Hog Heaven (14 page)

Marlin woke at six o’clock, brewed some coffee, and went straight to his computer. Just a few years earlier, he could hardly have conducted a simple Internet search. But he’d had some practice since then and had become proficient. Skilled, even. He’d learned that it wasn’t that tough to track someone down online—if they could be tracked down.

He began with the most obvious step and checked a couple of telephone directories. Aleksandra Babikova wasn’t listed. That would’ve been too easy. Like many people her age, she probably didn’t even have a landline. Cell phone only.

He checked Facebook. There were a handful of Aleksandra Babikovas, but none of the profile photos showed the right Aleksandra Babikova. Either she did not have an account, or she had selected the option that excluded her from public search results. There was a page for fans of Aleksandra Babikova, but it said right up front that a fan ran the page and Ms. Babikova was not associated with it. Nearly three thousand people had “liked” the page. The last post had been three months earlier—a video clip from the movie in which Babikova had had a small part. Marlin watched it. Babikova looked great on screen, but she was a terrible actress.

The previous evening, before speaking to Garza, Marlin had completed a cursory Google search to confirm that the woman in the photo was in fact Babikova. Now he conducted another Google search, going deeper. He found a lot of references to her—and information about her—but nothing of value. Most of it was pretty old.

He checked the tax rolls for both Dallas County and Tarrant County. Nada. She didn’t appear to own a home or any real estate in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. Probably rented.

This wasn’t looking good.

There was a Wikipedia page for Babikova, but there was nothing there that indicated what line of work she was in now or how she might be contacted. However, it mentioned a sister named Tatyana. Back to Facebook, then.

A search gave half a dozen results, but it was easy to rule out most of them based on age. One young woman who lived in Saint Petersburg, Russia, had a profile photo that was encouraging. She looked a lot like Aleksandra Babikova. Marlin searched her friends list but didn’t find Aleksandra. However, he saw several more photos of Tatyana that increased his confidence that he’d found Aleksandra’s sister, or maybe a cousin.

“Wow. She’s pretty,” Nicole said, suddenly behind him in her nightshirt. “What are you doing in here? Cruising for chicks on the Internet?”

“Don’t tell my wife.”

She kissed him on the top of his head, then peered over his shoulder. “Russia?”

“You think this woman looks anything like Aleksandra Babikova?”

She leaned closer. “Hmm.”

“Hold on. Look at a couple more.” He clicked through the photos.

“I’d say yeah, she does. Almost certainly. Sister?”

“I don’t know.”

“Definitely a likeness.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Nicole stretched and yawned. “Gotta go shower.”

Marlin nodded. He clicked the Message button on Tatyana Babikova’s profile and began to type.

“Problem is, I have this one place on my back I can never quite reach,” Nicole said. “Very frustrating. If only there were a way to emerge from the shower with all of my parts properly scrubbed.”

Marlin stopped writing. He could see Nicole grinning at him in the reflection on the computer monitor. He said, “I’d be more than happy to offer my services.”

“Oh, you would? That is so generous of you. Give me five minutes first to shave my legs.”

Shortly thereafter, Marlin heard the shower running.

He quickly finished writing the message:

Hello, Tatyana. My name is John Marlin. I am a game warden (a type of law enforcement officer) in Texas, in the United States. Is Aleksandra Babikova your sister? I am attempting to reach her regarding a routine matter. I understand she lives in Dallas now. Do you have a phone number or email address for her? Does she have a Facebook account? I appreciate your cooperation. Thank you.

In the morning, after Betty Jean had left for work, Billy Don stayed in bed and started thinking about everything that had happened with Armando—and he ended up feeling worse than he had the day before. He felt
guilty
. Yes, Red was the one who’d bullied Armando into spilling the beans about the pig, but what had Billy Don done about it? Nothing, really. He’d stood there and let it happen. He could’ve spoken up a little more forcefully, but no, he hadn’t. Red had kept running his mouth, and Billy Don hadn’t shut him up. And Armando had gotten upset.

It was weird the way Billy Don felt about Armando. Not weird in a bad way, but weird nonetheless, or maybe just different. It took awhile for Billy Don to figure out what it was, but he eventually realized that he felt inclined to treat Armando the same way he’d treat a woman. Just like Billy Don wouldn’t put up with anyone saying mean things to Betty Jean, he didn’t want to see Armando get his feelings hurt. He wanted to protect him.

