by Rehder, Ben
The best thing to do was to go back to life as usual. That meant trying to round up the escaped animal—or get ahold of another one—so Raines could shoot the damn thing and Duke could collect his money.
Marlin followed the tire tracks until the mud ended and turned to hard-packed caliche. He continued along the rough road, hoping to find soft ground that would reveal additional tracks.
Four hundred yards farther, he came to a Y in the road and kept to the right. He followed it for a few minutes, until he reached a muddy spot where a seasonal stream crossed the road. No tracks. He returned to the Y and went left this time. The road made a slow, sweeping curve, then crested a small hill. Coming over the rise, Marlin immediately spotted a blue vehicle a hundred yards away. As he neared, he identified it as a Ford truck. Fairly new, judging from the looks of it. The cab appeared to be empty, and the driver’s door was open.
Marlin grabbed his radio mike. “Seventy-five-oh-eight to Blanco County.”
“Blanco County, go ahead seventy-five-oh-eight.” It was Darrell Bridges, one of the dispatchers for the sheriff’s department.
“Darrell, Bobby told me yesterday about a missing hunter….”
“Yeah, his wife called again this morning.”
“Can you give me his plate number?”
“Uh, yeah, hang on a sec.”
Marlin shifted his gaze to the license plate on the truck in front of him.
Darrell came back and recited the number.
It matched, just as Marlin figured it would.
Duke felt the usual pangs of envy as he pulled through the entrance to the sprawling Macho Bueno Ranch. It always made him do a slow burn, this place. Here he was, working his ass off year in and year out, and he’d never own a place like this. All Duke and Gus had was the old Waldrip homestead, a stone house on twenty acres. But Kyle, hell, he’d had it handed to him on a platter. Didn’t seem right. Even though Duke and Kyle had been best friends since childhood, their properties sharing a common fence line, it always nagged at Duke that Kyle had it so easy. When Duke and his Gus were young, before they could drive, they’d hop the fence behind their house and follow a worn trail to Kyle’s place, marveling the whole time at how big the ranch was.
Duke parked in front of the massive ranch house, which, like a lot of homes in Texas, was built from large slabs of limestone, durable cedar-plank siding, and seamless metal roofing. The place was huge and rugged and a little bit overstated, just like the whole damn state.
Walking to the front door, Duke heard a shriek—part giggle and part scream—coming from behind the house. Cheri, Kyle’s current girlfriend. Oops, check that. Cheri was Kyle’s wife now, at least on paper. The two of them had flown to Vegas two weeks ago. Kyle had gotten wasted and married, in that order. He was planning on having it annulled.
Duke couldn’t blame him. Cheri wasn’t the type you married. She was the type who’d look right at home with a wad of dollar bills sticking out of her G-string. Lots of brittle bleached hair. Long painted nails. A fake tan, even in the winter.
Duke followed a bordered path around the side of the house and found Kyle and Cheri wrestling in the hot tub in back, next to the swimming pool. The recreational area at the rear of the house—pool, tennis courts, barbecue pit, picnic tables—had an astounding fifty-mile view of the Hill Country. But Duke was distracted by another breathtaking view: Cheri, topless, her pendulous fake breasts swinging to and fro while she and Kyle played grab-ass. Damn. He might not like the girl much, but she had a tight little body on her. Wasn’t bashful about showing it off, either.
“Couldn’t afford the whole suit?” Duke said as he pulled up a chair on the patio.
Kyle and Cheri managed to shake their lust long enough to realize they had a visitor.
“There he is, Mr. Sunshine,” Kyle bellowed, liquor in his voice. “Done snuck up on us. What’s up, big man?”
Cheri giggled. She was always doing that. Giggling like a simpleton every time Kyle said something. Maybe Duke should set her up with Gus. The two pea brains would probably have a lot to talk about.
“I’ve always wanted to ask you something, Cheri,” Duke said. “If you were on a plane that went down in the ocean, would those two things act as flotation devices?”
Cheri looked down at her gently bobbing orbs, then looked back at Duke, confused. “No, I don’t think so. God, what a weird question.”
“Aw, give her a break,” Kyle said. “Grab yourself a drink.” He pointed toward a wet bar beneath the latticed arbor.
