Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy

by Rehder, Ben

  “I figger they’re just like deer,” Red said. “You know how a big buck only wanders within a certain area? Kind of a home base? I bet the chupacabra’s the same damn way. Makes sense, when you think about it.”

  Red knew Billy Don didn’t think about it, which was why he never had anything worthwhile to contribute. But that suited Red just fine. There was room for only one set of brains in this operation.

  After a long pause, Billy Don said, “Hey Red, what would ya do with half a mil?”

  What would he do with money like that? An interesting question.

  “Probably strip nekkid and roll around in it at first,” Red said, enjoying the very idea.

  In the moonlight, Red could see Billy Don grinning. The big man said, “I think I’d like to own a NASCAR team. Maybe get behind ol’ Jeff Gordon. Can’t you see my pitcher plastered all over his car, zooming down the Texas Motor Speedway?”

  Probably scare everyone out of the bleachers, Red thought.

  “Now, see,” Red said, “that kind of dough won’t go as far as you think it would. No, to be seriously rich, you need a couple million bucks. That’s why I’d probably invest it.” Red didn’t know anything about financial stuff, but if he suddenly got rich, he could damn sure learn.

  “Invest it?” Billy Don asked. “Even in today’s volatile marketplace?”

  Red shot him a suspicious glance.

  Billy Don shrugged. “Something I heard on cable.”

  “Don’t touch anything else,” Bill Tatum said, excited. “Not until we get a warrant. In fact, just go ahead and get out of there.”

  Marlin agreed. They definitely didn’t want to step over any legal boundaries and void their discovery. Losing the lock on a technicality would be heartbreaking.

  “Great work, John,” the chief deputy continued. “Tell Ernie, too. We’re leaving right now. Be there in about four hours.”

  Obviously, finding the lock had virtually eliminated Peter Wilson as a suspect. Wilson might have been sleeping with Susan Searcy, but that wasn’t a crime. Now the focus was on Kyle Dawson. Tracking him down, Marlin figured, would be the hard part. Marlin and Turpin stepped outside, closing the back door behind them.

  “Our vehicles are still over at Clay’s,” Marlin pointed out.

  Turpin nodded. “We can catch a ride when the others get here.” Obtaining a warrant would likely take only a few hours, and the search of the house would begin as soon as Tatum and Cowan arrived.

  One of the men needed to remain at the house anyway, just in case Dawson showed his face. Marlin assumed that wasn’t likely.

  “You mind if I take off?” Marlin asked. His part of the investigation was over, for now at least. Unless the deputies asked for his help, the homicide case fell squarely on their shoulders. Marlin would still try to determine what type of animals had been housed in the other crates, but that was something he could start in the morning, after he got some sleep. He’d only slept three hours the night before, and he was exhausted. Despite the excitement, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  “Hell, man, you had a big part in this,” Turpin said. “Stay and enjoy the glory.”

  “Thanks, Ernie, but I’m beat. I’m gonna head out.”

  They shook hands, and Marlin began the walk out to the county road to make his way around to Summy’s house. Thirty yards down the driveway, he stopped. “Make sure they talk to Duke Waldrip,” he called back to Turpin. “He might have an idea where Dawson went.”

  Beulah Summerall’s greatest love in life—next to her husband, Cal—was her poodle, Max. He was a spirited young male (a former champion on the show circuit), almost as spunky as Beulah herself. Yes, Beulah was well into her seventies now, but she always said that you were only as old as you felt. And she felt wonderful. She loved her long walks along the quiet county roads near her home, and she’d be darned if she’d let the mild arthritis that had been creeping up lately slow her down. A couple of aspirin and off she’d go.

  Cal’s emphysema, unfortunately, prevented him from accompanying Beulah on her strolls, but Max was always a willing volunteer, trotting ahead of her with a wagging tail, his toenails clicking on the asphalt.

  This particular evening, Beulah decided to walk east on Flat Creek Road, admiring the lovely Texas sky as she went. There were always so many stars to see out here in the country, unlike back home in Chicago. There, the city lights blotted out the sky and you were lucky to get a decent glimpse of the moon. Here, the sky was literally shot full of millions of divine lights. She could even make out several of the planets on occasion.

