Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (18 page)

The crowd waited silently for Inga’s reply, some people nodding their heads in agreement with Mameli. She gave a patient smile and said, “No, of course I don’t think that. I just believe there’s a sensible answer that will allow us to do both—to live comfortably
and
save the sapsucker.”

“Yeah, like collecting
rainwater,”
Mameli said, plenty of mockery in his voice. “So you got a guy like dis here….” He placed his hand on a man next to him in the audience. “He’s spent maybe five, six grand digging a well, building a pump-house, but you want him to forget all dat and catch the few measly drops dat happen to fall out of the sky instead. What’s he supposed to do when summer rolls around? Say it’s July, August, and dere ain’t been any rain in weeks. He’s suppose to go outside and, what, do a rain dance every time he wants to take a shower?” The guy actually started doing a jig, patting his hand over his mouth, doing an Indian chant that was straight out of a 1950s B movie. People chuckled right along with him.

Marlin felt the momentum starting to shift, the audience starting to get behind this obnoxious clown.

When the crowd quieted down, Peabody spoke again: “You, sir, are not only a ridiculous boor, you are a rapist of the Earth.”

Mameli spread his hands wide. “Yeah? Well, what the hell ya gonna do about it?”

Peabody’s voice rose. “I’m gonna shut you down. One way or another, I’m going to stop your carnage!”

Mameli grabbed his crotch with both hands and said, “I got your carnage right here!”

Peabody cocked his head toward the ceiling, hands on his hips, muttering to himself, as if he were trying to summon his patience. Mameli defiantly glared his way. Marlin rose now, with the sense that it was about to get messy. He could hear Phil saying something to him, but Marlin was making his way toward the floor, keeping an eye on the two men.

Before Marlin’s feet hit the tiles, Peabody let out a growl and rushed along the bleachers toward the large Italian.

Women screamed.

People piled out of the bleachers, tumbling, jumping, to get out of the way.

Vinnie got lucky. After only six or seven minutes, he spotted the Porsche, already coated with a thin layer of brown goo. Give it another month or so and the car would be practically invisible, blending right in with the bottom of the lake, tucked between a couple of oaks.

Vinnie let the weight belt pull him down to the car, just a small kick here and there, until he felt his flippers sink into the muck beside the driver’s door.

Bending low, flooding the interior of the car with light, Vinnie saw Emmett Slaton staring back at him, his face green and bloated. Slaton was floating off the seat, his arms levitating in front of him, reaching for the dashboard, as if the Porsche had just gone over a large bump in the road.

Vinnie eased the driver’s door open, keeping an eye on the corpse. Couldn’t have ol’ Emmett floating past him, rising to the surface. That would sure kill T.J.’s buzz quick.

Now the important thing: finding the LoJack. T.J. had said it was small, about the size of a deck of cards, Velcroed under the dash, right below the steering wheel.

Vinnie reached under, fumbled around for a few seconds, and...
Hell yes! There it was!
He grabbed the LoJack firmly and tugged it loose from the Velcro. He examined it under the light. Damn thing looked harmless, but it would have sent him to fucking Huntsville, sitting in a cold, dirty prison cell. He unzipped a pocket in his wetsuit and shoved the LoJack inside.

Inside his mask, Vinnie grinned. See there? Every problem has a solution. All you gotta do is think it through, use your goddamn brains. And your balls sometimes, too. His father would be proud—if only Vinnie could tell him how his son had risen to meet this challenge.

Now there was only one more detail to take care of. He hated to do it, but this whole LoJack mess had made him realize it was a necessary step. Vinnie had wrestled with the idea for a while, trying to think of other options, but he had decided it was for the best. A smart man leaves no witnesses behind.

The love of a good woman was worth doing battle over. At least that’s how Thomas Peabody had felt thirty seconds ago, defending Inga’s honor, trading verbal barbs with Salvatore Mameli. Inga and Peabody had done their research and knew exactly who this Mameli character was: a land-clearer, a rabid destroyer of wildlife habitat, the kind of man who made Peabody fighting mad. But now, as he charged toward Mameli—who was looking larger and meaner as Peabody got closer—Peabody wondered about the wisdom of it all.

Would this be the act that finally drew Inga to him? Would this gesture force her to recognize his integrity, his loyalty to the cause, his bravery in the face of daunting odds? Would she become infatuated with his courage, his willingness to defend the defenseless?

Or would she simply think he was a moron?

Peabody realized he would have to ponder these issues later, because right now, Mameli’s meaty right fist was coming toward his face.

Vinnie finally emerged to the surface twenty yards from the boat.

As he swam the short distance, he could see T.J. rise to his feet. “Goddamn, dude, what happened down there?” T.J. hissed, trying to keep his voice quiet on the windless lake. “The rope went slack and I nearly had a damn heart attack!”

Vinnie grabbed the transom and pulled himself over. “Trees at the bottom of the lake. I had to untie it so I wouldn’t get tangled.”

“Oh, man, you had me freakin’. Did you get the LoJack?”

“Hell no,” Vinnie said, his voice thick with mock anger. “I don’t know what the fuck you were talking about, ‘right under the dashboard.’ It wasn’t there, man.”

T.J. groaned. “Aw, man. It’s right under the steering column, plain as day.”

Vinnie put his hand to his brow and shook his head, going for a look of frustration. “The steering column? I can’t believe this shit. Man, you told me it was under the passenger’s side.”

