Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (20 page)

PHIL COLBY STOOD on the bed of his truck and drove the last in a long line of eight-foot T-posts, then looked back at his work. Large rolls of horse-fence were waiting in a nearby trailer. He'd have the fence finished tomorrow, then he could let Buck out of the barn, free to wander. Colby sat down on the tailgate just as Marlin came bouncing up the driveway in his truck. Becky Cameron was in the passenger seat.

“Fence is looking good, Phil,” Marlin said as he climbed out of the vehicle.

“You really think five acres is enough?” Colby asked, surveying the area to be enclosed by the deerproof fence.

“Aw, yeah, don't worry. Maybe we can leave a gate open, let a couple of good-looking does in.”

“A couple?” Becky said with a grin. “What does he need more than one for?” Before either man could reply, Becky said, “You look worn out, Phil. I'll go grab us all some iced tea if you've got any.”

“How ’bout a cold beer instead? There's a six-pack in the fridge,” Colby replied.

“Be right back,” she said.

Both men watched her walk away in her khaki shorts.

Marlin figured it was as good a time as any. “Listen, Phil, I wanted to talk to you about Becky.…”

Colby held up his hands, palms out. “Hey, don't worry about it.”

Marlin shook his head. “I just want you to know that I didn't plan it this way. I know you were interested in her, but…”

Colby cut in. “You think if I was the one holed up in the cabin with her, I wouldn'ta done the same thing?”

Marlin didn't know what to say.

“She's a great gal, John,” Colby said. “Quit moping around about it and just enjoy yourself.”

Just like that, Marlin knew why he had been friends with Colby for so long.

“But about this fence.” Colby changed the subject. “It just doesn't feel right, to keep him in a pen this small.”

“He'll be fine.”

“Yeah, but what about next season? And even in between seasons, there are always poachers around. I imagine Buck will hang around the house here for the most part, but you know he's gonna wander off sometimes.”

“What if he had four thousand acres to roam around on?” Marlin said, barely able to contain himself.

Colby gave him a sidelong glance. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about your ranch, Phil. It's gonna be yours again.”

Colby's lips moved, but nothing came out.

“I just came from a meeting with Roy Swank,” Marlin continued. “Just me and him. No lawyers. We made a little trade—a rather disgusting videotape, for the ranch. I told him it was a funny thing, tapes like that had a way of ending up on the Internet. He was all too happy to make a deal.”

Colby started laughing, the kind of laughter accompanied by tears of joy. He came over to shake Marlin's hand, and the handshake turned into a hug.

“Jesus, John. You don't know what that means to me.”

“I know. You got Bobby Garza to thank, too. He bent the rules a little bit. As soon as Swank deeds the property back to you, Garza is gonna give him the tape, no questions asked. Red and Billy Don gave Garza that tape so he wouldn't nail ’em for theft and DWI and speeding and…”

“Gaw-damn, I'm gonna have to buy those rednecks a beer sometime,” Colby said. “On second thought, maybe I'll hire ’em to work the ranch.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Marlin couldn't tell if Colby was serious.

“Hey, what better way to keep ’em from poaching the property?”

Marlin smiled. “You know, you may be right.”

Marlin and Colby sat down on the tailgate and watched the sun begin to dip behind the oak trees.

“What about the smuggling, John? Isn't Swank gonna get nailed for that?”

“Man, I hope so. He's still gotta deal with those charges, but I don't know what kind of case the feds can put together. Tim Gray and two of the Colombians are dead. The leader, this guy Oscar, is in jail and hasn't said a word yet. I doubt he ever will. Mackey has admitted to taking some bribes from Swank, but it sounds like he didn't really know what was going on out there. In any case, Mackey's gonna be out of a job, and I know a fine young deputy named Garza who's just dying to take his place. So, to be honest, I figure if Swank hires enough Austin lawyers, they can get a jury to believe just about anything. Swank could walk away with probation, or maybe even get off scot-free.”

Colby sighed. “That just ain't right.”

“On the other hand,” Marlin said, “if Luis gets out of the burn unit and decides to save his own skin—no pun intended—he could put Swank away for a long time.”

