Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (14 page)

Marlin shrugged weakly. “I'll get ’em done later.”

“If we don't get…If we wait too long, stitches won't work. You'll just have to let it heal as is. You could end up with a nasty lump there.”

“No problem. I'll wear a hat.” Marlin was doing his best to appear unrattled.

Becky kneeled down on the blanket next to him and asked him to lie on his stomach. Marlin flipped over, crossed his arms and rested his forehead on his wrists.

“This is a pretty bad cut, and I don't want it to get infected,” Becky said. “I'm going to pour some hydrogen peroxide on it, but it shouldn't sting.” She unscrewed the cap on the plastic bottle, poured a little into the cap, and gently poured the peroxide onto the wound. After a minute, she dabbed at the wound with a gauze pad. “I'm not going to try to put a bandage on you. It needs air anyway. Sorry I can't do more.”

Marlin rolled onto his side and looked her in the eyes. “You're doing plenty,” he said. “Thanks.”

Marlin listened: There were no noises from outside the house except the gentle wind. Marlin propped himself on one elbow, then reached up and cupped a hand around Becky's neck. She leaned toward him…and they kissed. Marlin instantly felt his trousers tighten, and his pain seemed to evaporate.

Becky placed a few more gentle kisses on his lips and smiled. “We'd better take it easy, buster. You need to save your strength.”

PHIL COLBY HAD chanced upon a cab driver just ending his shift and had offered him fifty bucks, flat, for a ride to Johnson City. A good deal for the cabbie, but more than Colby could really afford to pay.
Screw it,
he thought. He was tired and just wanted to get home.

His house was dark when he arrived and there were no messages on the machine. Not a very welcoming return home. Of course, everybody thought he was still in the hospital. He tried to call Marlin again but got no answer. Colby figured he was out looking for poachers.

Colby undressed and took a long, hot shower, trying to keep his stitches dry. It was nice to be back in his own surroundings. Tomorrow he would hook up with Marlin, and then he'd find out the latest on Buck. Last he knew, Swank still had the deer but was planning to return him. That was a strange deal. It almost seemed like a dream, Marlin telling Colby in the hospital that Swank wanted to “do the right thing.” Swank doing the right thing was about as likely as George Foreman turning down a hamburger.

Colby finished showering, then went to the kitchen and dug some cold pizza and a longneck out of the refrigerator.
Can't get a meal like that in the hospital,
he reflected. He sank into the living-room sofa and aimlessly flipped through the channels, exhausted, but not yet ready for bed.

Finally, Colby drifted into a deep sleep on the sofa.

Tim Gray, the veterinarian, is floating, scooting, flying, billowing under a starry, starry, oh-so-starry Texas sky, heart pounding but feeling mellow, mellow, mellow, trees swaying, reaching toward him, talking to him as friends, sometimes as strangers, tall strangers, cattle lowing, eyeing him with confusion, marvel, admiration, this sentient being who has it all in front of him, has it all figured out, whose life is so much more complete with this altered consciousness, this supreme clarity, revelations of universal secrets descending on him like asteroids as the tall grass strokes his bare calves, his knobby knees, his naked thighs, the soles of his feet melting into the earth with each step, unseen birds with long, monstrous beaks watching him from shadowed limbs, moonlight bouncing off flagstone, piercing his skin with welcome warmth, making him drowsy and suddenly he is on his back feeling the ground spin, vague memories of grotesque antlered deer, grinning, morphing into dark-skinned men clutching at his arms his legs his soul, laughing, spitting, and then they're gone and everything feels right as he slips under, to wake, he now knows, never again…

“I've gotta pee really bad,” Becky said. She looked at Marlin as if he would know what to do about that particular situation. Now that he thought about it, he had a pretty urgent need himself. At least his head was starting to feel better, he thought.

Marlin glanced around the small room, which was a little more well-lit now, the morning sun beginning to sneak in where it could. Other than the blanket, the flashlight, and the water jug, the room was bare. Not even an old coffee can. “I guess you could go over in a corner,” Marlin offered. “Maybe we should designate a spot…in case we're…we're in here for a while.”

Marlin and Becky had not discussed their situation at length. He kept expecting her to ask him what they should do, what the men would do with them, but she didn't. Either she was scared to ask or she realized that Marlin's guesses were as good as hers. In any case, he didn't want to say anything that might frighten or dishearten her. Marlin actually felt fairly safe; if somebody wanted them dead, they'd be dead already.

Becky shook her head at his suggestion. “Don't think so. Maybe I'll just hold it for a while longer.”