Duke walked over, filled a glass with ice, and grabbed the lone bottle of vodka on the bar. Empty. He turned back to Kyle and shook the bottle back and forth.
“Hey, baby?” Kyle said.
“Whattie?” Cheri replied.
“Would you run in the house and get another bottle of vodka?”
“What am I, your slave? Go get it yourself.”
Duke smiled. He liked to see Cheri giving it to Kyle that way.
“Don’t be a bitch, Cheri,” Kyle said. “Can’t you see I’m talking to Duke here?”
Cheri glared at him. “Baby, it wouldn’t hurt to say please now and then.”
“Pleeease.” Lots of sarcasm.
Cheri rolled her eyes and climbed out of the hot tub.
“That’s my girl,” Kyle said.
As she strutted toward the house, Kyle called out, “Have I told you lately that you love me?”
Cheri responded by flipping him the bird over her shoulder.
Kyle laughed. “God, I love to watch that girl walk, don’t you?”
Duke gave a grunt.
“Damn, you’re in a pissy mood,” Kyle said. “Need to get laid or what? Maybe Cheri’d be willing to help you out.”
Kyle, trying to be funny. What Kyle didn’t know was that Duke had already been there and done that. Several times.
“Naw, man, it’s this damn Raines thing. It’s a package deal, and he ain’t payin’ until he gets his last animal. Tell me again what happened.”
“Simple. I went to check on his last animal and it was gone.”
Duke pulled a pack of smokes out of his pocket and lit one up. “Just like that? Gone?”
“As in not present. No longer there. Adios, muchachos. Sayonara and—”
“Awright, enough already. I get it.” Duke was in no mood for Kyle’s smart-ass bullshit. “How’d it get out?”
“Wish I knew. Checked on it two days ago and it was fine. Mean as a damn grizzly, but fine. Yesterday, the cage was wide open and it was gone.”
Duke grimaced.
“Man, what’s the big deal?” Kyle said. “Just call one of your buddies and get another one.”
“My problem is, it never should have gotten loose in the first place. Know what I mean?”
Kyle set his drink down on the concrete beside the hot tub. “Hey, now, don’t blame it on me. You want to use my ranch, fine. But keepin’ ’em locked up—I don’t remember applying for that particular job. I ain’t no goddamn zookeeper.”
“But damn, Kyle, how hard is it to make sure the cages are locked?”
“Man, that’s your deal, not mine.”
Duke knew Kyle was right. But still, there was something about Kyle that was damn irritating. Always had an answer for everything. Duke rattled the ice in his glass and looked toward the house, wishing Cheri would hurry the hell up with the vodka.
“Like I said,” Kyle continued, “just get on the phone and round up another one.”
“Snap my fingers and make it happen?”
“Isn’t that how things work?”
“Maybe in your world.”
Finally, Cheri emerged from the house, carrying a bottle of Stoli. About damn time.
“Besides,” Kyle said. “How hard can it be for them to find another hyena? Worthless damn animals, if you ask me.”
“Eww, hyenas. Gross,” Cheri said, handing the bottle to Duke. She stepped into the tub and said, “Hey, baby, look what I found.” She made
a voilà gesture with one hand and revealed a small amber vial filled with white powder.
“A woman after my own heart,” Kyle said.
While Duke poured some vodka, Kyle unscrewed the vial, poured a generous amount into the small lid, and passed it to Cheri. She sucked it into her left nostril, like a vacuum cleaner sucking up lint. Kyle took some for himself, then said, “You want a bump, Duke? Nothing like a little white stuff to chase your blues away.”
Normally, Duke wasn’t much of a cokehead. But at the moment, he couldn’t think of a good reason to turn it down.
Ernie Turpin had brought a dog with him, a skinny, hyperactive coonhound named Jessie that pulled eagerly on its leash, anxious to hit the trail. Marlin watched from beside his truck, along with two other deputies, as Turpin was dragged into the brush.
He was back in five minutes, grim-faced.
The deputy pointed to the south. “He’s right over there, under some oaks. Varmints have already been after him.”
Bill Tatum, the chief deputy, said, “Look like Searcy?”
