Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (27 page)

“I’D SAY THIS looks like a pretty good spot,” Red said. “What do y’all think?”

“It’s fine,” Lucy snarled, starting to lose her patience with these two boneheads. She couldn’t help thinking,
If Vance was still alive, I wouldn’t have to be dealing with all this shit.
Lucy had had a soft spot for Vance right from the start—ever since she’d met him at his father’s place. There was something about the man. Charisma, raw sexuality, something. God rest his soul, he was a hell of a guy. Liked to party, too, and once he got started, look out! Hornier than a billy goat.

The other cool thing was, she and Vance had thought alike. When he got booted from that hunting club, he had realized—with a little nudging from Lucy—that it was an opportunity, not a setback.

It happened when they were in bed together, and Vance started going off again, mad as hell, badmouthing Chuck Hamm, Lance Longley, and all the others. Then he said something about “that pervert Herzog.”

“Who?”

“That senator they got in their pockets.”

“What about him?”

Vance laughed. “We had a meeting at his office one day—this was last fall—and, well, I ended up getting to know his secretary a little bit. Anyway, what she told me is, Herzog likes to be spanked.”

Lucy couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She propped herself up on her elbows, a scheme already forming in her head “Spanked?”

“Yep.”

“This guy got any money?”

There was a pause—just a short one—as Vance figured out what Lucy was driving at. “Hell yeah,” he said. “Tons of it.”

It took them no more than a minute to decide that the esteemed senator deserved to have a few candid photographs taken. Wouldn’t the guy be willing to shell out a big wad of cash to keep those photos from the media? Damn right he would.

Then Lucy had one of those rare moments when a decent scam blossoms into something so brilliant, it has the potential to become a classic. The kind of con job that has early retirement written all over it. “This senator does things for your hunting buddies, right?” she asked.

Vance snorted. “Writes the laws just the way they want ‘em.”

“Okay, good. So what would happen—this is just an idea—if we asked each of them to kick in some cash, too?”

Vance mulled it over. “That’s a tough one. They’d probably just throw Herzog to the wolves and wait for his replacement.”

Lucy shook her head. “But not if we don’t ask for money right off the bat. What if we ask for something else instead? Like some sort of ridiculous change in the hunting laws, something that would screw all of them up real good. Then, by the time we tell them we’re willing to settle for money, Christ, they’ll be relieved?

She had never seen Vance get so excited.

“How we gonna do it?”

“Just tail him till we catch him fooling around.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing fancy
.
Drop some pictures in the mail, follow it up with a phone call.”

But Vance was nervous, talking about how powerful his hunting buddies were, asking what would happen if they figured out who was doing the blackmailing. “What if they trace the call?”

“How they gonna do that?”

“What about caller ID?”

“There’s a code you can use to block it. Nobody knows who’s calling.”

“But come on, the phone company would know. They could get them to tell.”

“Jeez, relax. We’ll call from a pay phone.”

Vance was still uneasy. “Man, all it would take is one person saying they saw me using that phone and I’d be dead meat.”

“Then hell, drive to Austin if you’re that worried. Use a pay phone there.”

Then that mischievous smile of his creased his face. “I got something better. I know a jerk who absolutely hates high-fencers. I’ll call from his house. If they manage to trace the call—well, this guy deserves whatever they do to him. I win either way.”

“Fine,” Lucy said. She didn’t give a rat’s ass where he called from.

So they’d mailed the photos, Vance had snuck into the guy’s house to make the phone call, and that was as far as it got before Vance was killed. The truth was, Vance’s death scared the snot out of her. Maybe the men in that hunting club really were as powerful as Vance had said. Lucy figured she wasn’t in any danger—slim chance that anybody could connect her to the photographs—but she didn’t want to push her luck. Forget the negatives, just get the cash.

Red climbed out from the driver’s side, and Lucy followed after him, telling him to hurry up and unload the safe.