Colby nodded. “John, you said something yesterday that I meant to ask you about. When we were still at Swank's, you were talking to that lawyer, Geis, and you said something about finding another tape…”

Marlin nodded. “Several years back, Cletus called in about some shots fired on the Circle S. I went over there and found a doe all prettied up like the one on the tape we saw. There was a video camera set up, but the poacher had taken off. Now, looking back, I realize it wasn't a poacher, it was Swank.”

“Did you look at the tape?”

“Hell, yes. Nothing on it, though.”

Colby shook his head. “That guy is one sick puppy.”

The men heard Colby's screen door slam and Becky returned with three longneck bottles.

They drank in silence for a moment, enjoying the last light of the evening.

Just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon, they heard a deer snort beyond the fenceline. A large buck emerged from behind a grove of trees and stared at the trio.

“It's gonna be a great season, John,” Colby said, as the graceful animal snorted again and bounded off into the brush.

Ben Rehder lives with his wife near Austin, Texas, where he was born and raised. His Blanco County mysteries have made best-of-the-year lists in
Publishers Weekly, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews
, and
Field & Stream. Buck Fever
, the first in the series, was nominated for the Edgar Award.

On the morning of Saturday, November 5—opening day of deer season—a statuesque blonde beauty strolled out of the trees, pulled down her khaki shorts, and peed beneath Cecil Pritchard's deer feeder.

“Well, suck a nut,” Cecil said to himself, sitting in his deer blind a hundred yards away. He looked down at his coffee mug, blinking dumbly. Maybe he'd added a little too much Wild Turkey. And this
was
his fourth cup. But when he looked up again, the Nordic goddess was still there, hiking up her shorts. His brother-in-law would never believe it.

The day had started normally enough. Cecil climbed out of bed at four
A.M.
sharp, pulled on his camo coveralls, and brewed a pot of Folgers.
Nothing gets you going like the smell of fresh coffee,
Cecil thought, whistling happily. He would have loved a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon on the side, and a basketful of biscuits, but Cecil wasn't much of a cook, and his wife, Beth, was still drowsing in bed. Goddamn woman was as useless as a negligee on a nun. On weekdays, when he'd come home from the machine shop at lunchtime, he'd usually find Beth staring at the soap operas or Jerry Springer on TV, and Cecil would be left to make his own lunch. The way Cecil saw it, that was a serious infraction of the marriage vows. So, as he had prepared for the morning hunt, Cecil made sure to stomp around the mobile home as heavily as possible, kind of get the whole floor vibrating. It'd serve her right if she couldn't get back to sleep after he left.

He met up with Beth's brother Howard at the ranch gate at five in the
A.M.,
just as planned—plenty of time to reach the blinds before first light. Seeing as how they had a few minutes to spare, Cecil took the opportunity to remind Howard what a lazy, good-for-nothing sister he had. Howard heartily agreed while munching a breakfast taco his own wife had prepared for him.
Sorry, I ain't got but one,
Howard said around a mouthful.

The men split up and Cecil proceeded to his elevated tower blind, a beauty he had ordered from the Cabela's catalog last spring. Once inside, Cecil readied himself for a long, relaxing morning hunt. He loaded his Winchester .270, double-checked the safety and leaned the rifle in the corner. He pulled out his binoculars and gave the lenses a good cleaning. Then he poured a hot mug of java, added a generous dose of bourbon, and waited for sunrise.

The black night slowly gave way to gray, and then the rolling hills of central Texas started to take shape. The birds began chirping tentatively and then went into full chorus. Cecil leaned backed and soaked it all in. He was sitting twelve feet up with a view that God himself would appreciate. Man, this was living. Cecil waited all year for this morning, and he just knew there was a big buck somewhere in the woods with his name all over it.

That's when Cecil heard a car rambling along the gravel county road that paralleled the ranch's eastern fence line. Weeks ago, Cecil had considered relocating his blind, but the road saw such little traffic, he had decided to leave everything as is.

Looking through his binoculars, Cecil saw a rusty mustard-yellow Volvo easing down the road. It disappeared behind some trees and then the motor faded away. Cecil had thought the occupants were gone for good. But apparently, he was wrong.