If Armando had been just a regular guy, Billy Don would’ve let him fend for himself. That’s the thing—most regular guys would’ve told Red to go screw himself, and Billy Don wouldn’t have had to speak up at all. For instance, if Red had gotten into an argument or a disagreement with some other guy working on a construction job, not only would Billy Don have stayed out of it, it might’ve even turned into a good source of entertainment. Red and the other guy could call each other names, trade insults, maybe make idle threats, and Billy Don would stand back and enjoy the show.

But it was different with Armando. If you called him, say, a big dickhead, he wouldn’t turn around and take a swing at you, and he wouldn’t call you a gigantic horse’s ass and then forget the whole thing. Instead, he’d reply with some insult you might not even understand. Or he’d act like he didn’t really care, but you’d be able to tell that he was upset.

Billy Don didn’t understand it, but he thought Armando was a pretty good guy—heck, a great guy—and it was really uncool the way Red had behaved. There were times when Billy Don was almost embarrassed to be associated with a guy like Red.

Bottom line, Armando deserved an apology—not just from Red, but from Billy Don, too.

Billy Don grabbed the phone off the nightstand and dialed Armando’s number. Four rings, then it went to voicemail. Billy Don hung up. He wanted to apologize to Armando in person, not in a voicemail. Maybe Armando was already at work.

So Billy Don called the flower shop. The old lady who owned the place answered, and when Billy Don asked for Armando, he could tell from the way the lady reacted that something bad had happened.

Sheriff Bobby Garza and Chief Deputy Bill Tatum rode downward in the hospital elevator, frustrated, because their visit had largely been a waste of time.

“Had to’ve been Gilbert Weems,” Tatum said.

“I agree,” Garza said.

“Do we have enough for a warrant?”

“I’ll talk to the county attorney, but I don’t think so.”

Witnesses the night before had said that a tall redheaded man—appearing to be intoxicated—had been in the convenience store just moments before the victim was assaulted. Video from inside the store confirmed those accounts, and that the customer was indeed Gilbert Weems. But there were no video cameras outside the store.

Worse, nobody saw the actual assault. And the victim—a young man named Armando Salazar—had just confirmed that he had no memory of the event. Garza and Tatum had asked him questions for ten minutes, but it had proven futile. Salazar said that he had woken up that morning unsure where he was and why he was there. He couldn’t even recall pulling in to the convenience store parking lot the night before. A nurse had told him he’d been assaulted.

But there were two small bits of good news. First, Salazar’s memory might come back, either partially or completely. Might happen in a few hours, a few days, or a few weeks. Or it might not happen at all, but Garza preferred to remain optimistic.

Second—Garza had learned this last night—Salazar had been on the phone right before he was assaulted. He’d been speaking to a local woman, Sharon Greene, and she had heard the attacker use a slur against Salazar. Not a slur about being Hispanic, a slur about being gay. It was a hate crime, which meant the penalty would be more severe.

“Can we show Salazar a photo lineup?” Tatum asked. “Maybe that’ll spur his memory.”

“We could, but that’s a risk,” Garza said. “Right now, he remembers nothing. If we show him a lineup of redheads now, even if his memory comes back later, a defense attorney can say Salazar doesn’t really remember anything, and that it was the lineup that made him ‘remember’ a redhead assaulting him.”

Tatum let out a sigh. “I understand, but it’s still tempting.”

“It is, but let’s give it a day or two. See if he remembers anything. In the meantime, I think it’s time to put some major pressure on the Bryants.”

As Red and Billy Don rode upward in the elevator in silence, Red was starting to resent the many ways Armando was interrupting his life. Every day it was something new, and it was downright irritating.

Red had wanted to get some hunting time in this morning, because the pig he’d seen last night on the Kringelheimer Ranch was probably still roaming the immediate vicinity. Then, after lunch, Red had been planning to contemplate the possibility of laying the groundwork to prepare to look for some new paying projects today. Maybe call up some of his regular clients, or at least write all their numbers down on a handy list, so he could call them tomorrow, or later in the week. These things took careful planning. You had to be organized.

