by Rehder, Ben
“Will do.”
Marlin hung up and made his way to the elevator. He hated hospitals, but then, who didn’t? The horrible smells. The cold institutional decor. And yeah, the fact that when you were in a hospital, you were probably there because a friend or loved one was in bad shape. A car wreck, maybe. Cancer. Heart attack. Marlin—knock on wood—hadn’t been a patient himself for years.
He exited on the proper floor, walked to Garza’s room, and found the door slightly ajar. Inside were Bill Tatum and Rachel Cowan, who had already driven in from Blanco County. Garza was awake, two pillows behind his head, giving the deputies the details from the night before.
“Here he is,” Garza said. “John can probably give you the full story.” He looked at Marlin and grinned. “My memory is kind of foggy. Plus, they’ve got me on morphine….”
Marlin moved to the side of the sheriff’s bed and squeezed his shoulder. “You doing all right?”
Garza’s face looked pale and drawn. His voice was raspy but strong. “Not so bad,” he said. “You were up here late last night?”
“Yeah, but you were pretty out of it.”
“Man, I don’t remember much, to be honest with you … but I do remember you saving my ass.” He looked toward the deputies. “I was a sitting duck, waiting to get popped again, and this guy dragged me out of the doorway.”
The deputies murmured approval.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” Marlin said. “I think the perp was already out the window by then.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Garza said. “Anyway … I appreciate it.”
Marlin nodded. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.
Garza spoke again: “Why don’t you shut the door, John.”
Marlin swung it closed.
In lower tones, Garza said, “I’ve been trying to tell these guys what happened, but I haven’t had much luck.”
So Marlin told them everything—the facts as he knew them, plus everything Susan Searcy and Peter Wilson had told the Bellaire cops. Immediately after the shooting, Marlin had had to remain at the Searcy house for several hours to give his statement. He had also been present when Susan Searcy and Wilson were interviewed. Marlin described climbing out of the window and finding Wilson in the backyard.
“We talked to him on Wednesday,” Cowan said. “Mrs. Searcy had mentioned him as a family friend. He said he had been in Atlanta for a week, up until Tuesday night.”
“What was Wilson’s story last night?” Tatum asked.
“He said he dropped by to have coffee with Susan and see if she needed anything.”
Cowan frowned. “And they didn’t hear the window break?”
“She said they heard a noise but thought it was the construction next door.”
“What the hell was Wilson doing in the backyard?” Tatum asked.
“Supposedly grabbing a smoke. Said he didn’t want to intrude on Susan’s conversation with Garza and me. Anyway, according to him, he heard the shot, then saw a man come out of the window, carrying something. Too dark by then to see what it was. The man ran around the side of the house, and that was the last Wilson saw of him.”
Marlin turned to Garza. “Did you get a look at the guy who fired the shot?”
Garza took a deep breath. “Man, I don’t know. The Bellaire cops stopped by bright and early and asked me a million questions … but it all happened so fast.” He shook his head. “I feel kind of stupid, because victims say that all the time. But now I know how true it is. I mean, she opened the door … I started to step through … I saw movement, a shadow or something, in the window … and then—bam—I was down.”
Marlin frowned. “That pretty much sums it up.”
“I do remember seeing this guy Wilson last night, though. Or at least I assume it was him. Guy in a sport coat?”
Marlin nodded. He had brought Wilson, cuffed, into the house. While the sheriff was slipping off, going into shock, Wilson had been standing just a few feet away.
Garza leaned his head back on the pillow for a moment. Marlin could see that his eyelids were heavy. Garza slowly said, “I saw the guy—the shooter—for just an instant … and I don’t know, but for some reason, the sport coat sounds wrong. The curtains were in the way … and the room was dark….”
“Maybe you’ll remember more in a few days,” Cowan said.
Garza nodded. “That’s what the doctor said. Don’t know if it will do us any good, though. Besides, it’s Bellaire’s case. How weird is that? I get shot, and my own deputies aren’t in charge of the investigation.”
