Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (4 page)

“I WOULD PREFER you didn't handle that,” Roy Swank said rather curtly to one of his visitors.

They were in Swank's expansive den, where the walls were adorned with the heads of elk, buffalo, deer, warthogs, and antelope. Gold-trimmed display cases contained African tribal weaponry, relics, and artifacts. The smaller, slender visitor had opened one of the cases and was examining one of Swank's prize possessions.

“What in tarnation is it, anyway?” he asked, reluctant to put it down.

“That,” Swank responded, “is a dried rhinoceros penis.”

The object practically leapt from Red O'Brien's hands back to its rightful place in the case.

Red's faced turned bright red. “That's just sick, is what it is.”

Billy Don was laughing heartily. “I guess you're not used to handling a dick that long, are you, Red?”

Red was about to fire off a comeback when he noticed that Swank was staring at them sternly and drumming his fingers on the desk. “Quit horsing around, Billy Don,” Red said. “The man called us here for a reason. Let’s hear what it is.”

Swank motioned the men to two upholstered chairs in front of his desk while he took a seat behind it. He did not offer them a drink. “I'm not sure what you gentlemen know about me, but I run a fairly successful hunting operation out here.”

Both men nodded. Red thought:
We saw one of your best bucks up close and personal three nights ago. But I missed it.

Swank continued. “I have a lot of great deer out here, some for harvesting, some for breeding. It takes a long time to build a healthy trophy herd, you know. And now, one of my trophies is missing.” Swank briefly told them about the situation with Marlin and Buck.

“John Marlin told Sheriff Mackey that the buck jumped the fence,” Swank said. “But I'm not so sure that's what happened. I'm inclined to believe that he has it stashed away somewhere, or that he gave the deer back to Phil Colby. Colby used to own the deer. Of course, he used to own this ranch, too, but look who's stoking the home fires now.” Swank laughed merrily, and Red and Billy Don joined in, although they had no idea what was so humorous.

Swank finally regained his composure and stared intently at Red, who was the clear leader of the two. “I understand Sheriff Mackey is your cousin?”

“Yessir, second cousin twice removed on my daddy's side.”

Swank nodded. “Well, Sheriff Mackey and I have gotten to be good friends in the last few years. I called him about a problem I'm having, and he told me something interesting. He said you and Billy Don know this county inside and out—all the people, all the back roads—and that y'all might be able to help me get my deer back. I'm willing to pay a fair price, of course.”

Red could sense the sweet smell of opportunity in the air. After all, if a trophy buck's antlers were sometimes worth thousands of dollars, imagine what the whole critter was worth! Play this guy right, and there could be some serious money on the line. Of course, ol’ cousin Herb would want a finder's fee, but that was fine with Red.

“Sheriff Mackey was right,” Red said. “Me and my associate here are awful good at that sort of thing. But it's gonna be expensive.”

“How much?”

Red started adding up some of his past-due bills in his head. Which meant the men could all be sitting there till Christmas.

“Don't be bashful, Mr. O'Brien. I'll be honest—it means a lot to me to get that deer back immediately. I'm having a large hunt here on opening weekend. You know, with Skip Farrell, the hunting columnist, and some other media types. It will mean a lot of great publicity for the ranch, so I'm willing to pay a fair price.”

“Ten thousand bucks. Cash.”

“Done.”

“Apiece,” Billy Don spoke up.

“No problem. I'll give you half now and half when the job is complete.” Swank opened a desk drawer and withdrew a stack of crisp hundreds. Before he handed the cash over, he said, “Anytime, day or night—when you find that deer, call me.”

The men rose and Swank showed them back to the front door, where he handed them each a business card with half a dozen phone numbers on it. “I am never completely out of touch. Just keep trying those numbers and you'll find me.”

Red said, “Mr. Swank, it's a pleasure to be working with you. You won't be disappointed.”

“I'm sure that I won't. Oh, and gentlemen, do me a favor. Don't do any more poaching on my property.”

“Oh shit. How did he know it was us?” Billy Don asked when they were back in the truck.

“Hell if I know. But I say we keep our traps shut and earn some easy money.”

“Aren't you nervous, Red? I mean, how come if Swank knows it was us, Mackey hasn't figured it out? He may be your kinfolk, but you
shot
a guy!”

“
We
shot a guy, you ingrate. But I think Swank was just taking a wild guess anyway. Besides, all he seems to care about is that damn deer. That must be a awful special buck.”