Both ambulances were gone now. Nicole hadn’t wanted one, but Marlin and Tatum had insisted on it. The EMTs had checked her over, then agreed that she should have her neck examined. She had given Marlin a weary smile, squeezing his hand firmly before she climbed through the rear doors.

“I’ll see you at the hospital,” Marlin said.

“Good,” she replied.

Good.
Yes. Yes, it was.

Now Marlin and Tatum were sitting on David Pritchard’s front steps, stunned by what had just taken place.

“Hell of a job,” Tatum said, for the fourth time.

Marlin looked at the knuckles on his right hand. Swollen and red, but he didn’t think anything was broken. Except maybe Pritchard’s skull. “What now?” he asked.

Tatum pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. “We’ll get a warrant for his place and see what we can find. But I think I’ll hold off on that until tomorrow.”

“What for?”

Tatum grinned at him. “Because I think Brooks deserves to lead the search.”

Marlin nodded. “I think that’s a hell of an idea.”

Colby could hear voices in the distance.

George turned and pointed a long finger at him. “You don’t make one fucking sound, you hear?”

Sitting on the floor, Colby made a gesture with his hands:
Who, me?

“If you do, those people out there are dead. You understand that? It’ll be on your conscience.”

Colby was truthful in his reply. “I won’t say a thing, I promise. Just don’t shoot anybody.”

George snuck another peek from the edge of the window. “Who the fuck is out there?”

He moved toward the front door.

Red couldn’t remember ever feeling as excited as he did right at that very moment. This was a bigger rush than poaching!

Now the safe was on the ground, nestled in some tall weeds, the door facing up toward the sky.

He used a piece of duct tape to strap the stick of dynamite to the handle.

He glanced at Lucy and Billy Don, who were hiding behind the truck, thirty yards away.

“Get on with it!” Lucy hissed.

Colby didn’t know what would happen next, but he sure didn’t expect a blast so loud it would shake the small cabin like a doll-house.

“Jesus Christ!” George said, flinching. He had the door cracked about six inches, and he was peering through the opening. Colby was watching.

Please step outside, George.

Colby was edging toward the plank against the wall.
Please step outside, just far a moment.
Colby was
willing
it to happen.

He reached toward the plank, getting ready, and the chain around his arm dragged across the wooden floor, as loud as hail on a metal roof.

George still had his back to Colby. He didn’t turn around.

Colby slipped his fumbling fingers around the plank’s protruding nail.

Then it happened. George opened the door wider and stepped outside.

Colby swung the hinged plank upward and peered into the hole.

Red staggered up to the safe, his ears ringing, and looked past the jagged metal into the interior.

What he saw was…

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

No, wait. There was something. One small envelope, blackened and tattered.

Billy Don and Lucy were at his side now.

“I can’t believe it!” Lucy screamed. And she let out a wail that pierced Red’s soul.

“Let’s get outta here!” Billy Don said.

Red could hardly hear him.

Lucy was moaning now, and cussing Vance Scofield with all the rage of a drunken sailor.

“Let’s go!” Billy Don pleaded.

Red grabbed the envelope and headed for the truck. Then he stopped, pulled his shirt off, and turned to wipe the safe clean of fingerprints.

It was there. The old Krag was in the hiding spot. Colby stretched—and the damn chain wasn’t long enough for him to reach the rifle’s rusty barrel.

Standing on the porch, watching through the trees, Buford was having a tough time figuring out what the hell was going on. First, these rednecks come bouncing up the road in a junked-out truck. Okay, fine. Then they unload what appears to be a safe. Getting interesting. Then the one skinny little dude straps a stick of dynamite to the door and blows it sky high. They all rush up and gather round, then there’s a bunch of hollering and shouting, followed by all three of them piling back into the truck and flinging gravel on their way out.

Moe, Larry, and Curly, right here in Blanco County.

Buford was tempted to take a closer look, but he figured the safe must be empty, which was what the hoopla was all about. Plus, he didn’t want to leave Colby inside for that long by himself. He stepped back into the cabin.

