Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (26 page)

Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,
thought Marlin. Maybe they could officially close the chupacabra case. He said, “That’s a hyena, Charlie. They come from Africa.”

The boy appeared confused. “It’s not the chupacabra?”

“I’m afraid not. See, the thing is, the chupacabra doesn’t really exist. It’s kind of like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. You’ve heard of those?”

“Yeah.”

“What happens is, sometimes people let their imaginations run away a little, mostly because it’s fun. It’s exciting to think something that weird is for real. But it’s really a myth. There is no such thing.”

Charlie seemed okay with that explanation. “How did the hyena get over here from Africa?”

“It might’ve gotten loose from a zoo, or sometimes people get permits to import them.”

“Do they hunt them?”

“Some people do, but they’re not supposed to.”

Charlie looked down at the photo again, then handed it back to Marlin. They drove in silence for a moment.

Marlin said, “You been on Kyle’s ranch much, Charlie?”

A funny look came over the boy’s face. “Not really. Just a couple of times.”

Marlin knew what it was: Charlie was afraid Marlin would lecture him about trespassing. “I used to roam the woods when I was a boy, too,” Marlin said. “But you gotta be careful out there, especially during hunting season. It’s probably best if you don’t cross any more fences, okay?”

Marlin gave him a smile and the boy nodded back, finally grinning.

“If we drive through the ranch gate, can you lead me to the trap?” Marlin asked.

“Uh, I don’t think so. I just know the part behind my house.”

“Okay, then, we’ll park at your house and climb the fence.”

“But you just said I shouldn’t do that.”

Quick kid. “Well, this time it’s okay, because you’re with me.”

“Cool.”

Marlin turned onto Flat Creek Road. “Charlie, who were the men who set the trap?”

He shrugged. “Just some men I met at the store.”

“You remember their names?”

“Red and Billy Don.”

Should’ve known.

“Are they in trouble?” Charlie asked.

If Marlin was going to file charges on anyone, it would be those two goofballs. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Good,” Charlie said.

33

“MR. SMITHERS, CAN you hear me all right?”

Cowan could see Smithers’s recessed eyes blinking, and his voice came out as a raspy croak. “I hear ya.”

It sounded like his windpipe had been mangled in the wreck.
That’s gotta hurt,
Rachel Cowan thought as she surveyed the poor man. She could see nothing of him except his eyes and mouth. Even with all those bandages, she could tell that his face and head were tremendously swollen, much larger than they should be. In addition to the head trauma, both ankles were broken and one lung had been punctured by several splintered ribs.

Ernie Turpin was on the other side of the hospital bed, ready to take notes. Both of them were as excited as they had ever been in their careers. Depending on what Jimmy Earl Smithers told them, the deputies were very possibly on the brink of discovering who had shot Bobby Garza, and that same person had likely killed Oliver Searcy or knew who had. They knew Smithers himself wasn’t involved, because travel records indicated he was nowhere near Houston when Garza was shot. Besides, Smithers had absolutely no connection to Oliver Searcy. So the question was, where had Smithers gotten the deer mount?

Cowan leaned in low and spoke softly. “This will only take a few minutes. We’re here about a deer mount that you sold to a man in Blanco County. You remember that?”

Smithers gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

Good. His memory wasn’t totally shot.

“What we really need to know is, where did you get it?”

Smithers acted as if he wanted to sit up, but he groaned and eased back onto the mattress. Then he muttered something Cowan couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

Smithers said it again.

“Hitchhiker,” Turpin said softly.

Cowan said, “Was that it, a hitchhiker?”

Another small nod.

Cowan did her best to remain calm, but her palms were getting sweaty. They were hot on the trail now. “Where did you pick him up?”

“Houston,” Smithers said, forcing the word out.

Cowan wanted to ask for details: Where in Houston? When? Had he been alone at the time? But all of that would have to wait.

“Good. Very good. Can you tell me where you dropped him off?”

For a few seconds, Smithers closed his eyes. Then he opened them and said, “Johnson City.”

Cowan wanted it all: Where did you drop him? What time? Was anybody waiting for him? But again, it was more important, at the moment, to get the basic facts—while Smithers was still conscious.

Now the most important question of all. “What was his name?”

It was a long shot. Injury aside, it was easy to forget the name of a passing stranger. Would he even remember?

Then Smithers spit it out in a voice thick with grit. “Kyle … Dawson.”

For one stunned moment, Cowan didn’t know what question to ask next.
Kyle Dawson?
Everybody on the investigative team had been certain the answer would be Duke Waldrip. So far, everything pointed toward Waldrip, and they had become convinced that Dawson wasn’t involved. Still, though, with Dawson found murdered (which was an assumption, since they were still waiting on autopsy results), there was the possibility he’d had some part in Searcy’s homicide and was killed to silence him.