  Beulah and Cal had made the decision to retire to Blanco County three years ago, and they hadn’t regretted it for a single minute. Their only child, a son named Michael, lived in San Antonio, and now it was a mere hour’s drive to see the grandkids. And then there was the weather. How glorious, compared to Chicago’s weather. Granted, the summers could be brutal, but that was what air-conditioning was for. And the winters more than made up for it. In Chicago right now, Beulah’s old friends were digging out from under two feet of snow. Beulah, on the other hand, was enjoying a comfortable evening, the temperature in the mid-fifties.

  Max was leading the way, tethered to a ten-foot leash, Beulah following with a flashlight. There really wasn’t much need for the leash; traffic was generally light and slow on these smaller roads. But Beulah would never forgive herself if Max were to get hit. What a disaster that would be. Better safe than sorry. That’s why Beulah always wore a shirt made from reflective material, and little Max’s collar glowed in the dark. She preferred this eastward-stretching bit of road, in fact, because it was free of curves. She could see the cars coming from a great distance, and they could see her.

  This evening, so far, only one vehicle had passed by—an old red Ford truck, going much too fast, in Beulah’s opinion. Other than that, it was peaceful and serene and perfect.

  Then Max started barking. Glaring into the dark, Max yapped at something unseen. Beulah shined the flashlight into the brush but saw nothing. It was probably just a small animal, maybe a raccoon. Some critter. She loved that word. Critter. Sounded so Texan.

  “Come on, Max,” Beulah said, tugging on the leash. He was behind her now, planting his little paws in the dirt on the side of the road. Putting up a perfectly brave show. He let out a few more courageous barks.

  Then Beulah heard something moving in the brush.

  She refined her theory. It was probably an armadillo. They were, after all, nocturnal creatures, and they made a tremendous amount of noise rooting through the native grasses.

  Max growled and Beulah smiled. What would Max do if he actually caught one of those armored animals? Probably tuck his tail and run, if he was smart. It was silly to even think about it.

  Then something strange happened. Max’s growl turned into a whimper and he retreated behind Beulah’s legs.

  Well.

  Beulah had never heard Max whimper quite like that. He seemed genuinely frightened. Poor little thing. Maybe it would be best to turn back now.

  Max’s whimper turned into more of a persistent yelp.

  She shined her light again. Yes, it was definitely time to go home.

  Then the brush exploded and the most hideous animal Beulah had ever seen lunged right at her.

  Marlin had been asleep for less than an hour when there was a knock on the door. He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, wondering who’d be coming by his house without phoning. Maybe Phil Colby, since Marlin had never called him back. Marlin swung the door open and found a nice-looking dark-haired woman on his front porch. He couldn’t place her, but she was definitely familiar.

  “Mr. Marlin?”

  “Yes?” he said, using one leg to keep Geist from escaping out the door.

  The woman stuck out a hand. “I’m Rudi Villarreal, with Hard News Tonight.”

  Now he recognized her. The reporter from that tabloid TV program that was in town. Marlin reluctantly shook her hand. Glancing behind h
er, he saw a minivan parked behind his truck, a couple of men staring out the front windshield. “How can I help you?” He figured he knew the answer already: They wanted to talk to him about the chupacabra.

  “Well, I’m sorry to bother you at home,” Rudi said, smiling, “but as you know, there have been a lot of strange events out here in your county.” She said it more as a question, inviting him to respond. Marlin remained quiet.

  She was undeterred. “We’ve talked to a couple of deputies and many of the local residents—but with you being the game warden, we thought you might like to give us your thoughts.” Another question in the form of a statement.

  “You’re asking for an interview?”

  Rudi nodded. “Just a quick one. Especially with the latest developments.” Third nonquestion in a row. She raised an eyebrow, as if they shared a secret.

  “What exactly are you referring to?”

  “The animal you found this evening.” The smile again, almost with a cat-and-mouse feel to it. “We spoke to Clay Summy.”

  There it is. That’s what this is all about. When Marlin had returned to Summy’s place to get his truck, he had felt obligated to tell the old rancher what they had found. He’d asked Summy to keep it under his hat, but news like that was hard to keep to oneself, apparently.

