Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip (10 page)

Over the years, Erica had survived rape, a mental breakdown, an abortion, an attempted rape, several miscarriages, addiction to painkillers, emergency cardiac surgery, and the burning of her house by an arsonist. She’d been shot, she’d been stabbed, she’d been kidnapped—and yet, her spirit was still strong and proud. What an amazing woman!

For years, Bubba had been infatuated with Erica.

Enamored.

Totally in awe.

Mesmerized.

That’s why he was utterly unprepared when his soon-to-be ex-wife burst through his office door and screamed, “Bubba, what the hell is this?”

She was holding a shoebox, and her face was as contorted and angry as the time she’d found a bra in Bubba’s gun case.

Bubba could see a couple of his mechanics looming in the background, outside the office, watching the drama unfold.

He quickly turned the TV off, removed the headphones, and sat up straight in his chair.

“Jesus, Donnelle, you scared the snot out of me. What are—”

“Don’t pull no bullshit on me, Bubba. I know it was you, and I want you to know my lawyer is gonna hear all about it. Then we’ll see how funny it is.”

“What in the world are you—”

“We may be getting divorced, but I never thought you’d sink this low.”

“Donnelle, really, if you’d just tell me—”

“Damn it, Bubba!” Her face was so red it was practically glowing. “One more little stunt like this and I’m calling the sheriff’s department. And I mean it!”

She tossed the shoebox onto Bubba’s desk and stormed out of the office, slamming the door as she went.

Bubba had to sit there for a moment and collect himself, thinking,
What in the hell just happened?
Finally, he slid the shoebox over to his side of the desk, and he could see that someone had written
For Donnelle
in black ink on the lid.

He’d never seen the damn box before in his life.

He opened it.

Inside was a battery-operated vibrator. Ten inches long. Anatomically correct.

Right then, Erica Kane was the last thing on Bubba’s mind.

PHIL COLBY WAS in his barn, unloading hay from a gooseneck trailer, when he heard a vehicle coming up the road toward the house. He stepped outside and saw an old Cadillac convertible approaching the fork in the road. It paused, then steered to the right, coming toward the barn.

The driver parked and killed the engine, and two men stepped out, dressed like they’d just raided a yard sale.

“Howdy,” the driver said. He was tall and slender, smoking a cigar, wearing a hideous baby blue suit covered with silver studs. “You Phil Colby?”

Just then, the other man, shorter, wearing a bowling shirt, bent over and threw up.

The tall one said, “Damn, Bill, you might oughta get back in the car.” He looked at Colby. “He ain’t been feeling too good. Stomach problem.”

The shorter one, Bill, groaned and eased himself back into the Cadillac.

The tall one stepped up. “I’m George Jones.”

Colby smiled.

“Yep,” Jones said. “Just like the singer.”

Colby removed his leather gloves and shook Jones’s hand. “I’m Phil Colby. Can I help you with something?”

Jones smiled. “Sorry to barge in, but a man in town told us you had some good hunting out here. We’re from Houston, in the area on bidness, and we figured we’d check out a few leases while we was here. Don’t mean to intrude.”

Phil Colby looked past Jones to the Cadillac. “Your buddy all right? Can I get him some water or something?”

Bill, in the car, waved a hand, saying he was okay.

“He just needs to let it pass, is all,” Jones said. “Something in his breakfast, I think.”

“Where’d y’all eat?”

“Some Meskin joint in Austin. He won’t be eating
migas
again for a while, that’s for sure.” Jones turned and studied the horizon. “Sure is a pretty place you got here. Lots of deer?”

“We’ve got a few.”

Jones laughed. “I imagine so. I must’ve seen a hundred on the roadsides early this morning. Hell, that’s more’n I’ll see in a lifetime over ‘round Houston. You lease by the day or by the season?”

“Season.”

“You got any openings for this fall?”

“I might have a couple. Don’t know yet who’s staying on and who isn’t.”

“You mind me asking how many acres you got?”

“Just over four thousand. I’ve got the place divided into two pastures, a dozen guns on each pasture.”

“How much per gun?”

“Fifteen hundred. That includes hogs, turkeys, and exotics.”

“That sounds real good,” Jones said, nodding.

The man seemed like a colorful character. Colby figured Jones would fit right in with the bunch that hunted the ranch.

Jones said, “I noticed you got it low-fenced.”

“I got no use at all for high fences,” Colby said. “If you’re looking for that kind of hunting—”

Jones held up a hand. “No, sir, not at all. I wouldn’t hunt behind one of them fences myself. Damn things are gonna ruin the sport of hunting.”

Colby was liking this guy more and more. “I tell you what, if you want to leave your name and number, I could call you when I know for sure.”

“I’ll do that,” Jones said, nodding again. “Sure would like to lock down a place for the season.”

“I hear you.”

Now Jones had a hopeful look on his face. “You got another hand working, Mr. Colby? Because what I was hoping—I know you’re busy and all—but I was hoping we might be able to take a look around the place this morning. Well, me, anyway. I don’t think Bill’s quite up to it.”