“Kyle Dawson?” Cowan said, almost to herself.

At this point, Turpin opened the manila envelope and removed a photograph. He held it in front of Smithers, saying, “Is this him?”

Smithers said, “No.”

Turpin showed the photo to Cowan. It was Kyle Dawson. Cowan smiled.

Turpin removed another photo and held it for Smithers to see. “Is this the man?”

Cowan was literally crossing her fingers.

Smithers said, “Not him, either.”

Charlie pointed out his driveway and Marlin followed it to a small weather-beaten house with a sagging roof. Paint was flaking, the yard was nothing but weeds, and Marlin, when he stepped out of the truck, could smell the unmistakable odor of a septic system that wasn’t quite doing its job. Hell of a way for a kid to live.

Marlin unloaded Charlie’s bike from the back of the truck; when they were done here, Marlin would drop him off at school and he could ride the bus home.

Charlie came around the truck and Marlin knelt on one knee. “Listen, Charlie, I know you think it’s a neat animal, and neither of us wants it harmed. But I need to take a rifle along, just to be safe, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me something: When you go to check the trap, how far away are you when you first see it?”

“I dunno. Maybe the length of a football field.”

“Okay, good. Then here’s what we’ll do. You stay behind me the entire time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You’ll point the trap out to me, but we want to stay as far away from it as possible. Don’t go anywhere near it, okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marlin grinned at him. “You’re a smart kid. You did the right thing by coming to me.”

Charlie looked at his shoes, but he was beaming.

“Okay, just let me gather a few things,” Marlin said, standing. Inside his truck, an overhead gun rack held a .270 and a 30/30. Marlin removed the 30/30, then opened a box of cartridges and slipped a handful into his pants pocket. He grabbed a pair of binoculars from behind the seat.

“Okay, where’re we headed, Charlie?”

“Behind the house there’s a deer path leading onto the ranch. That’s the way I go.”

They set out, and as they reached the corner of the house, Marlin noticed that Charlie wasn’t wearing the jacket he’d had on earlier.

“Where’s your coat?”

“In your truck.”

“Why don’t you run and get it?”

“I’m not cold.”

“It’ll keep the barbed wire from snagging you.”

Charlie turned and trotted back to the truck.

Charlie opened the truck door and quickly grabbed his jacket, which was lying in the middle of the bench seat.

But then something stopped him. Something he hadn’t noticed before, because his jacket had been covering it up.

The game warden’s truck was kind of sloppy, with empty soft-drink cans on the floorboard, maps on the dashboard, and right there, among some other loose papers on the seat, was a sheet of paper that said
MISSING!
Underneath was a photo of a man.

Charlie recognized him.

The writing underneath the photo said the man’s name was Oliver Searcy.

For a second, Charlie thought about leaving the paper where it was. The game warden, even though he was a really nice man, would probably think Charlie was lying. After all, Charlie had already claimed he’d seen the chupacabra, when it was really a hyena. Just a regular animal.

But then … if this man was missing, Charlie figured he’d better say something.

He lifted the paper and climbed back out of the truck. The game warden was still waiting at the corner of the house.

The animal made a surprised yelp and sprung to its paws, whirling in a circle and looking for whatever had just bitten it.

Red had nailed it perfectly, and he could see the dart dangling from the chupacabra’s haunch. The animal was so busy looking inside the trap for an unseen attacker, it didn’t even notice Red standing fifteen yards away.

Red eased backward, slowly, step by step … and then the chupacabra spotted him. It locked eyes with Red and let loose with a series of grunting growls and snarls, baring its yellow teeth.

Red had had enough. He turned and began a clumsy gallop back the way he had come, glancing over his shoulder nervously, certain the animal would burst from its cage and run him down.

Up ahead, Billy Don was out of the bushes now, prancing in place, and Red ran to him, gulping for oxygen.

“Did you get him? Did you get him?” Billy Don asked.

Red nodded, his hands on his knees now, the tranquilizer gun on the ground at his feet. “Yeah, I got him.” He removed the binoculars and handed them to Billy Don, who lifted them to his face.

“He’s just standing there.”

At least the damn noises had stopped. Those sounds gave Red the chills.

He was still wheezing, but he took the binoculars back from Billy Don. “Looks like … he’s starting to sag some. Oops, now he’s sitting. Kind of lost his balance.”

“You all right, Red? You’re lookin’ kinda puny.”

