Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (22 page)

“Why’s that?”

“Duke says somebody got killed and y’all are running in circles on it. Trying to pin it on him.”

Gus was ad-libbing a little. Duke didn’t have a problem with that, as long as Gus didn’t get in over his head.

“I’m not here to talk about that,” Marlin replied.

“Good. I don’t have nothin’ to say anyhow. I don’t know nothin’. You want more than that, you can talk to my attorney.”

Way to go, bro!

“That’s fine, Gus. No problem.”

There was a long pause, and Duke was tempted to peek out the curtain again. What the hell was happening out there? Had Marlin left? Then Duke heard him speak again.

“Let’s talk about something completely different, then. You ever meet a guy named Oliver Searcy?”

Duke saw what Marlin was doing—trying to trick Gus into talking. Duke realized he was holding his breath, waiting for Gus to answer.
You’re smarter than that, Gus. Don’t let him fool you!

“Yeah, I think so,” Gus finally said.

Duke quietly slipped down the hallway to retrieve his shotgun.

27

RED AND BILLY Don waited a good ten minutes after the game warden left before they chanced it. Sneaking onto that ranch was probably some sort of felony, Red knew, especially with the sheriff’s warning sign staring them in the face.

Red crossed the cattle guard and came to a stop. “Run back there and toss that sign in the weeds, will ya? I figure if they catch us out here, we can say we didn’t know better.”

Billy Don pulled his hunting jacket tight and clambered from the truck. He yanked the sign from the stone column and flipped it into the woods.

Five minutes later, Red had negotiated the slick roads of the ranch all the way to the south pasture. The trap was no more than two hundred yards from the kid’s north fence line, but Red had decided it was better to take this more indirect route through the ranch. As far as Red could tell, the kid, Charlie, hadn’t said anything to his parents about the chupacabra. No sense in getting them involved, because sure enough, they’d want a share of the loot. This way—with Kyle Dawson gone—Red could move the animal and claim he’d caught the chupacabra on his own land. How, exactly, would he move it? Well, Red hadn’t gotten to that part yet. First things first.

Red reached behind the truck seat and came out with a couple of rain ponchos.

“Hell no. I’m staying in the truck this time,” Billy Don said.

“The hell you are.”

“I had enough of this bullshit last night. Go check the damn thing yourself.”

Red held up one of the ponchos. “And here I went to the trouble of buying an extra-extra-large, just for your oversized ass.”

Billy Don shook his head. “Leave the heater running.”

“Fine.” Red wrestled with the poncho and finally got it in place. Then he opened his gun case, removed his Colt Anaconda, and tucked it under the folds of his poncho. “Be right back. Don’t play with yourself.”

“Did you see him?”

“Dunno. What’d you say? Oliver Searcy?”

Duke was back at the window now, the shotgun leveled at the curtains. Double-aught buckshot. One blast was all it would take.

“Your brother met him, Gus. I’m just wondering if you ever did, that’s all. Where did you meet him?”

“Duke said he met him?”

“Yeah, over at your office. No big deal, really.”

“Now wait, isn’t that the guy that was killed?”

No answer. Duke risked a look through the curtain. He could see over Marlin’s shoulder, and the game warden was unfolding a piece of paper. A flyer with a photo of Oliver Searcy on it. Duke had seen them posted around town earlier in the week. But Marlin had folded this one so that the
MISSING
headline wasn’t showing.

“You know him? I think your brother said something about hunting with him,” Marlin said. “Said the guy wanted a big whitetail.”

Duke was in full panic mode now, the shotgun trembling in his hands.
The son of a bitch isn’t playing fair!
If Gus said he knew the guy—or, even worse, if he said Duke had hunted with Searcy—all hell was going to break loose.

But Gus didn’t say anything.

“You met him, right?” Marlin asked. “Out at Kyle Dawson’s place, or maybe over at your office?”

Still nothing from Gus.

“I’m even thinking y’all might have hunted with him, but you’re both a little worried about telling the sheriff. There’s no reason to be nervous at all. Take a good look, Gus.”

Marlin held the flyer up for Gus to see.

“What kind of deer did he get?” the game warden asked. “Wasn’t it a big ten-pointer with a drop tine?”

How the hell does be know that?
Duke pressed his finger against the trigger, ready to give the oh-so-slight tug it would take to send the buckshot roaring out the barrel.

And then Gus said, “Beethoven.”