Now, Cecil was staring slack-jawed at the blonde trespasser, knowing that all his pre-season plans and preparations were wasted. He was furious. The woman might as well have erected a flashing neon warning sign—DEER BEWARE!—because no self-respecting buck would come within a thousand yards of so much human scent.

Finally, Cecil managed to get over his astonishment and do something. He stuck his head out the small window of the deer blind and yelled, “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass away from there!”

The tall blonde casually buttoned her shorts, smiled, and flipped Cecil the bird.

Cecil decided enough was enough, and rose to go give the woman a serious tongue lashing, maybe escort her back to her damn rattle-trap of a car. But as he stood, he spilled his coffee, dropped his binoculars to the floor, and—goddamn it all!—banged his riflescope against the side of the blind. Cussing loudly now, Cecil opened the blind door and began to climb down the ladder—only to hear a car door closing and the Volvo gently puttering off into a fine Texas morning.

At nine
A.M.
on Saturday, November 5, a thick-chested man with crow's feet, jowls, and graying hair was throwing a hump into his live-in Guatemalan housekeeper—but his mind was elsewhere and his erection was starting to droop. The distraction was laying right there on her nightstand: the Travel section of the newspaper. He could see an ad that said:
Barbados, from $549! Call your travel agent today!

Shit, if it were only that easy. But Salvatore Mameli—formerly known as Roberto “The Clipper” Ragusa—couldn't just pick up and go like normal people. His life was way too fucked up for that.

A few months back—maybe it was more like a year now—Sal had forced himself to take stock, to figure out how he wanted to spend his golden years. After all, he probably still had a couple of good decades left. He was only fifty-seven—knock wood—way past the average age of most men in his former line of work.
So what is it,
he had asked himself,
that I really want out of life?
It boiled down to this: He wanted to live his life in peace, away from the Feds, in some distant country where he wouldn't have to worry who was waiting around the next corner. He wasn't asking much, really, but it would require a lot of dough.

The irritating thing was, Sal still had plenty of money from the old days—a small fortune that the government couldn't seize because Sal had actually earned those particular assets through legitimate businesses. But those accounts were eye-balled like a stripper at a bachelor party. If Sal tried to make a sizeable withdrawal—especially in cash—red flags would go up and he'd be surrounded before he made it to the airport.

No, what Sal needed was fresh money that could be easily concealed. Lots of it. Then he could make his break.

He could picture the location in his mind: definitely someplace tropical, like this Barbados place. Maybe a small island that had no extradition treaty with the U.S. Better yet, no rednecks, pickup trucks, or country music. He'd had his fill of that shit.

Sal had lived in Blanco County, Texas, for three years now, which was about thirty-five months more than he could handle. And Johnson City, the county seat? Forget about it. You couldn't find decent Italian food anywhere. You had to own a satellite dish to catch most of the Yankee games. And everyone was so damn friendly, it made his asshole pucker.

For two and a half years, Sal had simply laid low, trying to figure out his next move. Unfortunately, the U.S. Marshals Service always had its eyes on him so closely he could barely take a crap without a marshal there to offer him toilet paper. Just a few more trials, they kept saying, and then you'll be free to do what you want. Leave the country, we don't care. But for now, you owe us. With your life. And Sal had to admit that was true. He knew he could be rotting in federal prison right now—assuming some wiseguy didn't shank him in the ribs out in the yard. All of Sal's pull from the old days wouldn't mean shit. Some greaseball would waste him without batting an eye. That's the way it was nowadays, no respect for men like Sal anymore.

So three years ago, as much as he hated to do it, Sal had chosen the only alternative. The problem was, the trials could take years to wind their way through the judicial system. After all, the Feds were in no hurry. They were going after some heavy hitters, so they wanted to dot every
i
and cross every
t.
And, of course, there could be mistrials, appeals, and all kinds of delaying tactics that could keep Sal Mameli squarely under the U.S. District Attorney's thumb for years to come. With each day that passed, Sal couldn't help worrying that his former associates were closer to tracking him down.

And he knew the kind of justice they would exact if they found him.