As a matter of fact, Red’s head was feeling kind of woozy at the moment. But he’d done it! He’d faced down the monster, and now he was about to become an international celebrity! He’d be rich and famous and important people would want to interview him, but damn, he was feeling awful strange and his vision was getting dark, and why was the ground coming up at him so quickly?

John Marlin had been in the woods of central Texas all his life, and he’d never heard animal vocalizations quite like those he had just heard. They were faint, a couple hundred yards away. An animal in distress. Eerie as hell. Then he heard dogs yapping, the barks coming from behind the house.

Charlie, over by the truck, didn’t appear to have heard the animal wailing. Marlin was second-guessing himself now, thinking he probably shouldn’t take the boy onto the ranch. Charlie could give him a general description of where the trap was located, and Marlin would find it himself. He was even thinking it might be best if he called someone else to go with him, maybe Trey Sweeney. His mind was pondering all of these issues, wondering how to proceed, when, in the next few seconds, everything changed and none of those concerns mattered anymore.

The boy was standing by the truck, holding his jacket in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. Charlie held the sheet up and said, “I’ve seen this man.”

What is he talking about?
Marlin wondered. He couldn’t see the paper clearly.
What is he holding?

Charlie said, “He hunted with my stepdad.”

Who did?
Marlin took a few steps forward …. Charlie started coming his way, holding the sheet of paper out. And then Marlin’s palms began to tingle as he recognized it. The flyer about Oliver Searcy. That’s what Charlie was holding. The dogs were still barking.

“Who’s your stepdad, Charlie?” Marlin was vaguely aware of a sound behind him, but he was too focused on the boy, waiting for his answer. Everything depended on the answer.

And Charlie said, “Duke Waldrip.”

Then Marlin saw, just for an instant, a look of sheer terror in Charlie’s eyes. But the boy was looking past Marlin, at something behind him. Charlie began to open his mouth to yell something.

Marlin had just enough time to turn and see Duke Waldrip—and to realize that the man’s large, hard fist was sailing directly toward his face.

34

ERNIE TURPIN GAVE Rachel Cowan a coy smile and showed her the photo. She was pissed at Ernie for having a little fun with her, but she was relieved to see that the man in the photo was Gus Waldrip, not Duke as she had assumed.

Now Turpin extracted a third photo from the envelope, this time letting Cowan see that it was indeed Duke. He held it in front of Smithers, who immediately coughed out the most beautiful words Cowan had heard in a long time: “That’s him.”

“This is the hitchhiker who said his name was Kyle Dawson?” Turpin asked.

“Yeah.” Smithers’s eyelids were halfway closed.

“You got the deer mount from him?”

“Yeah.”

Cowan was elated, ready to sprint into the hallway and call Bill Tatum, but they needed to ask a few more questions. Smithers’s voice was growing weaker and it was obvious he was becoming too tired to talk.

“Anything else you can tell us about this man?” Cowan asked. “Did he mention any of his friends, any of his hunting buddies?”

A long pause.

“Girlfriend,” Smithers said.

“A girlfriend?” This was something new. Cowan didn’t remember anything about Duke having a girlfriend. “What was her name?”

“Sally Ann.”

Cowan and Turpin exchanged glances, and she knew they were thinking the same thing:
Who the hell is Sally Ann?

Minutes earlier, before Duke had been forced to make yet another quick decision that would likely turn his world into a fucked-up mess, he had been sleeping quietly on the couch.

Then something had woken him up. Voices right outside: He’d glanced out the window and seen Charlie—why the hell wasn’t he in school?—standing in the yard with the game warden.

Jesus, what now? What is that snot-nosed kid doing with the game warden?

John Marlin was kneeling in front of Charlie, saying something, but Duke couldn’t make it out. Whatever the reason for this visit, Duke didn’t want to be in the house when they came inside. Up to now, the cops hadn’t asked him about Sally Ann or her boy. As far as Duke knew, Marlin and Tatum and all their punks
still
hadn’t figured out that he had been living here for the last six months, that Sally Ann was—as she’d been saying, anyway—his common-law wife, and that Charlie was his stepson, whether Duke claimed him or not.

So Duke leapt off the couch and scrambled out the back door. Damn it! Charlie’s mangy dogs started to bark. Duke made his way to the front corner of the house and hid in a small space between the house and an oleander bush, where he could keep an eye on Marlin and Charlie. He peeked around the corner, concealed by the bush.

Crap.
He knew he’d made a huge mistake. The game warden was now holding a rifle, and he and Charlie were walking this way. Duke pulled his head back and tried to think. What would happen if they noticed him? How would he explain himself? Why was he hiding in the bushes? A few seconds passed, but Marlin and the boy still hadn’t rounded the corner.

