Bluetick Revenge (33 page)

“Yes. He used to be a meteorologist. Almost immediately he realized that these numbers were the longitude and latitude for
certain specific locations, all in the Rocky Mountain region. In decimal form, but without the decimal points.”

“Son of a gun.”

“Then I remembered that Karlynn said Bugg had stashed food, weapons, and money all over the West.”

“That’s right, she said that.”

“So on a lark, Cliff and I went to a few of these locations, and we sent other agents to check out the locations in other
states.”

“What did you find?”

“Just food.”

“No weapons or money?”

“None.”

“Well, Bugg’s a big man. He probably just cares more about eating than he does about weapons or money. Some guys are like
that.”

“Take care, Pepper,” she said. “If anyone ever needs a recommendation for a dog thief, I’ll give them your name.”

I
T WAS NINE O’CLOCK
on a sunny June morning in Nederland. We had been on the air for an hour, playing everything from the yodeling tunes of Hank
Williams to the upbeat reggae of Jimmy Cliff. Occasionally we played the Stress Monsters.

We limited our show to two hours each week and we never spoke on the air. We were very careful, even taking the antenna down
when we weren’t operating. With the fifty-watt FM transmitter Scott had seized at the Biggs compound, our broadcast covered
all of Nederland, and on a good day you could hear us as far south as Rollinsville and as far north as Ward.

As we sat there on my deck, with Buck and Wheat beside us, I looked back on all that had happened since that night in November
when I had stolen Prince. So much had changed. Karlynn was in Barrow and still a fugitive, but I had a hunch the warrant and
indictment would go away after all the Sons of Satan had been prosecuted. Prince was living the good life with Uncle Ray down
in Blanca. Luther and I had become closer friends. I had survived the rattlesnake and multiple attacks, and I found myself
more open to spiritual things.

At ten we concluded our broadcast as we always did—with David Allen Coe’s rendition of “You Never Even Call Me by My Name.”
Some have called it the perfect country-and-western song.

“Guess it’s about time to take you to the airport,” Scott said.

“Yup.”

“China. That’s a long journey.”

“A very long journey,” I said.

I love it when a plan comes together.

“Money may buy you a fine bluetick hound, but only a terrific murder mystery like this one can make him wag his tail.”

—KINKY FRIEDMAN, AUTHOR OF
TEXAS HOLD EM

Praise for Mark Cohen’s Previous Novel
THE FRACTAL MURDERS

“Intriguing…even those readers who can’t tell a fractal from a fishing lure will enjoy the quick pace and twisting story line of this exciting first novel.”

—
DALLAS MORNING NEWS

“Witty, smart, and inventive…Cohen is a terrific new voice on the mystery scene.”

—STEPHEN WHITE, AUTHOR OF
THE BEST REVENGE

“A surprising premise and an extraordinary theme equal an accomplished debut…refreshingly different.”

—
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

“Keane is one heck of a dogged investigator.”

—
DENVER ROCKY MOUNTAIN NEWS

“A clever mystery…Keane has a past that fleshes out his motivation, a wry wit, and an enemy who does everything to keep him permanently clueless…A consistently absorbing first novel.”

—
BOOKLIST