  Marlin mulled it over. His gut told him to decline the interview, but then he realized it might be a good idea. If newcomers to town were after the chupacabra—and they thought it had already been caught—they’d pack their bags and go home. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” he said. “It’s an ongoing investigation.”

  Rudi nodded. “That’s fine. We don’t expect any more details than you’d put in your reports.”

  Marlin was warming to the idea. “When would it air?”

  “Tomorrow night. It’s our Saturday-evening show—our biggest audience.” Rudi eyed him expectantly. “We can just talk to you out here on your porch. Won’t take but a few minutes. Will you do it?”

  Finally, a direct question.

  “Yeah, sure,” Marlin said. “Just let me put on a uniform.”

  Rudi turned and gave a thumbs-up to the men in the van.

  20

  WHOA, RUDI THOUGHT, waiting on the porch. How come they don’t grow ’em like this guy back in L.A.? John Marlin was completely different than the Armani-clad power brokers out in Hollywood. Kind of rugged, without being some sort of hayseed.

  Barry and Chad climbed the stairs, lugging the equipment with them. Barry would be running the camera, Chad on sound. Apparently, Chad had made his way up the ranks many years ago working audio. Fortunately, he seemed to be handling the components—new technology to him—without a problem.

  “So he’s going to do it?” Barry whispered.

  “Well, of course he is,” Chad said. “Wouldn’t you if you found a gorgeous young lady like Rudi standing on your front steps?” He smiled at Rudi, but it came across as a leer.

  Gross. Late last night, Chad had knocked on Rudi’s motel door, saying they needed to talk strategy. “Who we’re gonna interview next, things like that,” he had said, slurring, ogling Rudi in her nightshirt. She’d smelled the scotch on his breath.

  “Go to bed!” she’d hissed, closing the door with a bang.

  This morning, he’d acted like it had never happened. Lecherous bastard.

  She felt bad for Barry, too, because he was the producer and should be running the show. But since Chad was their boss, he was calling all the shots. He’d made all the decisions, from the approach they’d take to the story (“Deadly serious, not that light-hearted crap”), down to the motel they would stay at. And he’d been treating Barry like a gofer the whole time. In short, Chad was being his typical self: a grade-A asshole. He’d made his way to the top of the industry by being a world-class schmoozer, and he was quick to use his talents when the game warden returned wearing a khaki uniform with a badge pinned to the shirt.

  “Good evening, sir,” Chad said, shaking John Marlin’s hand, “I’m Chad Reeves, executive producer of Hard News Tonight.”

  Rudi noticed that John Marlin, to his credit, appeared unimpressed. “John Marlin,” he said simply.

  “You’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Rudi,” Chad said.

  The game warden nodded.

  Rudi waited for Chad to introduce Barry, but it became apparent that he wasn’t going to. So she said, “And this is Barry Grubbman, the producer for this segment.” Rudi hoped Chad noticed the emphasis she put on the word producer.

  Barry waved from behind the camera. “Hi.”

  “Nice to meet you, Barry.”

  Rudi steered the game warden closer to the front of his porch. She decided she’d stand one step lower as she interviewed him, making the game warden appear even taller and more authoritative.

  “How’s this?” she asked Barry.

  He had set up some klieg lights and was peering through the camera.

  “Looks great,” Chad said before Barry could reply.

  Rudi shot him a glare. He winked at her.

  She turned to Marlin, holding a microphone. “I’m going to ask you some basic questions. Just answer naturally. Don’t worry if you get tongue-tied or anything.” She gave him her best smile. “Lots of people get a little nervous when they’re interviewed, but it’s no big deal. We can edit it later and make it work.”

  “Sounds good,” he replied. To Rudi, he looked anything but nervous. God, he was nice-looking, too, but not in a Tom Cruise pretty-boy kind of way. The camera—and the show’s vast female audience—would love him.

  Chad, listening on a headset, said the audio was ready to go. Barry gave her a thumbs-up, the camera rolled, and the interview began.