Duke watched Marlin, who craned his head as if he was listening for music. Duke’s knees nearly buckled in relief.
Jesus, he’s listening for the goddamn music!

“Squab,” Gus said.

“Pardon?”

“Alabaster.”

Red picked his way carefully through the trees, trying to follow the same path as the night before. He wanted to get a good look at the trap from a distance, so he wouldn’t spook anything they might have caught. He couldn’t believe Billy Don was such a big baby, complaining about a little rain. Now where was that trap, exactly? The clumps of trees were all starting to look the same. Should’ve marked the spot somehow last night, with some surveyor’s tape or something. Red thought he’d gone too far, so he doubled back and came at it from a different direction. Then he saw a deep footprint in the mud. Had to be one of Billy Don’s. Red’s feet wouldn’t have sunk that deep, and he didn’t wear shoes the size of a pancake griddle. Now he was back on track. Had to be getting close. Okay, there—a huge oak he remembered from the night before. The trap was just on the other side of it. Red eased along, moving slowly, holding his revolver out in front of him. He wanted to be ready, just in case. He finally saw one corner of the steel cage, but he couldn’t see the inside of it. Just a few more steps … and then he saw the trap was empty.

Damn.

“What’s the gun for?”

Red nearly fainted. He swiveled his head, searching for the source of the voice.
There.
That damn kid, hiding in some bushes.

“Shit, Charlie. You trying to give me heart failure?”

“I saw you drive by, so I climbed the fence.” The kid stepped from the brush and pointed at Red’s gun. “What’d you bring that for? I thought you said you weren’t gonna shoot it.”

Red looked down at his weapon, which was now dripping with rain. “What, this? Well hell, boy, what was I gonna do if I ran into a big ol’ hog? I’m getting a little too old to climb trees.”

“You don’t mind that I talked to him?” Marlin was in the interview room at the sheriff’s department, sitting across the table from Bill Tatum. The other members of the team had gone back in the field after the meeting.

“Hell no,” Tatum said. “He probably wouldn’t have talked to any of the deputies anyway. Glad you took a shot.”

Marlin had recounted his entire conversation with Gus Waldrip. Twice.

“‘Squab’?” Tatum asked.

“I think that’s what he said. Man, I’ve seen some strange stuff, but
that
was weird. One minute we’re talking, the next he’s completely zoned out.”

“Faking maybe?”

“If he was, he belongs in Hollywood. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and he’s always been pretty quiet, but I’ve never seen … that.”

“But right at first—he
did
say he’d met Searcy?”

“Well, yeah, sorta. Then he said no.” Marlin blew on the mug of coffee he had poured minutes ago.

Tatum was eyeballing him—looking, Marlin knew, for some sign that they’d learned something useful. Marlin hated to let him down. “Bill, I don’t know. It’s like talking to a six-year-old. Fantasyland, you know? I don’t think we can trust any of it.”

Tatum expelled a long breath and leaned back in his chair. After a pause, he said, “This thing’s eating me up. I’m this close to calling the Rangers.”

Marlin nodded. “Hey, man, if you gotta do it…”

There was a rap on the door and Ernie Turpin stuck his head in. He was smiling. “Y’all got a minute?”

“Come on in,” Tatum said.

Turpin entered and closed the door behind him. “I just drove over to the hospital to see Bobby….”

Marlin remembered that the sheriff had been transferred to Blanco County Hospital that morning.

“Anyway,” Turpin continued, “I was parked near the emergency room entrance, and as I was walking in, I see this guy walking out—carrying a deer mount.” Turpin smiled again. “I want y’all to meet someone.”

He opened the door to reveal a civilian standing in the hall—a man around fifty, with round eyeglasses and a ponytail. He was carrying a green garbage bag. Turpin ushered him into the room. “This is Marty Hommenhoser.”

“Hoffenhauser,” the man said. “Hi.”

“Mr. Hoffenhauser,” Turpin said, “why don’t you tell them what happened?”

The man plopped the garbage bag onto the table. “A friend of mine got injured. Pretty bad, too. Might lose an eye.”

“What happened?” Tatum asked.

“An accident with a saw. The guy who sold me this thing didn’t warn me about the bolt.”

“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” Tatum said.

Hoffenhauser looked from Tatum to Marlin and back again. “I know this is kinda weird, but I bought a deer head from a guy. I was over at the Kountry Kitchen….”