Earlier, Becky had been the one to stamp her foot and demand medical supplies. Now, Marlin felt, it was his turn to do a little negotiating. He walked to the door and hollered, “Anybody out there? Hey, amigo!”

Seconds later, Marlin heard a muffled voice just inches from the other side of the door.
“Que pasa?”

“The lady needs to go to the bathroom,” Marlin answered.
“El baño.”

“Use the floor. It ees dirt.”

“Aw, come on now…be a sport. Let her out for a minute to take a leak. Would you want your mother treated this way?” Marlin knew that traditional Latin American men treated their mothers with great respect. Maybe that fact would work to his advantage.

Marlin smiled at Becky as he heard the board slide from its brackets. Then the interior of the room was bathed in sunlight.

Their captor, the smaller man from earlier, stood in the doorway. He smiled and said, “Juss couldn't hold it any longer?” An onlooker never would have guessed he was a kidnapper—except for the nine-millimeter handgun dangling loosely in his right hand. He waved it in Marlin's direction. “You…move to the back.” Marlin did as he was told. Now the man spoke to Becky. “Come on out…don’ be shy.”

Becky exited and stood to the man's right. He tossed an empty milk jug into the room. “That is for your needs,” he said as he shut the door. Marlin heard the board slide back into place. While she was gone, Marlin searched the room once again—every shadow, every corner. There was absolutely nothing that could be used as a weapon. He kicked at the dirt floor. They could try digging under, but chances were good that the small man was circling the cabin regularly, keeping an eye out for just such an attempt. He looked up. The sloped ceiling was built with solid pine laths under heavy-duty sheet metal. Couldn't get through all that without alerting the entire county. Plus, there was no way to even reach the ceiling without a ladder. So, basically, there was no way out. At least not quietly.

Becky was ushered back through the door a few minutes later, looking relieved. “He let me go behind a bush, down by the river. We were right, he's the only one out there. And your cruiser is parked just a few yards from the door. No other vehicles. If you can believe this, we made small talk about the weather. He's kind of a funny guy.”

Suddenly Marlin had an idea…or at least the beginnings of one. “Could he see you, what you were doing?”

“Not really. It was a small bush, though. I couldn't have slipped away.”

“No, I wouldn't want you to try that. But I've got something else in mind.”

Skip Farrell, the columnist, thought it would be an excellent photo for his article: the main house at the Circle S Ranch, a sprawling wood-and-stone affair surrounded by hundred-year-old oaks, early-morning dew sparkling on the native grasses in the foreground.

To the left of the main house was the large guest house, a hunting lodge, really, with rows of bunk beds, a full kitchen and four bathrooms. Plenty of room for at least thirty people. He snapped a few shots and then turned to the small guest house on the other side of the main house. He saw a dark face in one of the windows and waved, but the man didn't wave back. A moment later, a huge man with a buzz haircut, muscles bulging beneath a tight, black T-shirt, emerged from the house. “’Mornin’,” Farrell called out.

The man walked straight toward him and stuck out his monstrous hand, palm upward. Farrell reached to shake the extended hand, but the man shook his head. “The camera,” he said.

Farrell was starting to get nervous. He didn't like the dull look in the man's eyes. “Uh, yeah, it's my Nikon. Just taking a couple pictures for the article. You here for the big hunt this weekend?” The man certainly didn't look like a hunter, at least not the type that went after deer.

In reply, the behemoth grabbed Farrell's twelve-hundred-dollar camera and yanked it from his grasp, snapping the strap that was looped around Farrell's neck.

Farrell backed up a few steps, rubbing his neck, and watched in astonishment as the man fumbled with various controls on the camera. He finally popped the back of the camera open and exposed the film. A few strange sounds came out of Farrell's mouth as he struggled for words. He truly had no idea what to say, and he quickly realized it would probably be best not to say anything at all.

The big man yanked the film from its spool, dropped it on the ground, and then casually tossed the camera back to Farrell, who barely had the presence of mind to catch it.

Marlin and Becky sat on the dirt floor with their backs against the wall as Marlin outlined his plan in hushed tones. He knew it would take both of them to carry it off—and if Becky showed even the slightest trace of hesitation, he wouldn't risk it. When he finished, he waited for her reaction. But instead of speaking, she leaned over and kissed him once again.

“How's your head?” she asked.

“Better by the minute,” Marlin said, and returned the kiss.

They made love with no regard to their surroundings or their circumstances. For the little attention they paid it, the crummy blanket on the dirt floor could have been a satin-sheeted bed in the Waldorf-Astoria. The flashlight hanging on the wall could have been a fading candle flickering its last sensuous light. For Marlin, the pain was gone, replaced by a joy, a sense of completeness he hadn't felt in years.

