Hog Heaven (13 page)

Just after six o’clock in the evening, Sheriff Bobby Garza—accompanied by Chief Deputy Bill Tatum—knocked on the door of Room 115 at the Hill Country Inn. The blue GMC truck registered to Dustin Bryant was backed into a spot directly in front of the room.

Garza could hear the sounds of a TV playing loudly inside, but nobody answered the door. Garza knocked again. Now the curtain moved in the window to the right of the door and the TV went quiet. Then the deadbolt lock turned and the door swung open about a foot wide.

One of the Bryant brothers—the one with the goatee—was squinting through the opening. He was wearing jeans, but his torso was bare. His chest was pale and hairless, without much definition, a ring of fat around his waist. His hair lay flat against his skull from wearing a hat earlier in the day. He looked like a man awoken from a nap.

“Yeah?”

“Evening,” Garza said. Friendly. All smiles. “I’m Sheriff Bobby Garza. This is Chief Deputy Bill Tatum. Which one are you—Dustin or Dylan?”

“I’m, uh, Dylan.”

“Good to meet you, Dylan. We need to chat with you a minute. Mind stepping outside?”

“Uh... what’s this about?”

“What’s going on?” said somebody inside the room. And now the other Bryant twin appeared. “Oh.”

“And you’re Dustin,” Garza said. “Great. I’m going to ask both of you to come outside for a few minutes so we can ask a couple of questions.”

“About what?” Dustin asked.

“Yeah, about what?” Dylan echoed. Their voices were nearly identical.

Garza noticed that Dylan’s eyes were darting nervously over to Tatum every few seconds, and Garza could understand why. Tatum was an imposing figure. Not tall, but stout, with a weightlifter’s torso and biceps that bulged like grapefruits beneath his uniform.

Before Garza could speak again, he saw the bathroom door swing open at the rear of the small motel room—and out came the tall redheaded man named Gilbert Weems.

“I don’t know what it was,” Marlin said, “but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew something he wasn’t telling.”

“What’s his name again?” Nicole asked.

“Colton Spillar.”

“Mom’s name is Vera?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

They were on opposite ends of the couch, relaxing for a few minutes before figuring out what to do for dinner.

“I answered a call at her place once. This was just a couple of weeks before I switched jobs, if I remember correctly.”

“What was the call about?”

“Drunk live-in boyfriend making a nuisance of himself, which was a regular thing. She’d had enough and wanted him out of there, but he also paid half the bills, so she was going to have a tough time on her own.”

“Did she boot him?”

“She did, yeah. I dropped in on her one time after I went to victim services and it looked like she was getting along okay. Struggling a little, but that was better than living with an abusive jerk.”

“Did you have much interaction with Colton?”

“None. But it could be you’re reading too much into his behavior. He might outweigh you by fifty pounds, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t intimidated by you, especially if Mom’s boyfriend regularly put him down or picked away at his confidence.”

Marlin thought about it. “You might be right.”

“Especially considering the circumstances. You were showing these teenage boys a picture of a beautiful woman and asking if they know her. I imagine that might normally make them a little flustered, but then you add the fact that this woman might have something to do with Sammy’s death.”

“I would’ve sworn he reacted like he recognized her.”

“But it’s a sexy shot, right? Even cropped?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Maybe that’s why he reacted.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Let’s see it.”

“Huh?”

She grinned. “I haven’t seen the photo yet. I’m curious. This woman must be a drop-dead hottie.”

“She’s no Nicole Marlin.”

“Ha. You’re sweet.”

Marlin went out to his truck and came back with the manila envelope. He removed the photo and handed it to Nicole.

“Wow,” she said immediately. “She really is—” He was watching her expression and something suddenly changed. “Hey, wait a minute.” She raised a finger. Her brow was furrowed. Recognition. That’s what he saw on her face.

“We ain’t done nothin’,” Dylan Bryant said.