Red pulled into a convenience store on the edge of Johnson City. He was ready to start spending some of his newfound money. “Billy Don, run in there and get us a twelve-pack of Busch. Wait a minute. Hell, get us a case of Corona. We can afford it.”

Billy Don climbed out of the truck.

“And get me a handful of Slim Jims,” Red called after him. “And some Moon Pies. And a pack of Red Man.”

After Billy Don went inside, Red wasn't thinking about Trey Sweeney lying in a hospital. He wasn't thinking about last week's poaching disaster. All he was thinking about was where John Marlin and Phil Colby might have hidden the trophy buck.

Trey Sweeney was in room 312 according to the front desk. Marlin knocked gently, but didn't receive an answer. The door was slightly ajar, so he eased it open and saw that Trey was sleeping.

Marlin entered and took a seat in one of two chairs for visitors.
Not bad,
he thought.
A private room.
One of the benefits of state health insurance.

Marlin noticed several magazines on a small end table.
Zoologists’ Monthly. Fauna World.
Definitely Trey's. Marlin was thumbing through
Wildlife Weekly
when a nurse came into the room.

“Oh, hello. I didn't know Mr. Sweeney had a visitor.”

“Yeah, I was just waiting to see if Trey would wake up.”

“He's still on some pretty heavy pain medication.”

Marlin stood. “I'm John Marlin, game warden in Blanco County.”

The nurse took his outstretched hand. “Becky Cameron. Pleased to meet you. You're a friend of Mr. Sweeney's?”

“Well, we work together on some things. But yeah, I'd say we're friends, too.”

Becky smoothly removed an IV bag from its holder and replaced it with another.

Marlin said, “What can you tell me about his condition?”

“Actually, since you're not family, I really can't tell you a lot.” She gave him a smile. “Unless you're conducting an investigation of some sort….”

Marlin got the hint. “On an informal basis, yes, that's exactly what I'm doing.”

Becky sat down in the empty chair. “As the cliché goes, your friend is lucky to be alive. The bullet broke several ribs, but it passed almost parallel to his chest, so his internal organs were untouched. It really was pretty miraculous.”

“Did they have to do surgery?”

She nodded. “We had to remove one of his ribs completely, since it was too shattered to mend properly. But that's fairly common and shouldn't be a problem. Two other ribs were broken, but they should heal on their own. Overall, he should be just fine.”

“That's easy for you to say.” Trey spoke from his bed.

“Well, look who's awake.” Marlin rose and stood at the bedside. “How you doing, Trey?”

“Oh, not so bad, I guess, other than comin’ damn close to being a ten-point buck's love slave.” Trey was slurring, clearly medicated.

Becky Cameron said, “Mr. Sweeney, I just replaced your IV and your pain medication isn't due for another two hours. So just call me if you need anything.” She started toward the door.

“Hold on, Nurse Cameron. Have you met ol’ Johnny here? John, I don't know if you've noticed, but Nurse Cameron bears quite a resemblance to Julia Roberts.”

Marlin had noticed. The nurse was quite attractive, with flowing reddish-brown hair, dark-green eyes, and a knockout figure.

“That's enough out of you, Mr. Sweeney,” Becky said, stifling a smile. “Don't embarrass me in front of your friend. Now, I'll leave you two alone.”

After she left, Marlin pulled a chair up next to the bed. Nobody had been to see Trey, so Marlin told him of the events with Buck, starting with the tranquilizing and ending with the visit from Sheriff Mackey.

“So where is Buck now?” Trey asked.

“Let's just say the last time I saw him, he was in my yard.”

Trey was starting to seem a little more alert. “You wanna be careful with that deer, John. He's been acting real strange lately.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He's one of my test deer, you know that. And I've been doing a little research, getting ready for the breeding season. You know how active the males get during the rut, but Buck has been an aberration lately. He doesn't sleep. He never quits moving. I don't think he even eats. He just keeps wandering, day and night.”

“Maybe some of the does are already in heat,” Marlin said.

“Believe me, even if they are, this is like nothing I've ever seen. Two solid weeks of activity. I mean, it got to the point where I was thinking it was something neurological.”

“So you thought you'd go wandering around a pasture in the middle of the night looking like some kind of circus performer. Real clever, Trey.” Marlin felt obligated to give him a little grief.

“You know as well as I do that I could have just walked right up to him and examined him. But I wanted to see how he was behaving in his natural habitat. Only, I got shot first,” he said sheepishly.

“I was concerned, too,” Marlin said, “when I saw how he was acting that night at the Circle S. But by yesterday, he seemed fine. Like the same old Buck.”

