Read Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Online
Authors: Ben Rehder
Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (23 page)
Peabody strode to the wooden double doors of the stable and peered outside. Just a few minutes past sunrise, he surmised. Forty yards away stood a shambling old house with a rusty truck parked in front.
Then he heard a noise, the low growl of a motor. A few seconds later, another truck, a newer model, bounced its way up the driveway and stopped next to the first. A lanky gentleman in overalls and no undershirt climbed out and proceeded into the house.
Peabody was nervous now. He eased the door closed and focused on the decision at hand: Should he try to slip away undetected, or wait until the occupants of the house left the vicinity? Peabody was pondering the possibilities when the choice was made for him.
He heard two voices coming his way—a man and a woman, giggling. Peabody quickly scrambled back up the ladder into the hayloft, finding refuge just as the door to the stable swung open.
“—and we could get caught,” the woman said. “Frank is sleeping right on the couch.”
“I got news for ya, sugar. He ain’t sleepin’, he’s passed out.”
“Well, we gotta be quiet, you hear?”
More giggling followed, finally replaced by a lustful moaning. Peabody chanced a cautious peek over a bale of hay and saw two figures—the man in overalls and a brunette in a long nightshirt—kissing passionately. Peabody watched as the man clumsily fondled the woman’s breasts through her nightshirt.
The woman pulled free, gave a coy smile, then tugged the shirt over her head.
Well.
She was quite naked now, and Peabody couldn’t help admiring the woman’s sturdy physique. She had the solid build of a Midwestern girl. Large hips, ample bosom.
Ogling the woman with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing a pork chop, the man let his overalls fall to his feet. “Come to Daddy,” he said.
Peabody almost chuckled out loud. Surely the woman would be offended by such a crass come-on. The woman responded by jumping into the man’s arms, her legs wrapped around his torso.
My lord, what type of woman is this?
Peabody wondered. She had no more couth than a common... a common... He lost his train of thought for a moment.
The man shuffled toward a wall, the woman slid into place, and now they were coupling with remarkable vigor.
Peabody noticed that his own breathing had become rapid and shallow. Well, that was understandable. He was on the run and these people could possibly catch him. That’s what accounted for the changes in his respiratory patterns. It certainly wasn’t due to the tawdry scene unfolding before him. He was of too high a moral fiber to be seduced by the sight of two rednecks copulating like barnyard animals.
Peabody decided it was beneath his dignity to watch the whole sordid affair, so he quietly eased back and settled into the hay. A few grunts later, an idea struck him. These frolicking fornicators could be his ticket to freedom!
He peeked at the couple again, and it appeared they would be at it for quite some time. The woman’s eyes were closed and the man was facing the wall. Perfect. Ever so stealthily, Peabody made his way to the ladder and began a painstakingly slow descent. This was the vulnerable point. If the woman opened her eyes now, she would scream in terror and all would be lost. But she continued with her moaning, calling out, “Bubba, oh, Bubba.”
Peabody reached the ground, tiptoed over to her nightshirt, scooped it up, and scampered back up the ladder. The handcuffs rattled against the ladder a few times, but that was irrelevant at this point. He already had what he needed, and besides, the couple was still oblivious to his presence.
After ten more minutes, the couple finally reached a grunting, squealing crescendo. Peabody had decided letting them finish was merely the polite thing to do; he certainly had no voyeuristic interest in the event. The man—named Bubba, apparently—sagged forehead-first against the wall as the woman lowered her feet and stood on her own. She glanced over Bubba’s shoulder and said, “Where’s my nightgown?”
Bubba, in his postcoital bliss, didn’t reply.
The woman smacked him on the arm and asked him again.
“Right up here,” Peabody called.
He had never seen two people so startled. The man quickly tugged his overalls back up his torso while the woman cowered behind him. “Who the hell are you?” Bubba growled, glaring up at Peabody.
“There’s no time for that,” Peabody replied. “I’m afraid I’m in need of some assistance.”
They both gaped at him for a moment with all the intelligence of sheep suffering from heatstroke. Finally, Bubba said, “Mister, are you plumb out of your mind? What the hell are you doing hidin’ up in that loft?”
Peabody summoned his patience. “As I said, I’m in need of a favor.” He raised his arms so they could see the handcuffs. “Once you’ve helped me out of my current difficulties, I’ll gladly return the nightshirt.”
Bubba stared at Peabody as if he had just landed a spaceship on Main Street. “What the hell? You kidding me? Throw that goddamn nightgown down here or I’ll whup your ass for ya.”
Typical,
Peabody thought. He had noticed these Texans were quite bossy. Always ordering you around like an old schoolmaster. “Sir, I’m afraid you’ve miscalculated your leverage in this situation. Now, if you’ll just—”
But Bubba wasn’t listening anymore, he was moving toward the ladder, muttering obscenities along way.
Before Bubba’s feet hit the first rung, Peabody called out, “Frank! Hey, Frank!”
Bubba froze. “Shut the hell up, will ya! Goddamn, you tryin’ to get us all kilt?”
Peabody smiled. “No, actually, I had something quite different in mind. But it will require some sort of cutting implement.”
Five minutes later, Bubba returned with a pair of ratchet-action bolt cutters, scavenged from the cuckolded Frank’s toolshed. Peabody instructed the woman to climb up to the loft with the tool. Bubba started to object, but by then all the fight had gone out of him. He was nervously looking over his shoulder, just wishing to bring the ordeal to an end.
The woman did as she was told, bashfully climbing the ladder stark naked while trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. She failed miserably.