“Dude, I told you three times, it’s right under the driver’s side. Just stuck there with Velcro.”

Vinnie slumped in one of the seats and let the silence hang in the air for a moment. Then he tossed the scuba mask to Vinnie. “Your turn.”

“What? What are you talkin’ about?”

“It’s your turn. You know exactly where it is, so you go down and get it.” “But I don’t know how to work the scuba gear,” T.J. said, his voice shaky.

“I’ll show you. It’s no big deal. And you’ll have the spotlight. You’re not scared, are you?”

“Hell, no, gimme a break.” T.J. grabbed the stub of a joint and took a hit. “Hand me those damn flippers,” he said, smoke curling around his face. “I’ll go do it myself.”

Peabody ducked under Sal’s first punch and wrapped himself around the beefy Italian’s torso. Mameli responded by thumping Peabody several times on the back of his head, a sound Marlin could hear from ten yards away. Mameli then yanked Peabody’s head back by the hair with his left hand and was preparing to land a blow with his right, but his foot slipped between the plank he was standing on and the next bleacher down. Both men collapsed onto the bleacher seats now, Peabody howling in anguish as his hair was pulled tight. Mameli was moaning in agony, too, his right leg dangling unnaturally beneath the bleachers.

Marlin vaulted up the bleacher steps and started grabbing arms, trying to pry each man loose, hoping to situate himself between the two of them. “Let go! Both of you!” But both men continued grunting and cursing, taking short punches at each other when they got the chance.

Marlin couldn’t find an opening between them, with Mameli more or less lying on top of Peabody now. So Marlin got behind Mameli and reached around, attempting to loosen Mameli’s grip on Peabody’s stringy hair. That’s when he felt teeth—he wasn’t sure whose—clamping down on the meat of his left forearm. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled, feeling the warm blood begin to flow. With his right hand, he fumbled for the pepper spray on his belt. He found the small canister and popped the cap with his thumb. He couldn’t see around Mameli’s bulky torso, so he just sprayed a powerful blast between the two men, swiveling his wrist back and forth, likely hitting each man squarely in the face.

The brawl ended immediately as both men cried out and covered their faces.

Marlin pushed off of Mameli’s back and sat down on the bleachers, winded, cradling his wounded arm.

Peabody, wiping furiously at his eyes, managed to slither out from under Mameli.

Mameli propped himself on his elbows, prone on the plank floorboard, trying to see through squinted eyes. “My fuckin’ leg! The bastard broke my fuckin’ leg. I can feel it.”

“You deserved it, you cretin,” Peabody replied, tears streaming down his cheeks from the pepper spray. “You think you can just rape the land and get away with it?”

“Quiet!” Marlin yelled. He faced the crowd that was gathered below the bleachers, watching. He noticed Inga standing there silently, looking rattled, one hand over her mouth. “Anyone have a cell phone?” Marlin asked. A man Marlin recognized—the uncle of one of the sheriff’s dispatchers—raised his hand. “Mr. Briggs, please call nine-one-one, let ’em know we need an ambulance over here.” The man nodded and began to dial.

Marlin turned and glared at Peabody, who likely would have sneered if his face hadn’t been contorted from the spray. Marlin could see a bloody circle around Peabody’s mouth. Marlin’s blood.

Marlin stood, got behind Peabody, and grabbed his right arm. The handcuff locked in place with a satisfying click.

“Hey!” Peabody yelled. “What the hell? You’re arresting
me?”

“You’re damn right,” Marlin growled. “Assault.”

Peabody gestured toward Mameli, who was sprawled on the bleachers now, his face pasty-white, his lower leg bent at an odd angle. “He hasn’t even said he wants to press charges. And he assaulted me right back.”

“Not assault on
him
you little….” Marlin struggled to keep his temper. “Assault on
me.”

Never trust anyone but yourself.

Vinnie was sad that it had to turn out this way, but he knew he had to follow his father’s words of wisdom.

After all, could he really trust T.J.? Someday the kid might be hanging out with some friends, get a buzz going, and brag about their little adventure together, how they had cheated the insurance company and gotten away with it.
We sunk a goddamn Porsche in the lake!
he’d say.
What a fuckin’rush!

Eventually word would make it back to the cops, they’d do a little sniffing around, put the pressure on T.J., and it would lead straight to hell from there.

No, this was the smart move—but Vinnie still kind of wished he’d never gotten T.J. involved at all.

He could picture his friend right now, slowly making his way down to the car. Vinnie had told him exactly where it was, so it’d be easy for him to find. Getting back up would be another story.

Vinnie hadn’t told T.J. the most important thing the scuba brochure had said:
Come up slower than your slowest bubble.
It had something to do with the oxygen in your bloodstream, how you could end up with a fatal embolism—whatever
that
was—in your lungs.

And what would T.J.’s natural reaction be when he stared into Emmett Slaton’s bloated face? He’d panic, gasp for air, and shoot to the surface as fast as he could. No doubt about it. Hell, Vinnie had almost felt that urge himself.

He hoped that it would be quick and easy. He didn’t want T.J. in a lot of pain, screaming, begging for help, that kind of mess. If T.J. didn’t die quickly, Vinnie would have to get inventive, figure out something on the fly, maybe drown the poor bastard. But that embolism thing sounded pretty nasty. Probably wouldn’t take too long.

After that, Vinnie would just leave T.J. and the boat floating on the reservoir. Cops’d be thinking: What the hell happened here? Something don’t look right.