“I'll be honest with you. I'd much rather see Buck back with you or Phil instead of with Swank. Just promise me you'll be careful.”

“You're telling
me
to be careful?” Marlin said, gesturing around the hospital room.

“I'm serious, John. Just keep an eye on him. You never know what he's going to do.”

“Relax. You don't have to worry about Phil and me.”

Trey smiled and shook his head. “I'm not concerned about you. Just don't hurt the damn deer.”

SUNDAY MORNING, BARNEY Weaver watched television and wished it was Monday, when his food stamps would come by mail. They always arrived on the first of the month, and Barney was anxious. His pantry was running low.

Barney soon lost interest in the tube and decided to write in his journal instead, a practice he had begun during the Unabomber hearings. The idea of keeping a journal appealed to Barney—something about it seemed mysterious and intelligent. It also implied that he had something to say, something worth putting down on paper. So he wrote.

Sunday, October 31

Tried to brake into Marlin's the other day. No luck. Had a minor mishap. Can't find the proof I need but I will sooner or later. Louise ain't doing me like that. If I can proove it I'll be rich and she won't have the last lauhg. She never did lauhg though. And I kind of like Marlin ever since he caught me with too many doves but didn't write me a ticket so maybe I won't hurt them. I just want my share of the money and I think that's right There's plenty to go around. My lawyer's telling me to find something that will show she was fooling around before the divorce. Have to keep trying.

Barney was happy with the entry: concise and well-written. Someday his heirs would read the journal and realize what a wise man he was, and appreciate how he had struggled to deliver their portion of the American dream. They would respect him for his persistence in the face of adversity and admire his determination. But right now, it was time for a cold beer and some pork rinds.

As an officer of the law, Blanco County deputy Bobby Garza was everything that his boss, Herbert Mackey, was not. Honest. Respectable. Concerned. Intelligent. He lived by a code of honor born of a family history rich in law enforcement.

Garza was born in Marble Falls, about thirty minutes north of Johnson City in Burnet County, but his family had moved into Blanco County when he was three. His father had been sheriff of Blanco County in the 1970s, a firm but fair public servant respected by citizens countywide. Bobby's master plan—and he was a meticulous planner—included holding the same office himself. Several friends and neighbors had already encouraged him to run for sheriff, even at the age of thirty-four, but he was biding his time. His father always told him that if he didn't win the first election, he wouldn't win a second.

Being a precise man, Garza was one minute early for his ten o'clock meeting with Lem Tucker, the county coroner. Garza parked his cruiser and waited outside the tiny county morgue, which used to be a Dairy Queen. The windows were painted black and the signage had been removed, but the festive red-and-white exterior seemed much too lively for its purposes. There was even a sticker on the inside of the front door that said,
Y'ALL COME BACK.
Garza often chuckled about the irony, though nobody else seemed to notice.

Lem Tucker pulled in at five minutes past ten, driving his huge old Chevy Suburban instead of his county car. He climbed out wearing work clothes—old jeans, muddy boots, and a faded shirt. He was a few years older than Bobby Garza, but just as trim. The men had know each other for years, as most residents did in the area. They had a friendly relationship and were occasional hunting partners.

“You didn't have to get all dressed up on my account,” Garza teased, leaning against the fender of his car.

“Sorry. I was just out fixing up a few blinds. You ready for deer season?”

“Just sighted in the thirty-thirty last week.”

“You still using that old brush gun? You'd think a lawman like you would know a little something about firearms.”

The men exchanged a little more small talk as they made their way to the front door. Once they stepped inside, the bantering stopped, as it usually did. Tucker flipped on the lights, revealing the standard floor plan familiar to Dairy Queen customers the nation over. The large main room was sparsely furnished with a few filing cabinets and battered desks. A smaller adjoining room led to the walk-in freezer, the chief reason the old building had been selected as the new morgue site. Lem pulled the handle on the freezer and both men walked in.

“I'm afraid I don't have a lot to tell you at this point,” Lem said as he pulled back the sheet that covered the body. The blue tarp the body had been wrapped in was safely tucked away at the sheriff's office as evidence, along with the man's clothing. There was no jewelry or identification.

“There's no obvious cause of death,” Lem said, “but we're hoping the autopsy will tell us something.”

“Any wild guesses?”

“Actually, no. I'll admit I'm stumped. Appears to be a healthy male in his early twenties. Body's in pretty good shape considering where it was buried. The materials they used to build that low-water bridge helped preserve it. The exposed right hand is the only part with any significant decomposition.”