But Billy Don had called and insisted on going to the hospital to see Armando. And that meant the entire day was probably shot, even if they only stayed for an hour or so, because Red had discovered that once he’d lost his momentum, it was hard to get it back. Even something as simple as going to the bathroom could bring Red’s workday to an early halt.

“The hell’s wrong with him?” Red had asked when Billy Don had called.

“Got beat up outside the convenience store.”

Which made Red wonder: What kind of man ends up in the hospital on account of a split lip or a black eye? Ridiculous. Take your lumps and get on with it. Who rides in an ambulance for a bloody nose? A drama queen like Armando, that’s who.

“I ain’t hangin’ around long,” Red said now. “Place smells funny.”

“Fine,” Billy Don replied. “You don’t have to come in at all.”

“But you asked me to come.”

“Needed a ride. I knew you wouldn’t be doing nothin’ important.”

That was another thing Red was tired of—the way Billy Don had been acting lately. Grumpy.

“You want me to come in or not?”

“Don’t matter to me.”

The elevator stopped on the third floor—the top floor—and the doors opened.

“Well, hell, I’ve come this far,” Red said. He gestured for Billy Don to exit the elevator ahead of him. “Age before beauty.”

Dustin Bryant woke up in the motel room after nine. They’d been out late the night before, first at some of the bars, and then hunting with a spotlight on a lease—a place not far from where Gilbert had taken potshots at the game warden. No pigs to be seen.

Dylan was still asleep in the rollaway cot and Gilbert was snoring loudly in his bed. Boy, he’d been hammered last night. Dustin had been drinking, too. Not as heavily as Gilbert, but he’d definitely been drunk, and that’s why he couldn’t be sure if things had been as serious as they’d appeared last night.

It had looked really bad, the way the little guy in the green car had dropped like a deer shot in the head. Blood everywhere. Gilbert so fucking proud of what he’d done. “Queers should stay in the city where they belong,” he’d said when he got in the truck. They left the guy stretched out in the parking lot. Nobody seemed to have noticed anything.

Still, Dustin had expected the cops to be waiting at the motel when they got back from the hunt at about three in the morning. After all, the little gay guy would tell them a tall redheaded man had done it, and that would be an easy tip-off. But no. No cops. It looked like Gilbert might get away with this one, too. Maybe the gay guy hadn’t gotten a good look at Gilbert. That was entirely possible, because it had all happened so quickly.

Dustin flipped onto his side, facing the nightstand, and noticed the little alert light on his cell phone was blinking. Voicemail waiting. He dialed in to retrieve it.

Hey, Dustin, it’s Sheriff Bobby Garza. We know exactly what happened last night at the convenience store. The whole thing is on video. Gilbert is getting out of control, ain’t he? But we can still charge you and your brother as accessories. We’re talking a felony, or maybe several, depending on what the county attorney recommends. But we can probably work something out if you give me a call. Better yet, swing by my office and let’s have a little chat. Bring your brother, but leave Gilbert at the motel. Better hurry, because this generous offer is only available for a limited time.

They stepped into Armando’s room and Red immediately saw that he’d been mistaken. Big time. This wasn’t a simple case of someone popping Armando in the nose or smacking him across the mouth.

Armando’s face was heavily bandaged, but the parts Red could see didn’t look good at all. In fact, it looked like Armando had slammed his face into the dashboard during a car wreck. His nose was heavily taped, meaning it was most likely broken, and both eyes were ringed with black. Armando’s lips were swollen, and there was a nasty split, closed with stitches, running between his top lip and his nose.

Armando slowly raised one hand about a foot off the bed in greeting.

“Jesus Christ,” Red said, wanting to add,
They sure fucked you up good, huh?

“Red,” Billy Don said quietly, meaning,
Shut up or he’ll know how bad he looks.

They both moved over beside the bed.

“Hey,” Armando said, wincing as he spoke. Red could tell that something was wrong with his mouth. It wasn’t just swollen. Armando noticed where Red was looking, so he said, “Yeah, they’re gone.”

He opened his mouth just enough to reveal that his two front teeth—the upper ones—were missing.

Red badly wanted to make a remark about how Armando’s boyfriend would appreciate the missing teeth during certain activities—but he managed to hold it in.

“Well, shit,” Billy Don said. “What the hell happened?”