Then Duke heard Charlie say, “I’ve seen this man.” The boy’s voice sounded much farther away than Duke expected. Wherever they were going, had they turned and gone the other way? The oleander leaves caressed Duke’s back as he flattened against the side of the house and risked one more peek around the corner.

Fuck!

The game warden was standing right there, about six feet away. But he hadn’t heard or seen Duke yet. Neither had Charlie, who was back at the game warden’s truck, holding up a sheet of paper. What
is
that? What in God’s name is the kid talking about?

“He hunted with my stepdad,” Charlie said.

And in one horrifying second, Duke realized exactly what was happening. Charlie was talking about Oliver Searcy. He was holding a flyer, like the ones Duke had seen around town. The kid was slipping a noose around Duke’s neck.

“Who’s your stepdad, Charlie?”

“Duke Waldrip,” Charlie said, and Duke would have gutted him alive if he’d had the chance.

He saw no options. Once again, as with Oliver Searcy, he was forced to react, without having time to think things through. He slipped from the bushes, stepped toward John Marlin, and put every ounce of strength into a crushing right hand.

“Yoo-hoo, wake up.”

Red’s eyes fluttered, then opened just in time to see the stream of beer coming down from the can in Billy Don’s hand. It caught him squarely in the face, most of it running right up his nose. He coughed and sputtered and said, “Christ, you tryin’ to drown me?”

Billy Don extended a hand and helped him up. “Well, I damn sure wasn’t gonna give you mouth-to-mouth. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a growed man faint before.”

Normally, Red would have been embarrassed. But at the moment, he didn’t give a damn. It was his lucky day—like he’d just won the lottery or managed a sneak peek down some hot babe’s blouse—and nothing was going to ruin it.

He wiped his face and peered through the binoculars at the trap. The chupacabra appeared to be down for good. But what next? The problem was, the area between the trap and the truck was too heavily wooded to drive through, and with the added weight of the animal in the trap, Red was certain they couldn’t carry it. They’d have to remove the chupacabra from the trap; there was no way around it. Red was wishing he’d planned in advance and brought some sort of muzzle, and maybe some rope to tie its legs together.

“Okay, I did the hard part,” Red said. “Now it’s your turn.”

Billy Don eyed him suspiciously.

“What I want you to do,” Red said casually, “is go get it out of the trap and—”

“You’re out of your friggin’ mind.”

“But Billy Don, we’ve got to—”

“No damn way. Uh—uh. End of story.”

Red really couldn’t blame him. Who knew how long the drugs would last? If that thing woke up halfway to the truck, it could be a real nightmare. But Red wasn’t ready to give up.

“How about we both go get it?” he offered.

Now Billy Don looked a little more agreeable. “I’m listening.”

“I’ll even carry the front part,” Red said, wondering where he had gotten this newfound courage. He figured the promise of a big payday had something to do with it. “And if it starts to wake up, we’ll just drop it and run like hell.”

“Okay, but I get to carry the pistol.”

Red had to mull that over for a good long time. “Deal,” he said finally.

Red passed the holstered pistol over to Billy Don, who strapped it on. Then they both stared toward the trap.

“Good a time as any,” Red said.

“Yep.”

Neither of them moved.

“Might as well get after it,” Red said.

“I imagine so.”

Red took a step forward and, to his surprise, Billy Don followed.

They started slowly, then picked up steam as they realized it would be best to get it over with quickly. They began taking large strides, covering ground swiftly, before they lost their nerve. Soon, they found themselves standing next to the trap, the chupacabra completely unconscious inside.

“Ugly sumbitch,” Billy Don said.

Red nodded.

Delicately, as if he might wake the sleeping animal, Red opened the spring-loaded door to the trap. He poked the chupacabra in the hindquarters with his fingers.

“AARRRGGGHHH!” Billy Don said, goosing Red in the ribs. The door slammed shut, and Red stumbled backward, falling onto his butt.

Billy Don was laughing so hard, most portions of him were jiggling. “Gets you back for the other day,” he said, hardly able to contain himself.

“Quit screwing around!” Red said. “We got important business here.”

Billy Don stifled a laugh and allowed himself only a mild giggle.

The chupacabra hadn’t budged.

Red, trying to redeem himself for being so spooked, opened the door again, grabbed the animal by its front legs, and dragged it out of the trap.

Billy Don wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Okay,” Red said, keeping a close eye on the animal’s teeth, “grab your end and let’s get this thing to the truck, pronto.”

Texas Ranger Brad Anderson arrived from his hometown of Llano by nine o’clock, and Bill Tatum, despite his regrets about the Searcy case, was happy to see him. The men had gotten to know each other over the years, and Anderson was, in Tatum’s opinion, one of the best cops in the state. Damn nice guy, too.