“Yeah, it’s him. Looks just like the photos his wife sent.”
There was a moment of silence, and Marlin knew the deputies were thinking about the wife, and the call one of them would have to make.
Turpin spoke up again, almost in a whisper. “He was pretty torn up and everything, mostly through the torso, where the varmints got at him. But I think I could see what killed him. He had a puncture wound right here on his neck.” Turpin pointed to a spot below his right ear.
“Gunshot?” Tatum asked.
“Hard to tell.”
For a few seconds, Marlin couldn’t remember where he had heard about that type of fatal injury: a single puncture wound to the neck. Then it came to him.
“You gotta admit, it’s pretty strange,” Bobby Garza said. “One day, we got a guy screaming about a chupacabra; two days later, we got a corpse with a hole in his neck.” The sheriff had arrived shortly after the body was discovered. Now, two hours later, he and Marlin were sitting in Garza’s cruiser, having a private conversation before Marlin left the scene. Marlin had already given the deputies a full report, telling them how he had happened upon Searcy’s truck.
“Oh man, don’t get started on that,” Marlin said. “You’re as bad as Trey Sweeney.”
“It’s weird, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Pure coincidence.”
Bill Tatum, the chief deputy, approached the sheriff’s window. Tatum was short and stout, with biceps that bulged like grapefruits. He had gone straight to police work after a tour in the Marine Corps when he was younger. On the job, he was as tenacious and focused as they come—which was why he had earned the respect of every man and woman in the department. Off the job, he had a dry sense of humor and a fishing addiction that kept him on the lake most weekends.
“We pulled some prints from the interior of the truck,” Tatum said. “But nothing at all on the steering wheel or the door handle. Not even partials. Looks like they’ve been wiped clean. No footprints anywhere. The caliche’s too damn hard. No other tire tracks in the vicinity, either. Henry’s going over the body right now.”
Henry Jameson was the young forensics technician Garza had hired seven months ago. The Blanco County budget alone couldn’t afford Jameson’s salary, so Garza had worked a deal to pool resources with several neighboring counties, giving them all access to Jameson’s services.
“How’s Lem doing?” Garza asked, referring to Lem Tucker, the medical examiner for Blanco County.
“He’ll be ready to move the body as soon as Henry’s done. Neither of them have said much so far.”
“How about you? Any thoughts?”
“Pretty obvious we’re looking at a dump job. No blood at the scene. My guess, someone drove Searcy’s truck with the body in the back, then wiped it down later. We’ll talk to the neighbors, and I’d say somebody needs to have a talk with the vic’s wife.”
Garza nodded, and Tatum retreated from the car.
Garza turned to Marlin. “Well, we’re really in trouble now.”
“Why’s that?”
“Damn chupacabra knows how to drive.”
7
TWO CHINESE DWARVES were having sex in front of Marty Hoffenhauser, and he definitely didn’t like what he was seeing. Marty himself was not particularly aroused by the sight of two small Asians going at it, but there were certain people who not only craved but burned for this type of adult action. Fetishists. Marty had developed a keen eye for what these fetishists liked, and what they didn’t. And this was definitely not working.
As far as Marty could tell, the dwarves’ hearts just weren’t in it today. They were merely going through the motions—and if they weren’t fooling Marty, they sure wouldn’t fool the audience when the video was released.
“Cut!” he shouted, making no attempt to mask the frustration in his voice. “Let’s break for lunch, people. Back in sixty.”
As the crew dispersed, Marty pulled the naked male dwarf to the side. The man’s name—his screen name anyway—was Mike Hung, and Hung was, by far, the leading performer in Asian dwarf pornography. Marty had discovered Hung working as a busboy in a Chinese restaurant in Austin. As Hung had cleared the dishes from a nearby booth, Marty couldn’t help but notice the bulge in Hung’s slacks. Marty called him over and discreetly asked the young man whether he would be interested in an audition. That was two years ago, and since then, Hung’s popularity had skyrocketed (and Marty’s fortune along with it). In crude terms, Hung was the most important horse in Marty’s stable, and the director did whatever he could to keep the little stallion happy. At times, that was quite a chore.