“But no sign of trauma?”

“Nothing. Not even any bruises. So it's gotta be something internal. That's what I'll find out tomorrow. How's things on your end?”

Garza shook his head. “I talked to the contractor, a guy out of Blanco, and he was absolutely no help. Says they laid the bridge materials down in layers over several days. Somebody could have snuck in overnight and dug a pit for the body. Next morning, the workers would have paved right over it.”

“You buying it?”

“No reason not to. I talked to his whole crew and they all backed him up. Truthfully, anyone looking for a good spot to stash a body could have put it there. It would have taken a few hours of shovel work, that's all.”

“And no ID yet, I guess?”

“Nobody seems to know him, so I don't think he's local. We're running the Polaroids in the paper on Tuesday, so we're crossing our fingers. After that, I guess we'll have to put word out in Austin and San Antone.”

Lem grabbed a small flashlight off a shelf and raised the dead man's left arm. “Here's what I wanted to show you.” He shined the light on the palm of the rigid left hand, revealing faint writing from a ballpoint pen.

“Looks like a phone number,” Garza said. “What is that, 555-1508?”

“That's what it looks like to me. Another month and that writing would have been gone.”

Garza took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and wrote the number down. “This could be what we need, Lem. Good eye.”

“Just call me Quincy.”

“We sure are jumping into this awful fast,” Billy Don said. It was Sunday evening and the two men were sitting in Red's truck at the Sonic Drive-In. Two bags filled with deep-fried favorites sat between them.

Red responded while munching on a handful of Tater Tots: “No sense in waiting around when ten thousand bucks is on the line. You know how long it would take us to earn that in the construction business?”

“How long?”

Red paused for a moment. “A good long while, that's for sure. And another thing—what if someone else finds the deer first? Or what if something happens to it? Marlin or Colby could have already hauled it off a hundred miles away.”

Billy Don nodded. Red always had a good answer for everything. But the idea of using a gun on Colby scared him. Even if it was a pellet gun.

Red sensed his nervousness. “Now, don't worry. All we do is stick this in Colby's face like this.” He pointed the gun at Billy Don. “ ‘Give me the damn deer,’” he practiced between clenched teeth.

“Red, don't point that thing at me.” Billy Don slid toward the door.

“Don't be a baby.”

“I mean it. Aim that somewhere else.”

“Hell, it ain't even loaded.” Red pointed the gun toward the unopened passenger window, just inches in front of Billy Don's face, and pulled the trigger.

The corn dog sticking out from Billy Don's mouth exploded as a loud pop filled the cab of the truck. The window immediately became a weblike network of cracks surrounding a small, neat hole.

Billy Don cursed while opening the door and climbing out of the truck. “Dammit to hell, Red! That thing missed my head by about an inch.”

Red looked around the drive-in diner to see if they were drawing attention. Nobody seemed to notice. “Get back in here, Billy Don.”

“Go to hell.”

“Nobody even heard it, so get back in here before everybody hears your hollerin’.”

“Put that damn gun down. First you miss that deer the other night, and now you almost take my head off. And you ruint a perfectly good corn dog. Shit.”

Remaining inconspicuous was more important than maintaining his pride at the moment, so Red laid the gun on the seat. “Billy Don. I'm sorry. Now get back in here. Please.”

Billy Don slowly eased himself back into the truck. He grabbed the pellet gun and put it on the floorboard at his feet.

“Okay, good,” Red said. “Now, here's the plan.”

Roy Swank sat at his desk in his den Sunday evening and contemplated the whole debacle with the trophy deer named Buck. Damn, what a mess it all was! Swank always felt confident, even when things weren't going his way. His years at the state capitol had forged nerves of steel. But for the first time, he was beginning to feel a little antsy. Maybe he was in over his head this time.

Part of his nervousness had to do with being in a new line of business—and dealing with an entirely different breed of clientele. Oscar, for one, was a threatening figure. How do you gauge a man like that? Who knows how he would react if he knew about this current situation?

No, he was definitely getting too old for this type of stress. He would clear this mess up and then retire for good. Isn't that what he had in mind when he originally moved out here? Maybe lease a few pastures to deer hunters during the season and run a few cattle the rest of the year, but that was it. Just sit back and enjoy life in the hills.

But first things first. He stared at the phone, wishing Red O'Brien would call.
Oh man,
he thought.
What have I done, putting my future in the hands of those two bumpkins?