  Rudi lobbed a few easy questions at John Marlin at first, just to warm him up. How long had he been the game warden in Blanco County? Did he work closely with the sheriff’s department? What were his primary responsibilities? But in the middle of one of Marlin’s answers, Chad gave her a let’s-move-along gesture. So she said, “What can you tell us about the animal you captured late this afternoon?”

  “Uh, I can say it wasn’t a native species for the area. But nothing too unusual. Certainly nothing to be concerned about. There’s been somewhat of a frenzy around here, and there’s really no reason for it.”

  Rudi was pleased. The man was a natural—cool and confident in front of the camera. He had a comforting, easygoing demeanor. “So you’re saying this was an animal you had never experienced before?”

  “Well, I personally had never seen anything like it in Blanco County before, and we’ve had some odd animals get loose over the years. Ranchers and breeders can legally import all sorts of animals, and sometimes they manage to escape and cause an uproar.”

  “So this was a legally imported animal?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that.”

  “Okay, but you think this animal—whatever it is—was responsible for the so-called chupacabra sightings? Is this the animal that people have been seeing?”

  “I imagine so. In fact, we discovered the animal after a man called in reporting it as the chupacabra.”

  Rudi smiled, wanting to draw the interview to a close with a playful question. “What exactly is the chupacabra supposed to look like, from what you know?”

  The game warden grinned and played along. “Let’s see … sort of a cross between a flying monkey and a large reptile. Huge red eyes … long fangs. Something ridiculous like that.”

  Perfect. “I take it you don’t believe in it?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m afraid I don’t. And I hate to disappoint all the people who are here looking for it, but they’re gonna come up empty. Better just to go on home.”

  “That’s the end of the animal troubles, then?”

  “That’s right. No more animal troubles.”

  The horrible beast lunged straight for Max, and Beulah Summerall felt the leash jerk as her poor poodle tried to run away. She had her hand through the loop a
t the end of the leash, and there was no letting go now. She was tied to Max, and Beulah knew her fate and Max’s would be one and the same.

  The next few moments were sheer confusion and chaos.

  Max released an earsplitting yelp, and the beast appeared to have the poodle in its mouth.

  Without even thinking, Beulah rushed forward and began to swing wildly with her walking stick. She heard fierce growling, tremendous squeals from Max, and the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

  She swung a few more times and felt the solid impact of wood on flesh.

  Beulah couldn’t be sure, but Max appeared to be fighting back. The light was too dim to be certain—but either Max was still in the beast’s jaws or he had a fang of his own sunk into the animal’s neck!

  Beulah was out of breath now, her knees weak, her head spinning. She summoned the last of her strength, shouting, “Get away!” while swinging the walking stick as hard as she could from over her head.

  The stick cracked and broke in two as it came down squarely on the animal’s neck. There was a horrifying scream, almost human … and then it was over.

  The animal bolted back into the woods.

  Beulah dropped to her knees, using the remaining half of her walking stick to prop herself up.

  Then she heard it. A bone-chilling sound that carried through the quiet night. It was almost like laughter. The animal was laughing at her.

  Max immediately ran to her, whimpering but wagging his tail. Beulah reached down and carefully probed for injuries. His fur was damp, but he appeared to be okay.

  Beulah took one last look toward the brush on the side of the road. “Let’s go home, Max,” she said. “I don’t want to walk anymore.”

  Duke Waldrip had tried calling the game warden’s home number several times that afternoon, but he hadn’t gotten an answer. He’d even called the sheriff’s office, but John Marlin wasn’t there, either. It was obvious, though, that nobody was looking for Duke. He’d called Sally Ann earlier, and she had acted normal—meaning she’d been cold and unresponsive. Hell, half the time when he went to the trouble to go home, he expected to find his belongings dumped in the front yard. What kept him and Sally Ann together, he didn’t have a clue. It sure wasn’t the vast quantities of love they shared. It was probably just the convenience of it all, the fact that she lived two driveways down the road. Anyway, the good news was, she hadn’t said anything about deputies looking for him. Still, though, Duke wanted to reach Marlin if he could. It was the best way to set his plan in motion. He grabbed his cell phone. As he dialed, he eyed Gus on the couch. His brother was reading a magazine, but he hadn’t flipped a page in thirty minutes.