Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (18 page)

MARLIN INSTINCTIVELY LEAPT sideways to the ground, dragging Becky with him. He was aware of a severe burning in his left arm. He felt defeated, cowardly, waiting to hear a second blast that would silence all sound forever. Then he heard something much sweeter. The shouting of a familiar voice, with a smooth-as-honey Central Texas accent.

“Freeze, you son of a bitch, or I'll cut you in two where you stand!”

Phil Colby was out there somewhere in the darkness.

Marlin looked over at the shotgunner and saw him nervously pacing in front of the Cadillac, peering into the darkness, trying to get a fix on Colby's location.

“Put the gun down!” Colby yelled. With the babbling river's noise, even Marlin couldn't tell how far away Colby was.

Marlin realized that the large American was now focusing on Colby, not him and Becky. He glanced over at the gun he had dropped moments earlier.

A string of insistent Spanish came from the Cadillac.

In response, the shotgun kicked again as the man fired a volley of buckshot in the direction of Colby's voice.

In one fluid motion, Marlin dove to the ground, grabbed the pistol, and came up on one knee, firing.

The man with the shotgun dropped his weapon and looked down at a rapidly darkening patch on his muddy shirt. He placed his palm flat on his chest as if to stem the flow. Then he crumpled to his knees.

“Get out of there, John!” Colby yelled.

Marlin grabbed Becky's arm and immediately ran toward the sound of Colby's voice. He heard another shot and glanced back at the Cadillac. Two more men had jumped out and the one on the driver's side, a guy with a droopy mustache, was firing a handgun. Out of the glare of the headlights now, Marlin could see Colby crouched on one knee in the darkness, returning fire at the Cadillac. Marlin and Becky ran to him.

“I'm out of bullets,” Colby said as Marlin and Becky squatted beside him. They all flinched as a round whistled over their heads.

Marlin looked at Becky. “You okay?”

She nodded.

“Take her to the trees,” Marlin whispered to Colby. Then he turned and fired from instinct, without even checking the sights. The armed man flinched and ducked behind the fender of the car.

Marlin couldn't see the other remaining man, but then he heard the engine turn over in the Cadillac. The car immediately lurched forward, spun a 180 in the dirt and silt, and headed back the way it had come, back up the hill. The entire time, the armed man tried fruitlessly to climb back into the car—but the driver was leaving him behind! Marlin watched in disbelief as the man fired two shots at the departing vehicle. The car roared away, leaving nothing but darkness.

Aiming at a memory of the man's location, Marlin unleashed four rounds, emptying the gun. He moved to his right in case the man returned fire at Marlin's muzzle flash, but there was no response. Ten seconds later, Marlin heard frantic splashing as the man plunged into the river fifty yards away. Then the hills became silent once again.

In the moonlight, under the big Texas sky, Marlin hugged his best friend. “Damn, am I glad to see you.”

“Jesus, that was spooky, John! You nailed that guy with the shotgun! Who the hell were they?”

“I'll tell you the whole story later, but right now, let's just get out of here.”

“Wait a second. At least tell me who this young lady is.” In the darkness, and with Becky out of her nurse's uniform, Colby hadn't yet recognized her.

Marlin was at a loss for words. His best friend had just saved his hide and here Marlin was with the woman Colby intended to pursue.

“You already know me, Phil. Nurse Cameron.” She stepped forward and hugged Colby. “Thank you. Thanks to both of you. That was unbelievable.”

Colby remained silent for a moment. Then he turned to Marlin and said, “Well, hell…you beat me to the punch, pardner. I don't blame you.”

Even in the dim light, Marlin could see Becky give him an inquisitive glance. Marlin deflected it by changing the subject. “Let me go see if the keys are in the cruiser. Y'all wait right here. If nothing else, I can radio for help.”

Marlin returned a minute later in the cruiser. “Hop in. Let's get out of here while we can.”

“Let me look at your arm first,” Becky said.

Marlin felt the warm, sticky blood on his bicep. “I think I took a piece of buckshot, but it's fine.”