While Peabody attempted to conceal his perusal of her body, she pumped the handles of the bolt cutter and snipped the linked chain between the two handcuffs. “Thank you. You are quite kind,” Peabody said. Regardless of the circumstances, it was only proper to extend his courtesies.
After Peabody reminded Bubba that Frank was still within earshot, the woman climbed back down the ladder. Peabody followed.
Just as his feet touched the ground, there was a loud
crack
—the slamming of a screen door—followed by: “Sally Ann? You out here?”
Sally Ann grabbed the nightshirt out of Peabody’s hand and pulled it over her head. Bubba peeked out the door. “Oh, shit! Frank’s headed this way! He’s got a shotgun!”
Peabody had not counted on this development, and was struck with panic. There was only the one door, and Frank was rapidly approaching it. Certain death was closing in, but for some inane reason, Peabody had only one thought:
What would D’Artagnan do in such a situation?
An idea took root. The obvious solution squatted near the doorway. That bizarre vehicle, the Honda. Yes, D’Artagnan would ride that modern-day steed to freedom.
Peabody raced over to it, hopped on, and spotted a set of keys dangling in the ignition. Bubba and Sally Ann retreated to the rear of the stable.
The door of the stable swung open, and there stood a mountain of a man. The shotgun in his hand looked like a child’s toy. Small mammals could have gotten lost in his beard. With his brow furrowed, Frank surveyed the stable. When he saw Sally Ann, his eyes seemed to glow with fire. “Sally Ann? Bubba? Either of you care to tell me what the hell’s going on out here?” He glared at Peabody
.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
Before the two dimwits could respond, Peabody said, “I’m Jay Gatsby, with the Agriculture Department, here to inspect your barn.”
Frank appeared momentarily perplexed. But suspicion quickly clouded his face once again. “And what exactly are you doing in my stable with my wife?”
“I’m sorry, that’s out of my jurisdiction,” Peabody responded. “However, I will need to take this vehicle for a test drive.” With that, he turned the key. Amazingly, the vehicle jumped to life.
“Now hold it right there!” Frank shouted over the engine noise. “You ain’t going nowhere!”
Peabody spoke loudly. “Just a quick trip around the property, sir. Bear with me. You
are
aware that the ozone output on these vehicles can’t exceed ‘E equals MC squared,’ aren’t you?”
“I... I don’t... what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Frank frowned and took a step forward. Peabody noticed that the man’s finger was tightening around the trigger of the shotgun.
“Don’t thank me, sir,” Peabody yelled back. “Just your tax dollars at work!” Peabody started pulling on various levers, stomping on various pedals…and the vehicle shot forward—directly at the wall of the stable.
With Frank shouting angrily, Peabody braced for the impact, then busted cleanly through dry cedar siding, and ducked low as the shotgun roared behind him.
“How far back you wanna go?” Jose Sanchez asked over his shoulder. Sanchez was the branch manager of First County Bank in Johnson City. Marlin was standing behind Sanchez’s chair, both men eyeing the computer on the manager’s desk.
“I’m not sure,” Marlin said. “How about a year?”
“No problem. Why don’t we go back two, just to be sure?”
Marlin nodded. He had spent half an hour on the phone this morning, calling employees of various banks in Blanco County. It appeared that Bert Gammel did all of his banking at First County. It wasn’t much, though—only a single checking account. No savings account or CDs or any other type of deposit account.
The banker brought up Gammel’s most recent bank statement. There was remarkably little activity, mostly small checks written to pay utilities, plus a small mortgage note written to a bank in Austin. There were only two deposits, identical amounts transferred electronically from a county account.
“That’s his paycheck,” Sanchez said, anticipating Marlin’s question. “Direct deposit, twice a month.”
“Not much of a balance, really.”
The banker quickly navigated through several months of statements, none showing anything out of the ordinary.
“Can you tell me specifically what you’re looking for?” Sanchez asked.
“Just any large deposit, probably in cash, in the last year or so.” Marlin thought about the Ford Explorer Gammel had purchased with cash. A call to Kyle Parker, the owner of the car lot, had revealed that Gammel had purchased the car nine months ago. “Especially in the springtime,” Marlin added.
But the statements showed nothing. According to the paper trail, nothing unusual had happened to Gammel’s financial condition in the past two years. Just the same deposits made by the county like clockwork, the same checks written monthly to the same creditors.
Marlin was disappointed, but not really surprised, since Gammel seemed to have an affinity for carrying cash. He thanked Sanchez for his time and went outside to his truck. Next stop: a meeting with Maynard Clements, the county employee who worked most closely with Bert Gammel.
Red figured he could get used to this vice president stuff real quick. Here it was ten o’clock—a time when he’d normally be working his ass off in the brush—but instead, he was back at the Dairy Queen enjoying a couple of breakfast tacos.
He’d already spoken to most of the men on the work crews and told them what’s what: that Slaton was gone and Red was ramrodding this operation now. Most of them hadn’t even batted an eye. Of course, the majority of them were illegals and couldn’t speak good English, so Red wasn’t sure they had understood. But the important thing was, they were off doing the work while Red and Billy Don were sitting in air-conditioned comfort.
Last night, Red had told Billy Don everything the Austin lawyer had said. But he hadn’t sprung the Big Idea on Billy Don yet—the major brainstorm that Red had had while lying in bed. With Billy Don, you had to take things kind of slow or the big man would flip out. He wasn’t a big-picture kind of guy like Red was. You had to work up to important stuff one step at a time. Hell, half the battle was just getting the man’s attention, getting him to focus for even just a few minutes. It was like he had that attention-defecate disorder or something.