After all, Sal used to be one of the guys in charge of dealing out punishment. That's where he had gotten his nickname, the Clipper. He had done some nasty things to some nasty men, left bodies in the kind of condition that would make the most hardened medical examiner shudder. Sal knew what the horrifying possibilities were, and that's why he kept a loaded .38 in his nightstand and a sawed-off twelve-gauge under the front seat of his Lincoln. Every noise in the hallway at two
A.M.
could be a goon with a garrote, instead of his son, Vinnie, making a trip to the john, or his wife, Angela, sitting like a zombie in front of late-night TV, a bottle of vodka by her side.

But then, just six months ago, things had begun to look brighter. Opportunity had pounded firmly on Sal's door, as it had so many times in the past. For some reason—a drought, a low aquifer, or who the hell knows why—residents all over Blanco County had begun clearing their lands of cedar trees and other brush. At first, Sal had barely glanced at the newspaper articles addressing the situation. Then, on a drive through the country with Angela, Sal noticed the tractor-like machines that were used to clear brush. They seemed to be everywhere, rumbling over ranchland like so many Sherman tanks.
This,
Sal thought,
could be exactly what I've been looking for.
After doing a little research, finding out precisely what this land clearing was all about, Sal realized there was an enormous amount of money to be made in the brush-removal business. Hell, he had run a successful concrete company back in Jersey, and had even taken on several juicy projects here, before the water issue brought new construction to a screeching halt. And this brush-removal business, how hard could it be? The concrete business required large machines, cedar clearing required large machines. All you needed was some operating capital and some big, dumb guys to run the equipment. Piece of cake.

So Sal had jumped right into the brush-removal business with only two things in mind. Number one: Stashing away some serious cash. Number two: Buying a one-way ticket to some off-the-map Caribbean island where nobody asked questions, checked for proper papers, or cared who the hell you were in a past life. Sal could almost smell the salty breeze and the coconut oil. He could picture a tanned, nubile body—definitely not his wife's—lounging in the chair next to him.

Sal had noticed something else in the last few months: The Feds seemed to be loosening their grip a little. He no longer had a team of deputies on his tail every time he left the house, no longer heard strange clicks on the line during every phone call. There was still a plain-vanilla sedan outside his home on occasion, with government plates, but the fat putz inside was easy to handle.

It made Sal laugh to think they actually trusted him.

On the other hand, he
had
been their star witness half a dozen times already, and they seemed to think he was a man of his word, that he'd stick around to the end. With more freedom than he had had in three years, now was the time to make a break for it. Or at least get the plan in the works.

With his new business in full swing, the money starting to pour in, Sal was consumed around the clock by thoughts of flight. That's why, on this particular morning, as Sal was getting a piece of tail, his heart really wasn't in it. He had too much to think about, including tomorrow's meeting. Sal was getting together with a rich old bastard named Emmett Slaton, Sal's largest brush-removal competitor. Sal was going to offer Slaton twice what his business was worth.
Hell of a deal,
most people would say. Of course, the “deal” consisted of a reasonable down payment now and a balloon payment next year that, in reality, poor old Emmett would never see. It was the same arrangement Sal had with several other area business owners. Better yet, Sal had secured the down payments via a small-business loan at a local bank, another obligation he had no intention of fulfilling. The idea was to have as much money as possible coming in, and as little as possible going out. Then, when the time was right, he'd skip the country, leaving his creditors holding the bag.

If he tried the same stunt back home, he'd wind up with his throat cut and his body tossed in the Hudson River. But down here? Shit, who was gonna stop him?

At ten o'clock Saturday morning, Susannah Branson, senior reporter for the
Blanco County News,
wheeled her Toyota into Big Joe's Restaurant in Johnson City. There was a scattering of vehicles in the parking lot, including John Marlin's green Dodge Ram pickup, issued by the state.

She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror and fluffed her wavy brunette hair. Susannah had been looking forward to the interview with the county game warden for several days. Rumor had it that John Marlin would soon be back on the singles market, and Susannah had had her eye on him for a long time. Ever since high school, actually. He was just her type: a big, strapping guy, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and dark eyes.
No sense in wasting time,
Susannah thought, and unsnapped one more button on her blouse.

She entered the small café and spotted Marlin at a booth, sipping coffee. He rose to greet her. “Morning, Susannah.”

“John, thanks so much for meeting me,” she said with a smile. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you lost weight?”