Armando did a slow head shake. “Can’t remember. The deputy thinks I was either punched or head-butted.”

“But why?”

“No particular reason.”

On the one hand, Red couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for Armando, but on the other hand, it was just a few days ago that Red felt like punching Armando himself. If Armando had been jerking someone’s chain the same way he had jerked Red’s, well, some people might get pretty angry about it. On the third hand, even if Armando had smarted off or made some comment to draw attention to his gayness, he didn’t deserve to get clobbered as badly as he had been.

“Did you say something to the guy?” Red asked.

Armando started to answer, but Billy Don said, “Don’t matter if he did.”

“Hell, I was just curious.”

Armando said, “I was on the phone to Sharon. She heard it. I didn’t say anything to the attacker, but he said something to me.”

“What’d he say?” Billy Don asked.

Red could tell that Armando was hesitant to answer, because he was obviously in pain with each word, or maybe he simply didn’t want to talk anymore. But after a moment, he said, “He called me a faggot.”

In the elevator on the way down, Billy Don said, “You know what I wanna do?”

“Stop at Sonic for a large order of tater tots?”

Billy Don glared at him.

“Jeez,” Red said. “Ain’t gotta lose your sense of humor. Relax. I ain’t never seen you like this. What do you wanna do?”

Billy Don reached out into empty space with both hands and made a circle, as if strangling some imaginary person on the elevator with them. “I wanna find the guy who done it and beat him like a rented mule.” He suddenly pointed a sausagelike finger at Red. “And you’re gonna help me.”

“Like hell I am.”

“You are, too.”

“I got a pig to kill.
We
got a pig to kill.”

“Don’t care. You’re helping.”

“If you think I’m gonna—”

“’Member when that dude came lookin’ for you ’cause you banged his wife? Who was it that told him you’d been killed in a thresher accident? I did. Saved your ass that time.”

Red didn’t say anything.

“And who took you to the clinic when you had diarrhea so bad you had to ride in the bed of the truck?”

Red still kept quiet.

“And what about the time—”

“Okay. Enough. But we gotta make it quick and get back to looking for the pig.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

The elevator dinged and the door opened.

Red said, “What exactly are you gonna do to this guy if we manage to track him down?”

“Don’t know yet. Guess we’ll cross that bridge when I break his goddamn face.”

“Did we or did we not have a conversation with that little Spillar bastard’s mother yesterday?” Dexter Crabtree asked Ryan, who was working out in the exercise room of Crabtree’s Highland Park mansion.

The question sounded sarcastic and rhetorical, as Crabtree intended, but he honestly wasn’t completely certain he
had
met with Vera Spillar. He was pretty sure he had, but the trip yesterday had a dreamlike quality to it that made Crabtree a little unsure whether the meeting had actually taken place. He remembered dropping his phone into the toilet. Then buying a new one. And being incredibly relieved that the old SIM card still worked, so he hadn’t lost his contacts and other data. All of that was real.

“You sure as hell did,” Ryan said, curling seventy pounds with ease. He was shirtless, flushed, with beads of sweat streaming down his chiseled torso. Crabtree couldn’t help but wonder sometimes why his son was so gifted physically and so sub-par intellectually. “The kid hasn’t switched back to UMT yet?” Ryan asked.

Crabtree turned and left the room. Went into his office. Got online and looked up the phone number for the Marble Falls Wal-Mart. Dialed. Of course, he didn’t get a person right away. Got some damn voicemail menu first, but he kept punching “0” and eventually a live human being answered. He asked for Vera Spillar. The woman started to hem and haw, saying Vera would have to return the call during a break, so Crabtree said it was a family emergency and he’d appreciate it if she’d move her ass. She put him on hold.

Maybe it wasn’t smart calling Vera Spillar—leaving a trail—but it wasn’t like he was calling her at home. And it wasn’t like an NCAA investigation would ever go so deep as to subpoena the phone records of a Wal-Mart. And if it did, how could they ever prove that he was calling the Wal-Mart to speak to Vera Spillar? Of course, they had video cameras that would show her leaving her cash register at exactly the same time—

Damn. He was letting his imagination get away from him.

“Who is this?” a woman asked. That washerwoman hick accent again. Sounding suspicious. She wasn’t buying the bit about a family emergency.