Marlin could hear Darrell calling his unit number over the radio, so he stepped to his truck and keyed the microphone. “Go ahead, County.”

“Yeah, John, we just had a call about a possible explosion over near Wade Morgan’s hunting cabin.” Darrell sounded skeptical.

“You’re thinking a rifle shot?” Marlin asked.

“Ten-four.”

Poachers, most likely. There had been trouble over there in the past. “I’ll check it out.”

He glanced at Tatum, who said, “I don’t want to leave this place unmanned. Not until we search.”

“Yeah, Darrell,” Marlin said, “I’ll be en route momentarily. Meanwhile, can you send someone over to spell Bill Tatum?”

“Ten-four.”

“Why are you sweating?”

“I’m not sweating,” Colby replied. But he could feel the dampness on his brow. The plank above the rifle hadn’t seated flush with the other floorboards. It was higher by an inch or so.

George stared at him long and hard. “Thought those guys were your ticket outta here, didn’t you? Got you all worked up.”

Colby nodded, looking anywhere but the plank.

“Well, they’re long gone,” George said.

“What was the explosion?” Colby asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

Yeah, but it might be something for you to worry about,
Colby thought. Because it was loud enough, someone was bound to call it in. Especially after what had happened at Lucas Burnette’s house.

George took a seat on the couch, but he didn’t look comfortable at all.

Marlin kept it at a steady eighty miles per hour heading north on Highway 281. No sense in getting in a wreck over a poaching call. Seemed like small potatoes after what he’d just been through at Pritchard’s house.

He turned west on Miller Creek Loop and goosed it to forty. Passing the entrance to the Circle S Ranch, he decided he’d make a quick stop to check on Phil after he had a look at Wade Morgan’s cabin. Then he’d go to the hospital to see how Nicole was doing.

Three hundred yards farther, Marlin slowed to take a right, noticing that the bluestem grasses in the driveway had recently been trampled by tires. Yeah, poachers. Probably come and gone.

George stood and paced the floor, stopping to look out the front window. Colby could tell he was nervous, maybe thinking about abandoning the cabin.

“There are shots out in this area all the time,” Colby said. “Poachers usually. Happens so often, I doubt anyone even noticed.”

“Shut the hell up.”

George stepped to his right and peered out the side window. His left foot was inches from the raised plank.

“The game warden around here is pretty lax,” Colby said. “He might make a pass down the county road, but he won’t pull in here.”

George turned toward him. “I said shut up!”

That’s when it happened. The plank, now under George’s foot, fell into place with a thump. George looked down at the floor. “What the hell?”

He slowly dropped to one knee for a closer look. His hand skimmed the surface of the floor and found the raised nail.

Then Colby heard it again. An engine. A vehicle coming up the driveway. But this engine sounded completely different than the one before. He
recognized
it.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he said.

George stood abruptly and returned to the front window. Then he faced Colby. “Just like last time!” he roared. “You make any noise, this guy is dead!”

MARLIN SAW SPORADIC tire marks across the caliche, but no vehicles. The cabin was tucked behind some oak trees, looking as peaceful and empty as usual.

He grabbed his microphone. “Seventy-five-oh-eight to Blanco County.”

“Go ahead, seventy-five-oh-eight.”

“Darrell, I’m here at Wade Morgan’s. Everything looks quiet, but I’m gonna have a look around.”

“Ten-four.”

Marlin maneuvered the remainder of the rutted driveway and parked in front of the cabin. He killed the engine and stepped from his truck.

He listened.

Nothing out of place.

Birds in the trees. The faint sound of traffic four miles away on the highway.

But there were shallow tire tracks all the way up here, leading around the side of the cabin.

He noticed that his heartbeat had picked up. Still rattled from the encounter with David Pritchard. He stepped gingerly to the edge of the front wall and glanced around the side of the structure.

Nothing.

Except more tire tracks.

He followed them, moving slowly, his palm resting on the butt of his revolver.