The man’s ready to plunk down some money,
Colby thought. “No, it’s just me.” He glanced back at the trailer loaded with hay.

Jones said, “You know, I could help you unload them bales real quick if it’d free up your schedule some. Don’t mind at all.”

Marlin found Bobby Garza and Bill Tatum drinking coffee in the break room at the sheriff’s department. Marlin poured a cup of his own and pulled up a chair.

“Damn, John, you look like you’ve been chasing pigs,” Tatum said.

Marlin’s khaki pants were speckled with mud up to his knees. His hiking boots were thoroughly caked.

“Phil and I went back to the river,” he said. “Hiked for four hours, all we found was a dead Hereford. Anything from Nicole and Ernie?”

Garza shook his head. “They’ve done all they can do. We’ve talked to everybody two or three times now. If Scofield wanted to take a sudden vacation in a car that had been signed over to him, there’s not much we can do about it. You know, as a point of fact, no law’s been broken so far.”

“What about the missing money?” Marlin asked.

Garza shrugged. “Maybe he stuck it in a bank, in spite of what Pritchard said. Now, I’m not saying he didn’t steal the car and the money—he probably did—but until he turns up, our options are limited. Even then, with the car legally in his possession, he’s on pretty solid ground. Now, if he sold it or wrecked it or blew all the money, then he’s looking at some trouble. But even that might have to be worked out in a civil suit.”

“What about Stephanie Waring?”

“Hell, who knows? Maybe she’s with Scofield, maybe she’s not. I’d love to get into her duplex, but we’d need a warrant. No probable cause at this point.”

Marlin hated facing these facts, but he knew Garza was right.

“Y’all want to grab some lunch?” Tatum asked.

Marlin nodded, but asked, “Anything new on Lucas?”

Garza said, “You haven’t heard yet?”

Marlin had been too consumed by the search for Scofield to keep up with the details on that case, especially since he wasn’t directly involved.

Tatum said, “Good news and bad news. The guys from the fire marshal’s office overhauled the place yesterday. What we know for sure is that nobody was in the house.”

Marlin felt a surge of relief. He knew that a typical house fire, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t generate enough heat to completely consume a human body. It’s not even close. A wooden structure such as a house or barn burns at well under a thousand degrees. Cremating a body takes close to three thousand degrees, and even then there are bone fragments that remain.

“What’s the bad news?” he asked.

“Two things, really. First, it was arson for sure,” Tatum said. “They brought one of their dogs along. You ever seen one of them work?”

“No, but I heard they’ve got one over in Austin.”

Darrell Bridges, one of the dispatchers, stuck his head in the room. “Bobby, Rita Sue Metzger is on the line for you. Says you’ll want to talk to her.”

Garza stood. “This could be interesting. I’ll be right back.”

Tatum continued. “See, they train the dog to sit when it detects an accelerant. It’ll just plop down right there as soon as it smells gas or kerosene or whatever.” Tatum smiled. “They brought this black Lab out, hell of a dog, and she was sitting down about every five feet. Whoever did it, man, they just soaked the place with gas. Okay, so later, when they overhauled it, they found the source. Somebody stuck a coffee can full of gas on the electric stove, then turned on the burner and hauled ass. Gave ‘em a few minutes to clear out before the place went up. Kind of a crude timing mechanism.”

“And the rest of the bad news?” Marlin thought he already knew what it was.

“Meth lab in the back bedroom, just like we thought. Some of the equipment was melted—mostly lines and hoses—but there was enough hardware left over to figure out what was going on. Lucas was using a propane tank, and that’s what exploded. And I don’t know if I ever told you, but the night the place went up, Ernie found about a hundred empty packages of allergy medicine in the trashcan by the curb. None of us had a clue what the hell that meant, but those fire guys knew right off the bat. See, you can use ephedrine or pseudoephedrine to make speed. It’s one of the raw ingredients.”

Garza came back into the room, carrying a notepad, not as excited as Marlin had hoped he would be. “Rita Sue said Stephanie left a message on her answering machine about an hour ago. Apparently, Stephanie decided to take a trip to Colorado with a friend.”

“But it wasn’t Vance Scofield?” Tatum asked.

“If only it were that tidy, but no.” Garza glanced down at his notes. “Stephanie didn’t give a name, but she said this friend went to visit some of
her
cousins, and Stephanie decided to tag along.”

Marlin said. “Does Rita Sue know whether Stephanie was calling on her cell phone?”

“No,” Garza said, “but Nicole called that number again this morning with no answer. Left another message. She’ll keep calling. If Stephanie’s gotten those messages, I would’ve expected her to call back by now. Maybe she didn’t take her phone with her.”

“Does Rita Sue have caller ID?”

“No, I asked her that.”

Something else popped into Marlin’s mind. “Did y’all ever talk to that girl named Jenny? The one Pritchard told us about?”