Weems was now standing behind the Bryant brothers, glaring at Garza and Tatum, and none of the three men had made a move to step outside the motel room. Garza had been careful to check Weems’s hands, which were empty.

“You’re Gilbert Weems?” Garza said.

“That’s the name they give me.”

“I’m going to ask all three of you to come down to the station.”

Neither Bryant brother reacted. They were plainly going to follow Weems’s lead.

Unfortunately, Weems said, “Got a warrant?”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” Garza said. “We just need to ask y’all a few questions.”

“Sounds like fun, but we’ll pass,” Weems said.

“Won’t take but a few minutes.”

Weems stepped between the Bryant brothers and put one hand on the edge of the door, as if preparing to close it. Weems was knowledgeable enough on the law to know he wasn’t obligated to step outside or to answer a single question. “Said we’ll pass.”

Garza gave up on Weems and looked at Dylan Bryant. “Where were y’all yesterday evening around sundown?”

“We—

“He ain’t got to answer that,” Weems said.

Garza said. “It’s an easy question. What’s the problem?”

“Ain’t no problem.”

“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?”

“Don’t really matter, does it? It’s always some bullshit deal with guys like you,” Weems said.

Garza could feel his pulse picking up.

Bill Tatum said, “Somebody fired a couple of rounds at a state game warden yesterday. Y’all know anything about that?”

“No, but that sounds like a pretty good time. Was he hit?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Tatum said.

“Then you know it wasn’t none of us. We all know how to shoot. Don’t think we’d miss anything as big as a game warden. The question is, do you need a hunting license to shoot a game warden?”

Weems was grinning. Hoping to draw a reaction. Just as cocky and arrogant as Sheriff Sharp had described.

Garza turned to Dustin Bryant. “This is your truck behind me, right? Big diesel?”

“Yeah. So what?” Dustin said.

“The shooter yesterday hopped into a diesel.”

“Lot of diesels around,” Dustin said.

“True enough. But how many of them have dog boxes in the back?”

“Plenty.”

“Maybe in East Texas, but not around here. How many are occupied by a passenger at least six-four or six-five?”

“How tall are you, Gilbert?” Tatum asked.

“I’m five foot eighteen.”

“Clever. Six-six, huh?”

“You must’ve gone to college to figure it out that quick.”

“The county is crawling with people right now, but I can’t recall seeing anyone else as tall as you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure I look like a giant to a short little guy like you.”

Garza could see a trace of irritation on Tatum’s face, but nothing to worry about. The chief deputy wouldn’t be baited by Weems’s weak insult.

Tatum said, “The warden said the shooter had red hair. Wait, that’s not exactly right. Orange hair.”

“Dang, that’s a freaky coincidence,” Weems said. “My hair is kind of orange.”

“That’s true,” Tatum said.

“No wonder you think it was me.”

“Was it?”

“I think we’re done for today,” Weems said. “Time to go drink some beer and maybe get laid. Hey, do either of y’all have a sister?”

Garza said, “We
will
catch the shooter. I guarantee that.”

“Yeah, well, good luck.” Weems closed the door.

“Hey, Dustin,” Garza said through the door. “You give me a call at the station if you want to stay out of trouble. You, too, Dylan. Don’t let your buddy Gilbert drag you into a bad situation.”

Nicole recognized the woman—that was clear—but she was trying to place her.

“You know her?” Marlin asked.

Nicole held her hand up, meaning
Be quiet and let me think
.

Marlin waited, while Nicole continued to study the photo.

“Damn it,” she said. “Almost.”

He could tell that it was one of those frustrating moments when the answer was dancing just on the edge of her memory.

He waited some more.

And then he saw her expression change again. A big smile. She had it.

“Wait right here,” she said, rising off the couch.

“Do you—”

“Just a sec!”

She came back in half a minute with her iPad. He’d given it to her the previous Christmas. She sat down again and began to type something.

“I can’t remember her name, but...” she said.

“You know who she is?” He was getting excited.

“Yes. Hold on.”