“I don’t think it’s a stretch,” Tatum said, “to figure the guy who shot you killed Searcy.”
“No doubt,” Garza said. “But let’s explore all angles. I want Wilson checked out good.” He turned to Marlin. “Bellaire said they didn’t have anything on him.”
“No, we searched the backyard, the neighbors’ yards, the rooftops, everything. One guy even waded through the fish pond. No gun. If Wilson managed to get rid of it that quick, he’s a hell of a magician.”
“So it sounds like his story holds?”
“Even the part about the guy carrying something.”
Garza looked confused. “Maybe I haven’t heard the full story.”
“Bellaire didn’t tell you about the missing mount?”
“Apparently not.”
Marlin figured the Bellaire cops were being tight-lipped, or maybe Garza didn’t remember everything they’d told him. The sheriff was still pretty doped up. “Searcy had trophies hanging all over his office,” Marlin said. “All of ’em big whitetails. Except there was one nail in the wall with nothing on it. A big empty space.”
“Two things bother me about Peter Wilson,” Marlin said. He was in the hospital cafeteria with Bill Tatum and Rachel Cowan, grabbing a cup of coffee before he drove back to Blanco County in Garza’s cruiser. “First—and I realized this late last night—there wasn’t a car parked along the curb out front. Or in the driveway.”
“Yeah?” Tatum said, interested.
“I guess he could have parked in the garage,” Marlin said, “since he’s a friend of the family. But doesn’t that seem a little too friendly?”
“Maybe he parked further down the street,” Cowan said.
“With an empty driveway?” Marlin asked.
“Man, I wish I could have been there for those interviews,” Tatum said. “You think there’s something between Wilson and the widow?”
Marlin had been pondering that, wondering if he should mention his hunch. “Once Bellaire cleared Wilson on the shooting—when they were interviewing him as a witness, not a suspect—there just seemed to be, like … I don’t know … eye contact between the two of them. Like they were getting their stories straight. But hell, I could have been imagining things. I was still pretty jumpy.”
“Okay, but let’s play this out,” Tatum said. “Let’s say Susan Searcy was sleeping with Wilson. Take it one step further—Wilson’s in love with Susan and he wants her all to himself. So he offs Oliver Searcy. Why would Wilson break into Oliver Searcy’s office to steal a deer mount? He could have just walked out with it. And why would Susan Searcy cover for him?”
Marlin smiled. “Hey, I didn’t say it made sense.”
All three sat in silence for a moment.
Then Marlin said, “You know why it’s so hard to solve a murder in a small Texas town?”
Tatum didn’t answer.
“I’ll bite,” Cowan said. “Why?”
“All the DNA is the same,” Marlin deadpanned.
Cowan laughed, and Tatum allowed himself a slight grin. “You about done?” he asked.
Marlin finished the joke: “And there’re no dental records.”
Even Tatum chuckled that time.
“Here’s a wild thought,” Rachel Cowan said, getting back to it. “Assuming there was an affair, what if Mrs. Searcy and Wilson both had something to do with Oliver Searcy’s death … and what if they staged the break-in to th
row us off the track?”
Tatum took a sip of coffee. “Interesting.”
“I’ve heard wilder theories,” Marlin said.
Cowan said, “Bill and I interviewed Susan two different times. And each time, we asked her about Oliver’s hunting plans in Blanco County. Who he was hunting with, that kind of thing. Even though we never said it, it was obvious we were looking at hunting guides as suspects.”
“So she and Wilson are trying to push us even further in that direction?” Tatum said.
Cowan shrugged.
“But why steal a deer mount?” Tatum asked. “To me, that doesn’t make a lot of sense. There are plenty of other things she could have done to throw us off—like saying she recognized Duke Waldrip’s name, or any of the other guides, for that matter.”
“And why do it in broad daylight, right when Garza and I were coming, rather than later?” Marlin asked. “After all, we called and told her what time we’d be there.”
“I’ll admit, it sounds pretty crazy,” Cowan said. She drained the last of her coffee. “I’d say we need to have yet another interview with Mrs. Searcy. Wilson, too.”