“Mike, you doing okay?” Marty asked, draping a robe around the actor. “You seem kind of … I don’t know … distracted.”
Hung began to answer, then shot a sideways look at the sound guy, who was still within earshot.
“Tony, give us a little privacy here, will ya?” Marty said.
Tony nodded and left for lunch.
“So what’s up, little guy? Everything all right?” Marty asked, doing his best to appear empathetic.
Hung plopped into a nearby child-size chair. Marty had ordered half a dozen to accommodate the unique needs of his cast.
“T’ings velly bad with Wanda.”
Hung was referring to Wanda Ho, a superstar adult actress in her own right, and Hung’s costar in this film as well as the previous one, Big Trouble in Very Little China. It was common knowledge that Hung and Ho had been dating for several months. Marty would have preferred that his actors not socialize off the set, but there was really no way to prevent it. Especially among a population that was rather limited.
“Bad? Bad how, Mike? Everybody knows Wanda adores you.” Marty had taken a seat in one of the small chairs himself, and his knees were up to his shoulders.
“Aw, that just acting,” Hung replied. “She velly good actless. But she lose intelest in me.”
“Oh, now, Mike, I don’t think that’s true. Why do you say that?”
“Last week, she have dinner with Willie Wang.” Wang was the other male performer in Marty’s current production, Fortune Nookie. “She say it innocent, but I see way she look at him. I aflaid I not satisfy her.” Hung’s head dropped dejectedly and he stared between his legs. “Beside, he bigger than me. She like that.”
“Bigger? Come on, Mike. Nobody in the industry is bigger than you. You’re a regular Godzilla.” Too late, Marty remembered that the Godzilla films had been made in Japan, not China. But Mike didn’t seem to notice the faux pas.
“No, not that!” Hung replied. “Taller. He taller than me.”
“Oh.” Marty wasn’t sure what to say to that. Wang was a couple of inches taller than Hung. But Hung had those extra two inches where it really counted.
“I aflaid of losing her.” Hung’s eyes were starting to glisten.
Marty patted Hung on the shoulder, trying to offer some measure of comfort. But truthfully
, he wished he was someplace else, doing anything but counseling the diminutive porn star on his love life. How was Marty supposed to know what to say? He wasn’t a counselor, just a director of adult films. Yeah, a pretty good one, but his expertise ended when the camera quit rolling.
On Wednesday afternoon, Sheriff Garza stuck his head into John Marlin’s office and was happy to find the game warden behind his desk. He hadn’t seen him since the day before on Maggie Mason’s ranch.
“I think I got a leak,” Garza said quietly.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Marlin replied.
“No, smart-ass,” Garza said, closing the door behind him. “I mean a leak in the department. Like someone flapping his gums too much to the press. Susannah Branson just called. Told me she heard Searcy had a puncture wound to the neck. Wanted me to verify it.”
“Wouldn’t that have been in Lem’s report anyway? And she would have found out that way?”
“Yeah, unless we sealed it.”
Marlin gestured toward a chair and Garza sat down. Garza had a lot of respect for Marlin, and he wanted the game warden to join his department as a deputy. Garza had run the idea past Marlin a number of times, but to no avail. Being a game warden was in Marlin’s blood, through and through. So Marlin remained an employee with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department—and Garza remained content that Marlin was assigned to Blanco County, where Garza could include him in investigations when the need arose. Marlin had a natural instinct—that much was clear to Garza. Some people would say it was luck, Marlin stumbling upon Searcy’s truck that way. But Garza knew better. Some people just have a knack.
“What’d you tell Susannah?” Marlin asked.
“‘No comment.’ Not that that will stop her from running with it anyway. The whole county’s buzzing about the chupacabra. This’ll only feed the fire.”
“So where does the investigation stand?”
“Slim pickings. Neighbors didn’t hear or see anything. Tatum and Cowan drove over to Houston last night to talk to the wife, but that went nowhere. They went through Searcy’s office, looking for notes or something that would tell us who he hunted with, but came up empty. They talked to his friends, neighbors, family—everybody. Got nothing. They’re still in Houston. Meanwhile, Ernie’s getting the phone records and maybe that’ll lead somewhere.”