He could see that Nicole was doing a Google search. She followed a link and studied the page. Shook her head. Followed another link. Then another.

“Got her!” she said.

“The name?”

“Yes.”

Nicole typed in another search. She got a long string of results, but instead of following one of those links, she clicked on the “Images” tab instead. Dozens of small thumbnail photos filled the screen—all of the same woman. The woman in Sammy Beech’s photo.

“Her name is Aleksandra Babikova,” Marlin said into his cell phone. “She played volleyball for the Russian Olympic team, then went pro for a few years.”

Garza didn’t reply.

“You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I just don’t know what to say. The woman in Sammy’s photo is a former Russian volleyball player?”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t that. You’re sure of this?”

“Google her name and you’ll see. She also did some modeling and acting, overseas and here in the States. That’s how Nicole recognized her—from one of the movies she was in. She played the sexy Russian spy.”

“Big stretch.”

“Yeah, right,” Marlin said.

“Aleksandra Babikova.”

“That’s it.”

“Name doesn’t ring any bells at all.”

“Didn’t for me, either. Not like she was a big star, but she had her moment in the sun.”

“You know what I’m thinking?” Garza said.

“Huh?”

“That this is a dead end. Waste of time.”

“Could be, but I should add that she lives in Dallas now. I saw something about that on the web, then checked to see if she has a Texas driver’s license. She does. Seems a little coincidental that she lives in Texas, and Sammy Beech happened to have a photo of her on his phone.”

“How long has she lived here?” Garza asked.

“Don’t know.”

“What does she do for a living nowadays?”

“Don’t know that either.”

“Okay, well...”

“I’ll keep digging. See if I can get in touch with her.”

“At least you have an address now,” Garza said.

“Assuming it’s current. But it’d be nice to find a phone number or email address, so I don’t have to drive up there.”

Garza switched topics and proceeded to tell Marlin about a man named Gilbert Weems, from Jasper County. Six-foot-six, with red hair. Found in the company of the Bryant twins, one of whom drove a diesel-powered truck. Garza said the men weren’t willing to talk.

“This guy Weems has about eight nuts loose, according to the sheriff over there. Dangerous because he doesn’t care. He was really trying to push our buttons. Talking all kinds of trash.”

“Think he’s our shooter?”

“Innocent until proven guilty and all that, but yeah, I do. He wanted me to think so, too, just to torment us. One of those jerks who thinks he’s too smart to get caught.”

“What about the Bryants?” Marlin asked.

“Not quite as out there as Weems. I’ll flip one or both of them. Just you watch.”

Unpredictability.

That was the thing about Gilbert Weems that always put Dustin Bryant on edge. One minute Gilbert would be having a good time, drinking a beer, telling a story, the next he might cold-cock some guy who jostled his elbow at the bar. No warning, either. Just... bam! And right after, you’d see this look in Gilbert’s eyes, like he’d just as soon stomp the guy’s head like a watermelon. Like he enjoyed hurting people.

Dustin himself didn’t mind a little craziness now and again, but not the going-to-prison kind of craziness. That’s why this game warden thing was a concern. Who the fuck takes potshots at a law-enforcement officer for no reason at all? Gilbert Weems, that’s who.

Dustin and Dylan had dropped him off on the side of the road so he could scout that particular piece of property, and the plan was to pick him up ten or fifteen minutes later. Enough time for him to look around for signs of feral pigs. Gilbert would give them a call when he was ready. So Dustin had driven on down the road about a mile and parked on the shoulder.

Then they heard a shot from Gilbert’s direction.

Then another.

And a third, but this one sounded different from the first two. More like a handgun.

Then another shot that sounded like the first two.

Then a few minutes later, Gilbert finally called. The cell signal was weak, and Gilbert’s voice was breaking up, but it sounded like he said he’d been “having some fun” with a game warden.

Lord.

Dustin wondered at the time if Gilbert had just killed a man. No way to know for sure, because you couldn’t always believe what he told you. But he said he didn’t hit the warden, and there was nothing in the news later, no massive manhunt, so Gilbert must have been telling it straight.