Tatum nodded.
“Anything I can do?” Marlin asked.
“We still haven’t been able to contact Gus Waldrip,” Tatum said. “If you happen to stumble across him, will you let us know?”
“Definitely.”
“We’ve had Turpin sit on his place a couple of different times, but Gus hasn’t showed. Either he’s out of town or he doesn’t want to talk to us. If we can find him, that’d be a big help.”
Marlin nodded.
“I’m sure you’re gonna be plenty busy when you get back, anyway,” Cowan said.
“How’s that?” Marlin asked.
“You didn’t see that show? Hard News Tonight?”
Cowan and Tatum both grinned.
“No. What’s up?”
“They did a special report on the chupacabra last night,” Cowan said. “I imagine that’s gonna bring all sorts of nuts out of the woodwork.”
Marlin groaned and shook his head. “Just great.” That was the last thing he wanted to hear.
“What was the other thing?” Cowan asked Marlin.
“Huh?”
“You said there were two things that bothered you about Wilson.”
“Oh, yeah. Wilson said he dropped by to have coffee. But I checked the garbage for coffee grounds, and there weren’t any. Then I looked in the sink and the dishwasher. No cups.”
16
IN THE WORLD of high-end theft, few were as successful as Terry Hobbs. Or as lucky.
Five years ago, when he’d been facing hard time for the burglary of a mansion in River Oaks, the only witness—the eighty-year-old widow who owned the home—died before the trial. Weeks earlier, the prosecutor had been concerned enough about the woman’s failing health that he had videotaped her deposition. The only problem was, the sound on the camera had malfunctioned and there was no audio. By the time the error was caught, the widow had been considerate enough to pass away. Subsequently, the prosecutor argued that a lip-reader could view the tape and tell the jury exactly what the old woman had said. Once again, there was a snafu. The woman was a Hungarian immigrant, and her accent had been so thick, the lip-reader reported that Terry had stolen the woman’s “mayonnaise.” While a charcoal study by Manet was on the list of stolen goods, Hellmann’s certainly was not. The judge, worrying about other possible translation errors, ruled the entire tape inadmissible.
Then there was the incident two years ago, when Terry had attended a lavish wedding reception, uninvited, at the finest country club in Harris County. The bride and groom were both from wealthy, pedigreed families. Normally, a wedding wouldn’t have been of much interest to Terry, but in this case, the bride’s father had made his fortune in the jewelry business. Terry could just imagine the kind of stones she’d be wearing that night. So he’d donned a tuxedo and a superior attitude and weaseled his way into the party. As it turned out, the bride was dripping in exquisite diamonds—a million-dollar necklace, earrings, her new wedding band, even a tiara (which Terry found somewhat tacky). He waited until the time was right—when all the guests were good and liquored up—and then followed the bride into her private bathroom. His plan was to tape her mouth shut, handcuff her to a pipe, and make his exit before anyone discovered what had happened. But when he approached her from behind, the bride, who by then had drunk a small river of champagne, mistook Terry for her amorous new husband and reached back to unzip his fly. Terry was never one to let an opportunity pass him by. He guided her into a stall, bent her over the toilet, and proceeded to give her the best wedding gift he could muster under the circumstances. Midway through—and Terry didn’t take this as a comment on his performance—the bride passed out. The stolen gems never even made the news. Terry speculated that the bride, after speaking to her husband, had deduced what had really happened and was too embarrassed to report the theft.
So when Terry was admiring the green Lotus—and noticed the keys hanging in the ignition—he assumed the gods of good fortune were smiling down on him once again.
The first thing that concerned Marlin as he drove back into Johnson City was a Louisiana license plate on a Jeep parked at Ronnie’s Barbecue. Right next to it sat a rusty Dodge truck from Arkansas. Farther up, at the Exxon, a car from Oklahoma was gassing up. Virtually every restaurant in town had a full parking lot, with plenty of out-of-state plates sprinkled throughout.
I imagine that’s gonna bring all sorts of nuts out of the woodwork.
And today was only Friday. What would happen when the weekend officially began?
