Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip

by Rehder, Ben

  Billy Don, wheeling the safe toward the closet door, said, “Sumbitch won’t fit.”

  “What do ya mean it won’t fit?”

  “It won’t fuckin’ fit, Red, that’s what I mean.” Beads of sweat had emerged on Billy Don’s forehead.

  “How tight?”

  “An inch on either side.”

  Red refused to panic. Someone had gotten the safe in here, so they’d just have to take it out the same way. “We’re gonna have to remove the door,” he said.

  “Remove the door?” Lucy said. She was outside the closet, in front of Billy Don.

  “Won’t fit through,” Red said. “All we gotta do is take the pins outta the hinges. Door’ll come off and give us a couple more inches.”

  “What about the door over here?” Lucy said. “The one into the bedroom. Ain’t we gonna have to remove that one, too?”

  “Shit,” Red said.

  “Didn’t nobody measure this damn thing?” Billy Don asked.

  “And don’t forget the front door,” Lucy said.

  “Double shit,” Red said.

  “It’d be a hell of a lot easier to remove those pins if we had a hammer,” Billy Don muttered, glaring at Red. “And I left mine at home.”

  Red used a flathead screwdriver, tapping it as quietly as possible with a crescent wrench. Each pin groaned slightly as it was removed, but it didn’t take long to have the closet door off the hinges.

  Billy Don rolled the safe through the opening—with a half inch of clearance on either side—and Red quickly put the door back into place.

  They repeated the process with the bedroom door, and twenty-three minutes after they had entered the house, they were trundling the dolly down the hallway toward the front door.

  “He’s still sleeping,” Lucy said, coming back from another quick check.

  “We’re leaving wheel marks,” Red pointed out.

  “I’ll vacuum those up later,” Lucy said. “You sure you wanna take the front door off the hinges? I think I’ve got a better way.”

  Red knew what Lucy was thinking.

  The old man was watching TV in a small living area. There was a sofa on one side and an entertainment center against the opposite wall. Just past the sofa, at an angle to the TV, was the old man’s easy chair.

  Behind the easy chair was a sliding glass door.

  “We’ll never get it past him,” Red whispered. “Ain’t enough room.” Billy Don was waiting in the hallway with the safe.

  “There will be if we move him back some,” Lucy replied.

  She may be a woman, Red thought, but she’s got balls the size of coconuts. “What if he wakes up?”

  “He wont.”

  “Yeah, but if he does, he’ll—”

  “He won’t,” Lucy said again, sounding downright certain. “He had a little snack earlier, and there was something in it to help him sleep.”

  “You gave him drugs?” Red asked.

  Lucy shrugged. “The same shit he takes every night. It’s no big deal.”

  Red had to wonder about that. What right did she have to give the old man something he hadn’t asked for?

  Lucy leaned and spoke right into his ear. “Let’s just get this done so we can get back to your bedroom and celebrate.”

  Now that Red thought about it, it all made sense. So what if the old guy got a little extra shuteye? Hell, he could probably use it. He looked at Lucy. “You sure he won’t wake up?”

  “Let’s give it a little test.” She clapped her hands, and Red nearly jumped out of his Wranglers.

  The old man was still snoozing away.

  Billy Don poked his curious head around the corner. Red motioned him over and explained the plan to him.

  “You serious?” Billy Don asked.

  “Damn right. Let’s do it and get outta here.”

  Billy Don retreated down the hallway and returned a minute later with the dolly. Red positioned himself behind the easy chair. Lucy nodded at him with a smile on her face.

  Red began to tip the chair over backward.

  The old man’s slippered feet came off the floor and dangled in the air like baby booties from a rearview mirror.

  For the first time that day, everything went according to plan.

  Two minutes later—with all three of them lifting—they managed to get the safe into the bed of the truck.

  “You didn’t plan this very well, did you?” Phil Colby asked.