Becky objected, but Marlin convinced her that his wound could wait. They began the long drive up to the ranch house. Along the way, Marlin told Colby about being abducted by the Colombians, who, they both agreed, had to be Swank's suppliers. Colby told Marlin about finding his letter to the attorney general, coming to the ranch, and then deciding to check out the old rock cabin. He also told Marlin his theory about the deer in the five-acre pen. “Those have to be the drug deer, John. He couldn't just let ’em roam the property or he'd never figure out which was which.”

Marlin agreed, clapping his hands together. “The DEA will nail him, then. The deer will be just waiting there. All they gotta do is open one up.”

Colby cleared his throat. “Well, we may have a little problem there, old buddy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I kinda let them go.”

“You
what?
Are you out of your mind?”

“Calm down for a minute and think about it, would you? It's better this way. First of all, I had no idea what was going to happen down here. It might not have turned out as well as it did. Then what would have happened? Those deer could have stayed in that pen for years and nobody would have been the wiser. So I had to let ’em go just in case. Remember, the hunters are going to be in the blinds bright and early tomorrow morning. With all those trophy deer running around, what do you think's going to happen?” Colby gave Marlin a sly smile.

Marlin was warming to the idea. “Damn, you're right. We just need to make sure they have the right audience when it all comes down. I'll need to make a few calls.”

“There's something we need to do first, though.”

“What's that?”

“It's Buck, John. I saw him. He's still up in the pen.”

Deputy Bobby Garza had been disappointed to cut his annual fishing trip short, but there was no way around it. Three hours earlier, when he had checked in with his wife, she told him about the two visitors she had had: First, some guy identifying himself as a Mexican cop, and then Phil Colby. She said that they both had seemed nervous and both were asking for him. Instinct told him it had something to do with Marlin's theory about Roy Swank's deer. Sure, Marlin had left that message about Thomas Stovall's practical joke. But for some reason, Marlin's voice-mail just didn't sit right. He had sounded a little peculiar.

On the drive home, Garza had used his cellular phone several times to call Marlin, but got no answer. Same thing with Phil Colby. He called Herbert Mackey to check in, but the sheriff said that everything was quiet. Garza played it cool and told Mackey the fish weren't biting so he was heading home.

Garza knew all he could do at this point was wait. It was past midnight now, and he was on Miller Creek Loop nearing his house. On a straightaway, he saw headlights from an approaching vehicle.
Damn,
Garza thought,
they are really moving. Probably teenagers out with their daddy's pickup.
Garza's unmarked cruiser was equipped with radar, so he flipped it on. Ninety-seven miles per hour. Garza pulled onto the shoulder and waited. In a flash, the vehicle roared past him…a battered red Ford truck that looked just like Red O'Brien's.

Garza cursed silently. He was tired and just wanted to hit the hay. At eighty, eighty-five, he would have let them go. But ninety-seven, that was just too much. He wheeled his Crown Victoria around and headed after them.

“Shit, Red, that was Bobby Garza!” Billy Don whined, bracing himself against the dashboard. “Slow the fuck down!”

Red glanced in his rearview mirror, seeing nothing but darkness now. His old truck still had plenty of life left in her. Let the cop try and catch up. “Can't do it, man. I'll take the old Kerrville highway. He'll never find us on that old road.”

Red banked clumsily around a curve, then began to brake hard to make the turn just ahead.

But the turn was coming up much too quickly. The brakes wouldn't bite and the truck began to fishtail. Red oversteered and the truck straightened again, but they were off the road now, bouncing over the bar-ditch. Red covered his face as one particularly large oak tree rushed toward the windshield.

When Garza came around the curve, dust was still floating in the air. He saw plowed earth leading to taillights at the base of an oak tree, so he braked gently, knowing the chase was over.

After pulling to the side of the road, Garza grabbed his portable radio. “Jean, you there?”

“Ten-four.”

“We've got a ten-fifty on Miller Creek Loop. About three miles east of the Circle S. Need an ambulance, over.”

“Ten-four. On the way. Over.”

Garza grabbed his flashlight, jumped out of the cruiser, and trotted over to the red truck. Just as he had suspected, it was those two local rednecks, Red O'Brien and Billy Don Craddock. Garza had dealt with them plenty of times in the past, mostly for minor offenses, and he actually kind of got a chuckle out of them. They were like Andy Griffith's Otis.