Maybe kids had been up here, merely exploring. Or a poacher had driven in, looked around, and left. Whoever it was, it wasn’t anything to get nervous about.

Marlin was to the side of the cabin, moving toward the rear. He took another step forward, and then a bumper came into view. Another step, and now he saw the back end of an old Cadillac convertible.

A man wearing a Stetson stepped from behind the cabin.

Marlin instinctively unsnapped his holster.

“Whoa. Take it easy,” the man said, smiling, holding up both hands. “Got hit with a sudden urge, if you know what I mean. Had to find a place to go to the bathroom.”

Marlin stepped closer. “You shouldn’t be up here, sir.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, still grinning. “But you know how it is when nature calls.”

Marlin walked to within five feet. “I’d like to see some identification, please.”

“I don’t blame you a bit.” The man’s eyes fell to the small name-plate on Marlin’s chest, and his expression changed. “Marlin, huh? Like the fish, I guess. Or the rifle.”

Colby lifted the plank again and stretched as far as he possibly could. His fingertips grazed the edge of the rifle, but he couldn’t get a grip. Son of a bitch!

There was nothing he could do except wait for a gunshot. Or, if things went well for George, Marlin would simply give up his gun. Then they’d both be stuck in here, chained to these stupid eye-bolts in the floor.

Oh, Christ. The eyebolts. Now the answer was obvious. He’d been too exhausted and shaken up to realize it. All he had to do was walk in a circle, unscrewing the eyebolt out of the floor. The same way George had sunk the bolt into the floor, but in reverse. He couldn’t have done it with George watching, but there was nothing to stop him now.

Marlin held a palm out. “Your driver’s license.”

The man didn’t move. “You must be Wade. I’ve heard about you.”

Wade? Why did he call me Wade?
Marlin felt an overwhelming urge to pull his weapon, but he didn’t understand why. The man didn’t appear threatening. He was just standing there, a lazy smirk on his face. Now he was reaching into his back pocket for his ID.

He called me Wade. Just like Phil did. Because Phil was sending me a message!

Marlin pulled his .45 out of its holster, but the man’s hand quickly reappeared with a small revolver, which he aimed directly at Marlin’s face.

“Slow down, partner,” the man said. “I want you to drop your gun on the ground. Right there at your feet.”

Marlin hesitated.

“Drop it!” the man barked. “Now!”

Marlin bent slowly to one knee, placed his revolver on the ground, then stood up. He sensed movement directly behind the man.

“Now remove your handcuffs from your belt.”

“My handcuffs?”

“Give ‘em to me.”

“Before I do that,” Marlin said calmly, “you should know that Phil Colby is right behind you. And he’s pointing a rather large rifle at your shoulderblades.”

The man’s expression froze for a split second, but then he smiled. “Bullshit.”

There is a condition known as “buck fever,” and it’s the scourge of hunters around the world. It happens this way: A hunter dreams all season long—if not for his entire life—of getting a shot at a humongous trophy buck. He adjusts his hunting tactics to make such an encounter as likely as possible. He’ll monitor the phases of the moon. Try different deer calls and antler-rattling techniques. Experiment with every type of deer attractant or food source that comes on the market. Mask his scent with everything from cedar shavings to skunk piss. And then…it happens. The planets line up right, or Orion smiles, or all that planning and strategizing actually works, but it happens. One fateful day, a buck—not just any buck, but the kind of massive, strutting animal that the hunter has heretofore seen only on videotape—emerges out of the brush like a ghost.

And the hunter immediately becomes a quivering mass of jelly.

His breathing becomes labored. His ears ring. His fingers turn into numb, useless stubs. The scene before him takes on a surreal, dreamlike quality, one in which he seems to be watching from above, or behind, or anywhere except his own treasonous body.

That’s how Phil Colby felt.

This would be the most important shot of his life, and he didn’t know if he could do it. His arms were clumsy and heavy. His vision was patchy and indistinct. The rifle felt foreign in his hands.