  His arms and legs were throbbing from being bound. He was thirsty as hell. And then there was the heat. The forecast earlier that morning had called for the low nineties, but it was hotter inside the cabin, even this late in the day. George had stripped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and kicked off his boots. He’d even removed his Stetson. But that wasn’t enough. He was fanning himself with a hunting magazine, and his hair clung to his head in damp strips.

  “I could say the same thing about you,” George replied, “Yeah, you got your photos of Herzog, but after that, your little act fell to shit. And, Jesus—how stupid were you to call from your own phone?”

  Herzog? Colby recognized that name from somewhere. He bounced it around in his brain but couldn’t come up with anything. He wanted more. “What does Herzog have to say about all this?” he asked. “He know what kind of trouble you’re going to?”

  George ignored him.

  “You get a chance to see those photos yourself?” Colby asked. “I was pretty proud of them.” He was taking a risk, talking about photos he had never even heard of, much less seen.

  For the first time, Colby thought he saw a glimmer of a smile on George’s face. “Yeah, they were pretty good,” George said. “How’d you find out he was banging that gal?”

  What gal? Colby wondered. “Just got lucky,” he said. “Pieced it together and went from there.”

  That seemed to satisfy George. “Pretty slick,” he said, smiling, showing crooked teeth. “You sure rattled Herzog’s cage, I’ll give you that much. Especially with this being an election year.”

  Colby immediately felt sick to his stomach. It was Dylan Herzog, the senator. Someone was blackmailing the chairman of the Natural Resources Committee, and this goon thought it was Colby. But it all made sense. Herzog was known to cater to the whims of the high-fencers, and Colby had become their worst enemy. Anyone looking to hurt the high-fencers would realize that the senator was a perfect target. But what did Vance Scofield have to do with it? Maybe nothing at all. Maybe the murder of Scofield was completely unrelated.

  For the first time, Colby realized what kind of jam he was in. It was one thing when he thought the high-fencers were trying to put a scare into him. It was something completely different to know that the political future of a high-powered senator—a man who had openly voiced aspirations to the governorship, and who was rumored to have his eyes set on the White House—was depending on George to make sure Colby and the damning photographs weren’t a problem. Would George—psychopath that he was—be content merely to retrieve the negatives? And what would he do when Colby came clean and revealed that he didn’t really know anything about the photographs at all, that the only reason he’d said he did was because George had a nasty habit of shooting at him? One thing was certain: Colby had to do something. He couldn’t just sit there, trussed up, and wait for Monday.

  “You know,” Colby said, “I’m gonna have to use the bathroom pretty soon.”

  George said, “Well, I guess you’re in a hell of a spot, then, ain’t ya?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am, but you’re not thinking things through, George. When we go into the bank on Monday morning, how’s it gonna look if I go in there smelling like an outhouse? Hell, we’re both gonna be ripe enough as it is, just from the heat. Don’t you think we’ll need to clean up at some point? Fresh clothes, maybe a shower? Otherwise, people are gonna know something’s up. Besides, if you keep me taped up like this much longer, I doubt I’ll even be able to use my arms. Right now, I can’t even feel my fingers.”
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br />   The way George stared at him, Colby knew he was thinking it over.

  “I’ve got all kinds of chains and rope in my barn,” Colby added. “You could fix it where it’s a lot easier to turn me loose for bathroom breaks and that sort of thing. Maybe you could grab us some food when you’re over there. Towels, water, maybe some other stuff. Sure would make things nicer, don’t you think? As it is, I don’t think you even brought anything to drink, did you? How’re we gonna make it till Monday morning without something cold to drink?”

  Colby was wondering if his ulterior motives were obvious. “Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?” George said. “But I been thinking the same thing all along. Any fool would know I wasn’t planning on going three days without food and water.”

  “That’s what I figured. That you had it all worked out in your head.”

  “Damn right I do. Sure as hell don’t need any help from you. I was just waiting for the right time, is all. Maybe after dark.”

  Colby nodded. “Makes sense to me.”