But still—that kind of behavior was just plain nuts. The local cops wouldn’t let something like that slide. Which is why Dustin hadn’t been surprised when the sheriff and his deputy had shown up at the motel. Fast, though, he’d give them that. Obviously, from what the sheriff had said, the game warden must have seen, or at least heard, Dustin’s diesel truck. And the warden had probably gotten a decent look at Gilbert, too.

Dustin had wondered what the charges would be if they got caught. Attempted murder? Assault with a deadly weapon? A felony of some kind, for sure. He wasn’t willing to take that kind of fall when it was all Gilbert’s doing. Gilbert the troublemaker, dragging them into a clusterfuck.

And it was about to get even worse.

They stopped at a convenience store for more beer and some Cokes to mix with whiskey. Drink cheap before they hit some of the local beer joints.

Gilbert had been drinking hard ever since the sheriff had come by, and Dustin had been holding his breath. He recognized the signs that Gilbert could do just about anything at any given moment.

Dylan opened his door, but Gilbert said he’d do it, he’d go get the stuff. So he climbed out of the truck and went inside, and Dustin could see that he was unsteady on his feet.

Dylan, from the backseat, quietly said, “This ain’t good, bro.”

Dustin didn’t reply. The way he saw it, he and his brother didn’t have a lot of choices. See if they could ride it out. That was the way to go. Because the only other option was to snitch on Gilbert, and that would turn into a world of shit, no doubt about it. Dustin could only imagine what would happen if they pissed Gilbert off and turned him into an enemy. Gilbert had told them some stories about things he’d supposedly done in the past. Things way worse than taking potshots at a game warden.

“Maybe we should go back home,” Dylan said. “Forget this stupid pig hunt. Before we really get in trouble.”

They were parked on the side of the store, and Dustin could see Gilbert through the windows. Hard to miss the tall bastard. He was lingering near the beer cooler, too drunk to locate his brand.

“Push comes to shove,” Dylan said, “we need to back each other up. You and me, I’m talking about. Screw
him
. We tell the truth in exchange for no charges.”

“Well, duh, but let’s wait and see what happens,” Dustin said. “We might not have to do nothin’.”

Gilbert finally found the right beer and was now making his way toward the soft drinks.

“We had no idea he was gonna do what he did,” Dylan said. “So they shouldn’t be able to bust us for it.”

Dustin stayed quiet.

Dylan said, “But I’m guessing the longer we wait, the less likely the sheriff’s gonna believe we wasn’t part of it. We gotta come forward before they can prove it was us out there.”

Gilbert was at the cash register, paying the clerk. A small green car pulled into the spot on the truck’s passenger side.

“Ain’t no reason to be afraid of Gilbert,” Dylan said. “He’s full of shit. Besides, it’d be two against one.”

Gilbert exited through the glass door at the front of the store and turned right, then turned right again at the corner, coming back to the truck. He had a twelve-pack of Bud in one hand and a twelve-pack of Coke in the other.

The driver of the little green car, talking on his cell phone, stepped out and made his way toward the sidewalk. Paying no attention to Gilbert at all.

It was about to get even worse.

Dustin would have stopped it if he had known what was going to happen. But that was the problem with Gilbert Weems.

Unpredictability.

Dustin was watching and saw the way Gilbert suddenly focused on the driver of the green car. The look that came over Gilbert’s face. Disgust and revulsion, all in an instant. Dustin could tell that Gilbert wanted to do something. To lash out. But his hands were full. So he made a snap decision and used the only other weapon that was available to him.

Gilbert said something to the man. Then he leaned back at the waist, whipped forward, and brought his forehead crashing down into the other man’s face.

It was the most savage head-butt Dustin had ever seen, and the driver of the little green car crumpled under the blow like he’d been shot by a deer rifle. His knees didn’t even have a chance to buckle. The man was out cold before he hit the concrete.