Afterward, they lay in each other's arms as the flashlight finally went dark. The room was dark, until their eyes adjusted and the sunlight sneaking through the old building's cracks and crevices cloaked everything in gray. Neither spoke for quite some time, both wanting to postpone the inevitable return to reality. Becky was the first to break the silence. “This has been quite an interesting first date,” she said.

“I do my best to generate a little excitement,” Marlin replied. Then he added, “But it's really our second date, isn't it?”

“Oh, so you were counting that lunch we had as a date? I wasn't sure. I thought you were just wanting to talk to me about Phil Colby's condition.”

The mention of Phil's name brought Marlin's mood back to earth, reminded him of people, places, events outside of this twenty-by-twenty shack. Whatever this abduction crap was, he didn't have time for it. He had a best friend to check up on—and a new relationship with Becky that he couldn't wait to explore. Despite his wounded head and sapped strength, he felt a burning resolve to escape.

PHIL COLBY AWOKE at eight-thirty feeling pretty good, considering. He grabbed a quick shower then started the coffeepot. While the coffee was brewing, he called Marlin again. Still no answer. And still no answering machine. Colby was starting to get a little concerned.

He hung up and called Junior Barstow, his boss at the Snake Farm and Indian Artifact Showplace. Junior was pleasantly surprised to hear his voice, asked about his health, and said no, it was no big deal if Colby didn't want to work for a few days. “Hell, take a week if you need it,” Junior said. “Rest up. Lord knows you deserve it. Just be ready for some serious butchering when you come in. You know how backlogged we get at the beginning of the season.”

Colby poured the coffee into a traveler's mug and headed out for John Marlin's house, five minutes away. When he pulled into the long gravel driveway, he saw a strange car, but Marlin's cruiser was gone.
Ah,
thought Colby…
maybe Marlin's made a new lady friend.
It wasn't Louise's car, and besides, she never stayed the night.

Colby climbed the front steps and rang the doorbell. Then he rang it again. Finally he pounded on the door, but still nobody answered.
Maybe they went into town for breakfast,
Colby speculated.

He peered into the house through a living-room window, but everything looked normal.

He turned and started to leave, but then he decided to have a better look. After all, he had a key to the place. Might as well stick his head in and double-check on everything.

“Your veterinarian, he ees gone,” Oscar said, exasperation evident in his voice. He was calling Swank from the small guest house.

Swank was a little surprised to hear from the Colombian because they hadn't talked in two days. And no news was good news as far as Swank was concerned. But now they apparently had a problem. “What are you talking about, gone? That's ridiculous. Maybe he's just grabbing some breakfast somewhere.” Swank had checked on Tim Gray just last night, and everything seemed fine. Sure, he was flying high, packing both nostrils on a regular basis, but that was typical.

“You think I am focking stupid? Hees truck ees still here, but he ees not. What does that tell you?”

Swank pondered it for a minute. “He could be asleep in the barn, or passed out somewhere. Did y'all look around real good?”

“He ees not in the barn, he ees not in hees truck, he ees not in your house. Did he not agree to work until the job was complete?”

“Well, yeah, but your men put quite a scare into him.…Maybe he's just taking a break.”

“It don’ matter to me,” Oscar said. “Juss as long as everything is ready to go by midnight. And if it ees not ready, I will do it my way.”

“What are you saying, Oscar?” Swank asked, trying his best to keep his courage up.

Oscar screamed into the phone. “I don’ care about your beeg hunting party or the value of your animals. Those drugs will be out of those deers by midnight…one way or another!” He slammed the phone down.

Great, just great,
Swank thought. Where the hell was Gray, anyway? You couldn't count on anybody to do a damn thing right. He glanced out the window toward the small guest house. Somehow Swank had managed to let a small army of crazed drug lords invade his property like a cancer. Only, there wasn't any treatment available…except time. There was still a chance this could all blow over. Even if Oscar made good on his threat and killed all the remaining deer, Swank could come out of all this okay. Might even still make a bundle.

Then he noticed the buzzards circling a couple hundred yards behind the barn.

Could be a dead rabbit, raccoon, or some other varmint. But Gray was missing—and that gave Swank an uneasy feeling.

Oscar's man Julio Olivares, the one with the droopy mustache, had no real concerns about a possible confrontation with Deputy Bobby Garza. If the deputy had not believed the message Marlin had left for him last night, then it was up to Julio to resolve the situation. Oscar hated loose ends.