Some of these people must have hit the road as soon as they saw the show last night. Scary thought, that anyone would be that motivated.
Marlin had been planning to stop at his office, then go straight home to grab a short nap and a fresh uniform, but he changed his mind and drove west on 290, then hung a left on Flat Creek Road. Time for a quick stop at the Waldrip place. Maybe he’d get lucky and catch Gus at home. Marlin certainly couldn’t stake the place out around the clock, but he could drop by on occasion and see if there was any activity.
Along one stretch of Flat Creek Road, there was a row of perhaps a dozen homesteads that had, at some point, been subdivided out of the Macho Bueno Ranch. Each tract was ten or twenty acres, and they all shared a rear fence line with the much larger property to the north. Those homes had been there for as long as Marlin could remember, meaning the tracts had been cut from the ranch at least thirty-five years ago, possibly much longer, before Floyd Dawson, Kyle’s father, had bought the place.
Marlin spotted a mailbox with the name Waldrip crudely painted on the side, and he pulled into the gravel driveway. Behind a wall of brush at the edge of the road stood an old rock home. In front sat a late-model Ford Expedition. Tatum had said that Gus Waldrip’s vehicle hadn’t moved since the first time the deputies had dropped by. They’d checked the odometer each time.
Marlin parked and climbed the questionable wooden steps to the front porch. Before he knocked, he noticed that he could hear music from inside the house. Sounded like Willie Nelson.
He saw several business cards deputies had slipped between the door and the frame. If Gus had been coming and going, he was using the back door. There wouldn’t be any way to get the cards back in position if he used the front door.
Marlin rapped on the door, waited a minute, then rapped again. He slipped one of his own cards into the door frame, then climbed into his truck and drove home.
Inside the house, Duke took a deep breath.
At first, he didn’t know what to make of the game warden’s visit. He had figured that if the cops were going to show, they’d show in force, guns drawn, ready to rip Duke a new asshole. But just one guy? And the game warden at that? No matter how he looked at it, Duke decided that was good news. They wouldn’t send a game warden, solo, to arrest a suspect in the shooting of a sheriff. No damn way.
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And the news reports hadn’t mentioned Duke’s name once.
Duke was careful not to get his hopes up, but he started to wonder if he just might get out of this mess unscathed.
And he still had another big card to play. He’d call Marlin later, and then Duke would know for sure where things stood. He’d be free and clear—or he’d have to get his ass out of Blanco County pronto.
He looked over at Gus, who was watching a Willie Nelson video. Well, Gus’s eyes were on the TV, but Duke could tell he wasn’t really watching it. He was zoning again. Freaked out by all this shit.
“Hey, Gus,” Duke said. “You in there?”
“Trampoline,” Gus replied.
As Marlin’s truck bounced up his driveway, Geist tumbled from her doghouse and sprinted to meet him. Months earlier, Marlin had spent several hours a week training Geist not to leave the boundaries of his seven acres, and the time had paid off. Marlin scratched the dog’s ears for a few minutes, then entered the house, where he found a note from Phil Colby:
Fed her this morning. Give me a call. P.C.
Marlin checked his answering machine, surprised to see no blinking light. If the out-of-state visitors were here for the chupacabra, they hadn’t done much trespassing yet. But just as Marlin turned toward the bathroom to take a shower, the phone rang.
It was a cattle rancher named Clay Summy. He was excited as hell.
He said he’d just shot the chupacabra.
Sixty seconds later, Marlin was back in his truck.
“Slow down, Mr. Summy. Just tell me what you saw.” Marlin was standing with Clay Summy on the rancher’s front porch.
Summy was in his seventies, and Marlin knew the man’s vision wasn’t quite as good as it once was. And Summy was obviously still on edge from the incident.
“I was driving the east pasture”—he gestured to his right—“and I saw an animal out by my calves. First, I thought it was a coyote, but I grabbed my binoculars and, hell no, its ears was too tall. Had a long snout, too, like a fox, but not as pointed.”
“But it wasn’t a fox?”