  “Don’t get a smart mouth.”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Nothing I can’t stand more than a smart mouth.”

  Rita Sue Metzger was watching a CMT biography of Dolly Parton—Lord, how did that woman tote those things around for all these years without ruining her back?—when her phone rang. She considered not answering it, but she had a peculiar feeling about this call, and she was right.

  “Mama?” a small voice said on the other end.

  “Stephie, is that you? Where in the world are you, hon?”

  “Florida.”

  Rita Sue could hear the sounds of traffic in the background. “With Lucas?” she asked.

  “Not anymore.”

  That wasn’t what Rita Sue wanted to hear. If the two of them had split up, that could only mean that something had gone wrong.

  “Mama, I called the cops. They’re coming for me,” Stephanie wailed. “I have to tell them—I think Lucas killed Vance.”

  Rita Sue sat up straight in her easy chair. “Is that what he said?”

  “No, but I think…I think he’s lying.”

  “What did he tell you?” Panic was welling up in Rita Sue’s chest. Everything was coming unraveled.

  “That he went to Vance’s and found him by the barn. He said he was alive at first, but he died later, in Lucas’s car.”

  Rita Sue’s heart went out to her daughter. The poor girl had fallen for Vance Scofield early on, after just a few dates. And later, when he’d revealed himself to be a dyed-in-the-wool son of a bitch, Stephanie still couldn’t see it. She couldn’t see that Lucas—an honorable young man who was getting his life together—was a much better choice. Rita Sue and Lucas had had long talks about the situation, and she had done her best to steer Stephanie in the right direction. Now Rita Sue wondered if she’d screwed Stephanie’s life up for good. Lucas’s, too. Maybe she’d given him bad advice. Maybe the cops would’ve believed him.

  Rita Sue was ashamed of herself, especially when Stephanie said, “Mama, he said he came to see you. He said that you must’ve put Vance’s body in the water. Is that true?”

  Rita Sue didn’t know what to say. So many of her intentions had started out good—and then gone straight to hell. Nothing had worked out the way she had intended.

  “Mama?”

  “Steph, baby, I only wanted what was best for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

  Stephanie was crying uncontrollably now. “So you did it? You put Vance in the river?”

  Before Rita Sue could answer, she heard other voices, followed by Stephanie’s anguished cries. Rita Sue’s heart was breaking. She could hear the phone being jostled, and then she heard a stern voice on the line: “This is Lieutenant Klante with the Florida State Police. Who am I speaking to?”

  Rita Sue stroked her Chihuahua’s tiny head. There weren’t any choices left. She had to set things right. She had to throw herself on the fire. “My name is Rita Sue Metzger,” she said. “I killed a man named Vance Scofield. I did it for my baby.”

  26

  MARLIN DROVE SOUTH on Highway 281.

  Deputy Nicole Brooks lived in the southern tip of Blanco County in an area known as Twin Sisters—named for a pair of prominent hills that could be seen for miles around.

  Marlin shook his head and loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He was nervous. He had been ever since Brooks had stopped him in the hall and asked if he still wanted to grab a beer.

  “Is my house okay?” she’d asked.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Give me ten minutes, then come on down.”

  This was after Garza had promised to keep them all up to date on Stephanie Waring. As it had turned out, the Florida State Police hadn’t even picked her up yet. She’d dialed 911 from a pay phone, and the dispatcher had told her to stay put until a trooper arrived. When and if Garza learned anything important, he’d relay it to Marlin and the deputies. “Y’all just clear out for a couple hours,” the sheriff had said. “Go take a nap or something.”

  Now Marlin hung a left on Loma Ranch Road and thought about what he was going to say to Nicole. No doubt about it, he had to be straight with her, tell her why he’d been acting as he had. Then she could laugh in his face and send him on his way.