At that point, Marty Hoffenhauser paused, then pulled the trophy deer mount from the bag. He continued explaining, but Marlin, for one, wasn’t hearing a word. He was leaning forward, then standing, anxious to see the amazing, familiar specimen on the table in front of him.

“Ernie, go grab that X ray,” Tatum commanded, interrupting Hoffenhauser.

“Got it right here.”

“You want to keep your job, don’t you?” Chad Reeves asked. “I mean, if I remember right, your wife just had a baby a couple of weeks ago.”

The man on the phone, Marvin something, didn’t answer right away. “It was twins,” he finally muttered. “And that was four months ago.”

Whatever.
All Chad remembered was that somebody had brought a cake and everybody’d made a big deal about it. Like babies weren’t born every single goddamn day. The man was nothing but a video editor anyway—just one of dozens who had passed through the
Hard News Tonight
offices over the past few years. Chad couldn’t imagine why they always left so quickly.

“You’re asking me to lie for you,” Marvin said, sounding like a whiny ten-year-old girl.
For God’s sake, whatever happened to employee loyalty?
Chad wondered. Chad himself was as loyal as they came. When the conglomerate that owned
Hard News Tonight
was bought by a German media tycoon, had Chad’s dedication to the job wavered? Hell no. He’d been willing to fall right into line, goose-stepping all the way to Berlin for the salary he was receiving. Sure, those German execs were a little more tight-assed than Chad was used to, but hey, those were the fortunes of the entertainment war. They had made one thing clear, though, right after the Anthony Hopkins debacle. They didn’t want sleaze. They didn’t want to be viewed as the on-air equivalent of the
National Enquirer.
They liked innuendo, they loved titillation, and, as far as they were concerned, rumor-mongering was just another tactic to boost ratings. “But for Gott’s sake,” the chairman had chastised Chad, “no more lies. Ve vill haff no more lies.” Chad was worried that if this game warden fiasco came to light, the Germans might not return the loyalty he himself had shown.

“No,” Chad said to Marvin. “No, that’s not it at all. All I’m asking you to do is to believe what I’m saying. And what I’m saying is that it was all Rudi’s idea. I didn’t even know what she was planning until the segment aired. End of story.”

“But…” Marvin said. “But
you’re
the one who called me.
You’re
the one who told me what to do.”

Chad snorted. “I don’t think that’s relevant at all.”

“Of course it’s relevant!” Marvin shouted. “How much more relevant can it get?”

Chad let the phone line hum for a few seconds. He wanted to let the man calm down and get his head around this whole idea. He’d come around. “Marvin, I’ll be blunt with you. I think you have a promising career ahead of you. You’ve been a hell of a team player. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You’re the kind of guy people can count on. The kind of guy who advances lickety-split up the corporate ladder. Know what I mean? Raises, promotions … before you know it, you’re the executive producer. You following me?”

Silence. But Chad knew he almost had him. He just needed to push him over the edge. Make him realize how this industry really worked. “Marvin,” Chad said, “have I ever told you how I got my big break in this business?”

It was the same deer mount. Marlin had no doubt about that. They all knew it, even before they had taken an X ray for comparison. Which was why, four hours later—after fingerprinting it, verifying the results, and then typing up the proper documents—they were in front of Judge Hilton, asking for a warrant. They’d interrupted his dinner, but he’d been happy to carry a leg of fried chicken into his den with him. The judge’s eyes roved from Tatum to Marlin, then to Turpin and Cowan. “Out in force tonight, ain’t we?” he said as he studied the papers.

Tatum gave a nervous laugh. Nobody wanted to sit this one out. They were all vested in the case, and each of them knew it could hinge on the next few minutes. The silence was overwhelming as the judge methodically reviewed Tatum’s affidavit. Turpin shuffled anxiously on Marlin’s right. Tatum remained stock-still, military all the way.

Finally, the judge placed the papers on his desk and removed his glasses. “First Kyle Dawson and now Richard Waldrip, huh?” he said. He clasped his hands together. “Why?”

“Sir?” Tatum said, speaking for all of them.

“What’s changed? Here, let’s back up for a minute. When you came for that warrant on Dawson, you seemed to have your ducks pretty well lined up. Searcy was dead, Dawson was long gone, and you had hard evidence—that lock from his garage. Hell, it all looked good to me. Now you’ve got this new evidence—this deer mount—and you want a warrant for Waldrip’s place. I’m not following the logic here.”