Julio had killed several men in his lifetime; in Colombia, men in the drug business died all the time. A body would be found in a ravine or in the trunk of a car, a single shot to the head. More often than not, authorities hardly even investigated such matters. They might do a quick background check on the deceased, discover a history of drug-related criminal behavior, and let it go at that. Why bother with more?

Of course, Julio would prefer not to kill the American deputy. Not because of any deep-seated respect for life, but because it created so many more headaches. In the United States, he couldn't afford to just abandon the body, especially a lawman's body. Better to take him hostage like the other two, hold him until Oscar said everything was okay, then return to Colombia. Julio and his men could probably be back across the border before the hostages even realized they were no longer being guarded.

But…the deputy could be a problem, and Julio could kill him if he needed to, without even the slightest tug on his conscience. That was a nice thing to know, that he could murder someone without the slightest compunction.

It was also nice to do this task on his own. Oscar had considered sending Tyler along with Julio, but that muscle-bound freak generally created more problems than he solved.

Julio pulled the rental car to a stop in front of the lawman's house, then unfolded a Texas map and puzzled over it for a few minutes. To anyone watching, he looked like another lost tourist who had wandered off Highway 290. He climbed out of the car with his sport coat over his arm, concealing the revolver in his right hand.

He glanced casually down the street, cocked the hammer on his pistol, and rang the doorbell. He'd have to do this just right. If the deputy gave him even a moment's trouble, if he hesitated to obey for even just a second, Julio would have to resort to violence.

He rang the doorbell again, hoping that the lawman was home; Julio wanted to complete this chore and get back to the ranch. He rang the bell a third time and began to think the house was empty. Suddenly the door was jerked open and Julio's finger involuntarily tightened on the trigger.

“What I want you to do is grab a couple shovels and bury his body.…I don't care where.”

“But Mr. Swank, don't we need to call the law in on this?” Red replied.

“Son, you gotta understand…he died from his own hand…a drug overdose. The man had a problem, and I was his friend, just trying to help him. Brought him out here to try and dry him out. I don't see how bringing the law into it is gonna do anyone any good. Think of how his family will feel. It'll just be a lot of embarrassment all around. Plus, they won't be able to collect any life insurance. You wouldn't want that, would you?”

Red glanced at Billy Don, who was preoccupied with a wart on his elbow. Red looked back at Swank. “Just bury him anywhere? Without no funeral? Now, I'm willing to bet that's almost illegal.”

Swank puckered his lips. “You can have his truck.”

“That new Chevy?”

Swank nodded his head. “Betcha could sell it for some good cash down in Mexico. After I'm done with you here.”

Red thought it over for a few seconds. “Where're the shovels?”

Colby swung the door open and called, “Marlin? Hey, buddy, you here?” He'd hate to walk in on John with a woman. Maybe they were just shacked up and not answering the door or the phone. That wasn't exactly Marlin's style, but you never know.

No answer, so he walked through the house. Empty. No clue as to where Marlin was or who owned the car outside. Colby scribbled a note—
Call me—
and placed it beside the telephone. Then he remembered that the answering machine was off. Probably a slipup on Marlin's part, so Colby decided to turn it on. When he did, the light began blinking, indicating a recorded call. It was the same as Colby's machine: If it was turned off by accident or by a power outage, the machine saved any calls that hadn't been reviewed. Curiosity got the best of Colby and he pressed the
PLAY
button.

“Marlin, it's Bobby Garza. Hey, I just wanted to say sorry that I couldn't give you more backup on that whole Swank deal. I believe you and everything, but without that powder, I didn't have a chance in hell of getting a search warrant. Anyway, if he's doing what we think he's doing out there, we'll catch up to him sooner or later. Just a matter of time. We'll talk more about it.…”

Now, what the hell was that all about?
Colby wondered.

“…But listen, I wanted to tell you about something else, too
…
about how Swank ended up getting the ranch from Phil Colby. You ready for this? Swank bribed Claude Rundell so that he wouldn't give Colby the loan he needed. Found out this morning. Anyway, I'll give you the full story. Give me a call.”

Colby listened back to the message several times, just to make sure he heard it correctly. Then he felt the familiar hatred for Roy Swank blossoming deep in his belly. Colby wanted to grab the answering machine from the bar, hurl it across the room, slam his fist into the nearest wall…anything to quell this festering rage.

But then Colby realized something: If Marlin was missing—and he seemed to be—then it likely had something to do with this message from Deputy Garza. Something to do with Roy Swank. Colby's anger evaporated, replaced by concern for Marlin.