Tatum carried all the files related to the Searcy case into the small conference room; then for a solid hour, he brought Anderson up to speed. Tatum was distracted, though, waiting for a call from Cowan. He knew the trucker could be the key to all of this, the one thing that could bring Duke Waldrip down. But Tatum still hadn’t heard from the deputies.

Finally, just as he was finishing with Anderson, his cell phone rang. “Excuse me a minute, Brad.”

Rachel Cowan was on the line. “It was Waldrip,” she said, breathless. “Smithers had no doubt at all.”

Tatum pumped his fist in the air. The team’s determination had finally paid off. He listened as Rachel mentioned another item of information Smithers had provided. Duke Waldrip had a girlfriend named Sally Ann—a fact that somehow had never come up in the investigation. “I’ll check the voting records and tax rolls,” Tatum said, “and see who we can come up with. You and Ernie get back here ASAP,” Tatum said. “Great work, Rachel.”

He cut the connection and told Anderson what had just transpired. “I think we’ve got a handle on this one now. I might’ve brought you all the way down here for nothing. Unless you want to help me bring the guy in.”

“Hell yeah,” Anderson said. “Be my pleasure.”

Marlin honestly didn’t know whether he ever lost consciousness, but he did know he had never been struck that hard in his life. The blow knocked him to the ground, blood gushing from his nose, which was surely broken. When he opened his eyes, the ground rose and fell repeatedly, making him nauseous. Worse, swelling around both eyes was already beginning to limit his field of vision.

He couldn’t remember feeling hands on him, but there was Duke Waldrip, holding Marlin’s .357 revolver, as well as his rifle.

“Charlie, get over here!” Waldrip yelled.

Marlin could see the boy cowering over by the truck, still clutching the flyer and his jacket. He walked over to his stepdad.

Duke pointed the handgun at Marlin. “Roll over on your belly.”

Marlin did as he was told. He could feel Duke removing the pepper spray and handcuffs from his belt.

“Okay, sit up.”

Marlin complied.

Duke handed the cuffs to Charlie, who was visibly trembling. “Go cuff yourself to him, Charlie.”

Marlin knew he couldn’t let that happen. With the boy cuffed to him, he would have no chance of making a move on Duke. And there was always the possibility that Charlie might get a chance to run free. If nothing else, Marlin wanted to give the boy a shot at getting away.

Charlie leaned down with the cuffs, tears now running down his cheeks.

“I’ll do it, Charlie,” Marlin said softly, taking the cuffs from his hands.

Before Duke could protest, Marlin flipped the cuffs over his head and onto the roof of the house.

“Shit!” Duke yelped. He took a step toward Marlin, shoving the gun into his face. “Real fucking smart, asshole.”

“Give it up, Duke.”

“Shut up!”

“You’ve got no chance.” It came across as corny and clichéd … and a little hopeless, Marlin thought. His own voice sounded odd, and he realized it was because of the blood and phlegm flowing down the back of his throat. He felt weary and defeated.

“I said shut up! Now get to your feet.”

Waldrip was glancing nervously toward the county road. The line of trees at the front of the property provided privacy, but there was always the chance a passing driver might notice the commotion. Marlin didn’t know what Duke was planning to do next, but he knew it would be a good idea to stall.

“I have double vision. I don’t think I can walk.”

“Get the fuck up! Now!”

Marlin got to his knees, then made a production of getting to his feet, lurching like a sick horse. It didn’t take much acting. His head was pounding and the world around him was swaying. He knew he very likely had a concussion, if not something worse.

Duke cranked the lever on Marlin’s rifle until it was empty, then tossed it to the ground. “Around the house!” Duke barked.

So that’s it. Onto Kyle Dawson’s ranch. Nothing good had happened there so far, and Marlin didn’t think this would turn out any differently.

Carrying the chupacabra wasn’t so tough, but Billy Don kept making growling sounds and it was starting to piss Red off. The animal was like a bag of wet laundry, its big head lolling to one side as they carried it. Now Red had to figure out where they were going to go with it once they’d put it into the truck.

There was a small exotic zoo a few miles north of Johnson City, but most of the animals there were imported deer, antelopes, zebras, even a camel. Nothing too dangerous. Red thought he remembered a bear, though. Maybe they’d have a big cage he could use. That would be a much shorter ride than a trip to the zoo in San Antonio.
Somebody
had to keep this animal for him. The alternative was to trek back and get the reinforced trap, but Red didn’t know if he’d have that much strength left. His legs were already wobbly as it was.