Billy Don appeared to be unconscious and Red was moaning gently. Both men were bleeding from the head.
That's what you yokels get for not wearing seat belts,
Garza thought. How many times had he written them up for that one?

Neither of the men was bleeding profusely, so Garza decided it was best to let them remain in the truck until the medics arrived.

“Red, you okay?” Garza asked.

“Aw, man,” he moaned softly. “My fuckin’ truck.”

At that point, Billy Don stirred, looked over at Red and said, “Gimme a beer.”

Garza had to smile. Both men seemed to be okay.

“Screw your beer, man!” Red said, clawing for the door handle. “I just wrecked my truck!”

Red pushed on the door, but it wouldn't give.

“Red, why don't you just stay in the truck?” Garza said gently. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

“I want out,” Red said, slurring. He either had a mild concussion or had had a few too many, Garza decided. Red tried again, this time using his shoulder, and popped the door open.

A videocassette clattered to the ground at Garza's feet. Garza picked it up and looked at the label. “Looks like you boys been havin’ an interesting evening.”

JUST AT SUNRISE, Clyde Webster pulled on his overalls and headed out to his barn to collect eggs like he did every morning. He wasn't sure if the rooster had begun crowing yet, because Clyde was getting on in years—nearly eighty-five now—so he couldn't hear quite as well as he used to.

A significant portion of his hearing loss had occurred during World War Two. “The Big One,” that's the only thing he and his friends would call it.
If you'd been there,
Clyde would tell people,
you'd call it the Big One, too.
He'd been in the middle of some damn nasty maneuvers, where mortars lit up the night like the Fourth of July…fights where you'd have to pile the bodies up like cordwood the next day, or even worse, you'd have to pick up pieces and put them in a canvas bag.

Despite all the bombing, the gunfire, and the near-constant screams of anguish, there was one sound Clyde remembered more grimly than all the others. The sound of a round hitting an infantryman's helmet. It was almost the same sound as a raindrop falling into an empty bucket.
You hear that sound, brother, you know right off someone's dead.
He still shuddered when he heard anything like it.

Whenever Clyde thought about the war, which wasn't too often anymore, he considered himself pretty lucky. Sure, he had seen some horrific things—once saw a man cut clean in two by a mortar—but all Clyde got was some damage to his eardrums, thanks to a Jap land mine. He was almost too embarrassed to explain his injury to anyone who asked about his Purple Heart. Didn't seem right that some guys had to lose an arm or a leg or maybe go blind to get theirs.

It was the damnedest thing with the hearing loss, though…he could hear low notes and high ones, it was just a few mid-level tones he lost. There was one Marty Robbins song where Clyde couldn't hear about half the lyrics. That made him sad in a nostalgic kind of way, but he always shook it off.

Veterans of the Big One came home heroes, unlike those poor Vietnam veterans. In the 1960's and 1970's, many Americans seemed to forget that everything they enjoyed—from big, comfortable homes and nice cars, all the way up to the ability to walk down the street as free men—came at the expense of the casualties of war. Right there on television you'd see people burning American flags, for Chrissakes. Clyde had seen a young long-haired fellow doing that same damn thing down at the Capitol in Austin one Memorial Day. Clyde had walked right up to the fellow and, despite the bursitis in his shoulder, knocked that young punk cold. He'd do it again, too, if he had to.
Nobody's going to burn the ol’ Stars and Stripes around Clyde Webster.

But this morning, Clyde wasn't thinking about his old war buddies as he sometimes did. He was just thinking about collecting eggs, going back to the house, and waiting for the omelet Helen made him every morning. So when Clyde entered the barn, he wasn't expecting to see a man standing there with a gun. A Mexican man at that, with a big, droopy mustache. Before Clyde could react, the man grabbed him by the straps of his overalls and yanked him completely into the barn. The Mexican began to shout at Clyde, saying that he needed a car.

The gun really didn't scare Clyde that much, or the shouting, or even the thought that the man might actually shoot him. But he was concerned for his wife in the house. This gunman had crazy eyes, a frenzied look that Clyde had seen too many times on the battlefield. As soon as he got the man a car, Clyde knew, he and his wife would both be dead.

