done a thousand times before.

  “Doing their jobs like a couple of Nazis,” Colby muttered.

  “Goddamn, just take it easy,” Marlin snapped, and immediately regretted it.

  “Yeah, okay,” Colby said, full of sarcasm. “I’ll just take it easy until I wind up in Huntsville. How’s that? I’ll just take it easy and let these local pinheads screw up the rest of my life.”

  Marlin clamped his jaw tight and said nothing. Neither man spoke as Marlin followed the rugged caliche road to the front of Colby’s house.

  “Go ahead and ask me,” Colby said.

  “Ask you what?”

  “Oh, come on. You know you want to ask. Was I over at Scofield’s house? Are those my tire tracks they found?”

  Marlin came to a stop and put the truck in park. “Phil, I—”

  “Just ask!”

  Marlin couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Okay, tell me, then, if it’s so damn important to you. Were you over there or not?”

  It was as if someone flicked a switch that controlled the emotion in Colby’s face. The anger drained out immediately, replaced by an expression of such profound disappointment that Marlin felt himself cringe.

  Colby stepped out of the truck without another word.

  “Hey!” Marlin called after him. “Hey, Phil!”

  Colby said something without turning. Marlin couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like “Have fun in San Antone.”

  19

  “HEY, LUKE!”

  Lucas turned and saw Rob and Fiona trundling after him as he walked down Duval Street. When they caught him, they were both short of breath.

  “We couldn’t just let you leave,” Rob huffed.

  “Not without an ID,” Fiona gasped. “How are you going to write checks? How are you going to use credit cards?”

  “We wondered if you might need a few bucks.”

  “To help you get home.”

  “That way your vacation won’t be spoiled.”

  They both had such honest and open faces, and their gesture was so kind, Lucas felt guilty for being short with them in the bar.

  “Guys, that is really nice,” Lucas said. “But I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely positive?”

  “You could call it a loan.”

  “Yeah, pay us back if you want.”

  “Or not. It doesn’t matter.”

  Lucas was starting to like this annoying couple. They reminded him of people back home, where strangers could become friends in a matter of minutes.

  “Really, I appreciate it, but I’m all set.”

  “Well, if you change your mind,” Rob said, “we’re staying at the Happy Clam.”

  “Nice little place,” Fiona chimed in, “but nothing too fancy.”

  “Clean sheets.”

  “Plenty of hot water.”

  “Just give us a call.”

  “Or come see us.”

  “Where are you staying, Luke?”

  “Someplace close?”

  Lucas waved vaguely to the east and said he’d forgotten the name of the motel. Then he thanked them again and continued on his way.

  “Hey, Luke!” Rob called out again.

  Lucas turned. Now they were back to being pests. Maybe he should take their money.

  “Smile!” Rob called. He was holding a small camera, and he snapped a picture of Lucas.

  “For our scrapbook!” Fiona said.

  Lucas gave them one last wave and quickly lost himself in the crowd.

  Colby closed the front door behind him and waited until he heard Marlin drive away. He knew he shouldn’t have made that last remark, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d never been that angry before in his life.

  He plopped into a living room chair and sat without moving for fifteen minutes, taking deep breaths, letting his mind settle down.

  A cold beer. That’s what he needed. Maybe several.

  He stood and made his way to the darkened kitchen. He turned on the lights, and he heard a voice say, “I think you and me need to have a long talk.”

  Colby turned and saw a man sitting at the table. Baby blue suit. Stetson. The man who had presented himself as an interested hunter had a bottle of beer in his left hand. His right hand covered a revolver that rested on the tabletop.

  “Mr. Jones,” Colby said, “come on in and make yourself at home. Oh, wait, you already have.”

  Jones—which was obviously not his real name unless the guy was a total moron—raised the gun and pointed it at Colby. “Have a seat, Phil.”

  “I prefer to stand. Sitting is hell on my hemorrhoids.”

  Jones gave a slight smile, but there was steel in his voice. “Have a fucking seat. Now.” Colby moved toward the table, and Jones said, “Uh-uh. Not at the table. Right there, on the floor.”

  Colby quickly pondered his options. There were knives in the drawers, but what good was a knife against a .38? And speaking of guns, Colby kicked himself for not carrying one himself. He was licensed to do just that, but he had figured they might not like him bringing it to the sheriff’s office. For the moment, that left two possibilities: Run like hell and hope this guy was a poor shot. Or sit down. He sat.

  “Very good,” Jones said, nodding. “A wise man makes wise choices, Phil, and I think you just made a good one. Trust me.”

  Colby couldn’t help but let out a small snort at that.

  Jones ignored it. “I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go, Phil, and I want to be absolutely clear on it just so there’s no confusion. So here’s the deal. I’m fixing to ask you a question, and you’re immediately gonna answer me. No lies, no bullshit, and no reason for me to put a slug in your forehead. ‘Cause believe me, I’m prepared to do that. In fact, it really don’t make much difference to me either way. The only thing on the plus side is, I get paid more if you give me what I want. You follow me?”

  “Sounds fairly straightforward to me,” Colby said, thinking, What the hell does this guy want?

  “Good, then,” Jones said. “We have an understanding. But I should tell you—I’m not gonna ask twice. You get one answer, and one answer only. We clear?”

  Colby rubbed a finger on the linoleum floor. “Look at all this waxy buildup. I’m not much of a housekeeper, to be honest.”

  Jones pulled the hammer back on the .
38. “Are…we…clear?”

  Colby shrugged. “Yeah, sure, we’re clear.”

  “Okay, then. Here we go. The big question. Where are the negatives?”

  Colby hadn’t known what to expect. Maybe a question about Vance Scofield, because, after all, who the hell was this guy? Some lunatic Scofield’s buddies had sent? Some nutcase who, like the deputies, thought, Colby was a killer? But what was this about negatives?

  Colby tried to appear appropriately meek and submissive as he held up a finger. “Uh…I’m not sure I understand. Did you say negatives?”

  Jones’s face was a vivid red. He extended his arm, and now the barrel of the gun was less than five feet from Colby’s head, “I’m warning you. Not another fucking word unless you’re telling me where they are.”

  So Colby didn’t say anything.

  Jones stared at him. Colby stared back. Ten seconds went by. Then twenty. Colby could hear the clock on the wall ticking.

  Jones shifted his weight, the old wooden chair squeaking beneath him. “Well?”

  Colby held up his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Talk, goddamn it!” Jones screamed, his arm visibly shaking.

  “Okay,” Colby said in the most soothing voice he could muster. “Okay, but help me out a little. What’re we talking about here? Prom photos? Graduation? What?”

  Jones squeezed and the gun in his hand roared.

  “You ready to hear the plan?” Red asked.

  He and Billy Don and Lucy were sitting at the small dinette in Red’s kitchen, swilling back their fourth round of Bloody Marys. Red had been holding off on telling Billy Don all the specifics, because the big man was liable to be a problem, but now, with Lucy here, she and Red could sell the plan to Billy Don together. It would be a big help, mostly because Lucy was so much more persuasive than Red was. When words came out of her mouth, they sounded like individual nuggets of unvarnished wisdom and truth. She even made the dishonest part of it sound all right.

  Billy Don nodded.

  “Okay,” Lucy said, “here’s the deal. Like I said, this old guy Scofield is one of my clients. I go to see him three times a week to give him his shots, make sure he’s taking his medication, that sort of thing. He’s kinda deaf, confused half the time, so he’s a shut-in.”