Was there even a round in the chamber? He hadn’t had time to check.

Marlin slowly took a step back from his handgun.

“Quit moving!” the man yelled.

“Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”

Again, Marlin bent and dropped one knee to the ground, then the other. Then he laid flat on the dirt.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Just getting out of the way,” Marlin said. “Bullets have a nasty way of going through people.”

Now there was genuine concern on the man’s face. His eyes darted to the side, but he still didn’t glance backward.

“Stand the fuck up!”

Marlin ignored him. All was quiet for a few seconds as the man pondered this strange turn of events.

Then Phil Colby jangled a length of chain that appeared to be attached to his wrist. “Hello, George. Forget about me?”

The man called George was rigid now, defeat in his eyes. But he still did not turn. He aimed his gun at Marlin. “I’ll shoot him.”

“And then I’ll blow you right in half.”

Marlin and George stared at each other for an eternity.

Then the grin returned to the man’s face, and Marlin knew it was almost over.

He’d drop the gun, or he’d try to wheel and shoot it.

Five seconds.

Ten.

It happened fast. The man twisted his torso, leading with the pistol.

But he wasn’t quick enough.

The rifle in Colby’s hands roared.

Back at his trailer, Red studied the contents of the envelope.

“Negatives of what?” he asked again.

Lucy was sitting at the kitchen dinette, her head hanging low. “Nothing. They’s worthless. At least, they are to me. I’m done with it.”

“Done with what?”

She didn’t answer, just took a big swig from the can of beer on the table.

Red held one of the negatives to the light and studied it closely. Couldn’t make heads nor tails out of it. Might be a couple of people in the photos, maybe a guy wearing baggy white shorts. Then again, maybe it was a couple of monkeys at the zoo. Impossible to tell.

He tossed the negatives onto the table. “What about the damn money?”

Lucy snorted. “He musta burned through it all.”

“Scofield?”

Lucy glared at him. “Yeah, Scofield. Who the hell else would I be talking about?”

Red felt the trailer shift as Billy Don struggled out of the recliner in the living room and walked into the kitchen. He eyeballed Red for a few seconds, then Lucy. “I’m hungry. Anybody else hungry?”

Red didn’t answer. Lucy took another drink.

Billy Don walked to the pantry, removed a can of Cheez Whiz and a box of Triscuits, then returned to the living room.

Red didn’t know what to think. All that effort, for nothing. Well, he did get laid a couple of times, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was worth the trouble.

Marlin had his .45 in his hand now, and he stood over the man. Prodded him with his toe. No movement. No reaction at all. Not even a fluttering eyelid.

He looked at Colby, who was still cradling the rifle. Wade Morgan’s old Krag. Marlin recognized it now. “You all right?”

Colby shook his head. When he spoke, Marlin heard a tremor in his voice. “You saved my ass.”

“I’d say it was the other way around,” Marlin replied. “Why don’t you put that thing down?”

Colby bent and laid the rusty weapon gently at his feet. Then he decided to sit on the ground beside it. Marlin noticed that Colby’s face was ashen and his eyes were glazed. Could be mild shock.

Marlin was feeling sort of lightheaded himself. “I’m sorry if I was a jerk.” He felt better for saying it.

“You? A jerk? Never.” Only Phil could manage sarcasm like that moments after shooting a man. Then, a moment later, he added, “Yeah, me, too.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Marlin stared at the body. “Any idea who this guy is?”

“Not a clue.”

Darrell. Marlin had to radio Darrell. “Wait right here.”

As Marlin walked toward his truck on shaky legs, Colby said, “See how much excitement you’d miss if you moved to San Antone?”

Marlin turned. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Colby said. “You’d go nuts down there. On top of that, there might actually be a couple of people around here who’d miss you if you left.”

Marlin nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As he rounded the corner of the house, he heard Colby call after him, “Not me, of course.”

Marlin couldn’t help but smile.