The man had released Clyde and was blocking the door now, yelling at him some more. Clyde heard some of it, but not much. He calmly reached over and grabbed a pitchfork that was hanging on the wall. Now the man would have to shoot him, he knew, but that would alert Helen. At least she'd be safe. She knew where the shotgun was.

But the man didn't shoot Clyde right away like Clyde expected. He just yelled some more and waved his arms around. He seemed to want to approach Clyde to strike him, but the pitchfork kept him at bay.

So, for a moment, they were at a standstill. Clyde then realized that the man might simply leave him here and go into the house to find the car keys. Then he'd find Helen, too, and who knows what would happen?

Sunlight was beginning to stream though the rafters of the barn, and now Clyde did hear the rooster crowing. It was loud and strong, probably just a few feet outside the barn door. For just an instant, the Mexican man turned his head toward the sound in surprise. But it was long enough. Without hesitation, Clyde stepped forward, gave it all his strength, and ran the man through with the pitchfork. For a moment, they were locked in a grisly face-to-face stare. Then the gun fell to the ground and the man followed. With blood spilling out of his mouth, he tried to say a few last words to Clyde. But Clyde wasn't listening. He had already gone to make sure his wife was all right.

Thirty minutes after sunrise, with all the hunters fed and sent off to their deer blinds, Roy Swank sat around one of the tables in the large guest house. He was sipping coffee, fighting a nasty hangover, but feeling pretty good overall. Hadn't heard a peep out of Oscar last night, and that was a blessing. He knew he'd probably been in tighter spots over the years, but he couldn't think of any right off. Now it was all over and done with.

“Cletus, bring me some more coffee, wouldya?” he called out to the ranch foreman, who was washing the breakfast dishes.

Cletus came over with the pot and filled Swank's mug to the top, then had a seat at the table.

“So what do you think?” Swank asked. “Gonna be a good morning?”

Cletus nodded. “Weather's perfect, and I think the rut is in full swing. We should hear some shots any minute now, once the big boys start to show themselves.”

Swank rose and headed for the door. “I'll be in the house. Come and get me when the hunters start coming back.”

“Will do.”

Swank walked out into the brisk morning air and turned toward the barn. Now that the sun was up, he could see that the gate to the adjacent five-acre pen was open. That cinched it, then. Oscar had been here—and now Swank's troubles were over.

Swank walked over to the pen and began wandering through the thickly wooded areas. He had told Oscar to stack the carcasses in a secluded spot, so the hunters wouldn't see them. If Cletus or anyone else found them, Swank already had a story made up: He had received a call from Mexico informing him that the deer were diseased and needed to be destroyed.

But as Swank continued to roam the pen, he became a little nervous. He hadn't seen a single carcass, much less a drop of blood. By the time Swank had covered the entire five acres, his heart was palpitating. The deer were gone. That meant one of two things. Either Oscar had taken the carcasses with him, which was highly unlikely…or—Swank didn't even want to think about the alternative—the deer were loose on the Circle S Ranch.

Cletus put the newspaper down and stood to answer the phone in the guest house. “Circle S.”

“Hey, Cletus, it's Marlin.” The men knew each other well.

“What are you doing, you old buzzard?”

“Well, you know, opening day. Gotta start making some rounds, keep all you old poachers in line,” Marlin said, falling into his hunting-camp drawl.

Cletus laughed. “Hell, you won't be writing me up for anything this weekend. I'm not about to go out to the blind with all the city boys out here. Liable to get myself shot.”

“I've heard about the big shindig over there. Big-time senators and the like. Heard any shots yet?”

“Just a couple, so far. But it's early yet.”

Marlin tried to keep his tone from sounding serious. “Listen, I'm gonna head over there later and see what kind of bucks y'all are growing nowadays. How late you imagine they're all gonna be hunting?”

“Swank told ’em all to keep with it till about ten. Told ’em to stay out there even if they get one, so they won't disturb the other hunters by driving through the ranch.”

“All right, then. I'll see you about ten o'clock.”

“Wanna rub elbows with the big wheels, don't you?” Cletus said, giving him a hard time.

“You got me, Cletus. You got me.”