  He found her mailbox, pulled in, and saw her cruiser sitting in the gravel driveway that ran to her small, well-kept house. He’d been here once before, about a month ago, when some people from the sheriff’s office had gathered for an impromptu barbecue. As he remembered, he’d spoken exactly seven words to her: “Hi, Nicole. Nice place you have here.” Later, he’d slipped out without even saying good-bye. She’d been talking to Ernie Turpin at the time, laughing with him, touching his elbow, and the juvenile pangs of jealousy Marlin had felt convinced him it would be best just to leave.

  He parked his truck, and when he knocked on the door, Brooks answered wearing a pair of jeans and a dark green top. She didn’t have any shoes on. Her auburn hair was down, and Marlin immediately knew he’d made a huge mistake. She was ridiculously beautiful, and he was afraid he wouldn’t even be able to speak.

  “Come on in,” she said, stepping aside. “I’ve got beer, Cokes, or iced tea.

  “A cold beer would be great.”

  “Take a load off,” she said, gesturing toward the living room. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You mind if I make a phone call real quick?”

  “Yeah, sure. There’s a phone on the end table.” She disappeared through a swinging door into the kitchen.

  Marlin sank into the leather sofa and dialed the cordless phone. He’d already figured out what he would say: “I can’t go into details right now, Phil, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’ll be able to explain more later. Oh, and sorry if I was an ass earlier today.”

  But Colby didn’t answer. It was nearly seven o’clock, and there was still plenty of light this time of year. He might still be out working the ranch.

  Brooks reappeared with two frosted mugs of beer and handed one to Marlin. “I hope you like light beer.”

  “Yeah, sure. Thank you.”

  He decided to get right to it. “Nicole, not to beat a dead horse, but I wanted to talk to you about the conversation we had in my truck.”

  She frowned. “I thought we’d cleared that up.”

  “Well, yeah, maybe. But there’s something more I wanted to say. About the way I’ve been acting.”

  She had taken a seat in the matching leather chair, and now she placed her mug on the end table. “I didn’t mean to open up a can of worms. You don’t need to tell me—”

  “No, really, I want to explain. It’s been bothering me. All this time, you were thinking I didn’t like you or something, when…” He felt like such a klutz. “Well, the opposite is true.” He searched for the right words to polish off his humiliation. “I think you’re great.”

  I think you’re great? What kind of lame proclamation was that? Now she’
d be flustered and uncomfortable, and they’d exchange some stilted small talk to make the moment go away, and then Marlin would leave, and afterward, the atmosphere between them would be riddled with a clumsy and false friendliness.

  He finally brought his eyes to hers.

  The surprising thing was, there was a slight grin on her face. “You didn’t have to say that, you know? I consider myself a fairly bright girl. I sort of pieced it together already.”

  Marlin felt something loosen in his torso, some bit of tension uncoiling. “You did?”

  “Yeah, I’m real clever that way. Might even make a good cop.”

  He laughed in spite of himself. Then he remembered the other problem. “The thing is…I don’t want to get into the middle of anything here.”

  “Oh, right.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. “Wait. I’m not sure I follow you.” She was staring at him intensely.

  “What about Ernie?”

  “Ernie? What about him?”

  “A couple of days before your picnic, I saw the two of you shopping together.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, if you and Ernie have something going on—”

  He was interrupted by laughter. Nicole was giggling so hard, she spilled her beer. Marlin sat there, totally confused. He could feel his face turning red.

  “Oh my God,” she finally said, “you didn’t know. That’s why you acted that way in the grocery store.”

  Marlin felt like the butt of a joke, and he didn’t understand why. “Know what?”

  “This is too funny.”

  “Nicole. Know what?”

  “Ernie,” she said, “is my cousin.”

  “Your cousin?”

  “Yeah, I thought everybody knew.”

  “I must’ve missed that somehow.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I feel kind of stupid.”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Excuse me while I crawl under the couch.”

  “Better not. I haven’t vacuumed under there lately.”

  Marlin chuckled. Her cousin.

  Brooks smiled. “Listen, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go to lunch sometime next week? That’ll give me another chance to tease you about all this, and then I promise to ease up.”