“Haven’t tracked her down yet,” Garza said. “Judging by Scofield’s phone records, the two of them hadn’t spoken anytime recently. And we couldn’t find a number for her anywhere in Scofield’s house. We figured if they ever were an item, it was a while ago.”

Something wasn’t right about all of this, but Marlin couldn’t nail it down. A man doesn’t simply disappear without somebody knowing something about it. If Scofield hadn’t drowned—if he had simply left town with a bunch of cash and a car that wasn’t his—he would’ve left some kind of trail to follow, even a faint one.

“You mind if I give it a shot?” Marlin asked. “Finding Jenny?”

Garza said, “Hell, I wish you would.”

“I really appreciate this,” Buford said, bouncing along in the passenger seat of Phil Colby’s truck, figuring Little Joe was inside the house by now. “I know you got better things to do.”

Colby waved him off. “Not a problem. Sorry your friend’s feeling bad.”

“Aw, he’ll be all right. Might be a long ride back to Houston, though.”

Buford turned to admire the little lever-action carbine in the gun rack behind Colby’s truck seat.

“For snakes,” Colby said.

Buford nodded.

“What line of work are y’all in?” Colby asked.

Buford told it straight. “Collections. But I’m trying to get out of that and into the entertainment industry. I manage a few bands. Thinking about starting a record label.”

“Country music?”

“Yeah, mostly. Rockabilly, swing, that kind of thing.”

Colby checked him out and smiled. “I thought it might be something like that.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Well, the way you’re dressed.”

Buford could feel himself getting hot. Muscles tightening up. “What, you don’t like it?”

“No, it’s kinda cool. Retro, I guess.”

All right, then. This old boy was okay. It even made Buford feel a little guilty for pulling a fast one on him. “How long’ve you owned this place?”

“It’s been in my family for more than a hundred years.”

Buford had been raised on the flat, dusty plains of West Texas, where your morning shit was liable to dry up and blow away by lunchtime. Compared to that, the Hill Country was paradise. Rolling hills covered with live oak and cedar, elm and hickory, some madrone trees here and there. Steep ravines dotted with sotol plants and yucca. Seemed like there was water everywhere—springs and creeks and rivers. Buford figured maybe he could own a ranch like this someday, if things went his way. Get a few head of cattle. Stock a big tank with catfish and bass. Kick back and just enjoy life. But first he had to take care of business.

As soon as they drove out of sight, Little Joe stepped from the Cadillac, went straight to the front door of the house, and walked right in. Dumb-ass had left it unlocked.

The place was big, with polished concrete floors and lots of raw cedar beams and posts throughout. There wouldn’t be enough time to search the entire house, so Joe did what Buford had told him—he quickly found the master bedroom, the most common hiding spot for valuables. He looked in the closet, under the mattress, beneath the bed, in the chest of drawers. Everywhere. Nothing. They knew it was a long shot that he’d get lucky enough to stumble across the photographs, but if he didn’t, he was hoping to discover a safe or a strongbox—something they could come back and break into later.

He checked his watch. Ten minutes had gone by. Not to worry yet, because Buford had figured out a way to warn him.

Joe went down the hallway, through the living room, and into the den on the other side of the house. Colby’s office, from the looks of it. Nice and neat, which would make things easier. He sorted through the desk drawers and quickly found a bank pouch, the kind that zips across the top. No photographs inside, but about six hundred dollars in cash. Damn! Buford had told him not to steal anything at all, but it was sure as hell tempting. He tucked it back into the drawer untouched and resumed his search.

He turned to a massive glass gun cabinet next to the fireplace. Joe was impressed. Colby had a nice collection, ranging from Rugers to Remingtons to Sakos. Mostly hunting rifles, but a couple of shotguns in there, too. Pistols hung on pegs on the side walls of the cabinet. Probably twenty grand worth of hardware in there. Joe would have to remember that. Who knew when he might get a chance to come back later? At the bottom of the case, beneath the guns, was a drawer. Joe opened it but found nothing in there except ammo, cleaning supplies, reloading equipment, and that kind of crap.

He checked his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by

Where, where, where? Where would Colby hide the damn negatives? Christ, there were a million possibilities. The attic, the garage, the barn. Hell, if the man had any brains at all, he’d have them tucked into a safe-deposit box at a bank. Shit, Joe had forgotten to check the bank statements to see if Colby had a safe-deposit box. He went back over to the desk and dug into the second drawer again. In a manila envelope, there was a year’s worth of statements, the most recent one right on top. It looked like Colby had two business accounts—checking and savings—for the Circle S Ranch, but these were bare bones. No overdraft protection, no line of credit, nothing like that, and no safe-deposit box as far as Joe could tell. He looked for other statements, maybe from another bank. Zilch. He remembered seeing a key ring in the shallow drawer in the middle, so he pulled it out and took a look. Ten or twelve keys on there, but none that looked like a bank key.