Hog Heaven (17 page)

He reached with one hand to explore his face and ascertain the extent of his injury. He found the wound and jerked with a jolt of pain. A gash on his forehead, above his right eyebrow. He had touched the bone underneath the skin. Small gravel pebbles were stuck to his cheek.

But his eye was not injured. Thank God, his vision was fine. He could see. What he saw, when he swiveled his head, was that his Mercedes was gone. Just gone.

So was the box of money.

In the early afternoon, a beautiful auburn-haired woman visited Armando in his hospital room. She was dressed well, but casually—pressed jeans and a nice blouse. She had warm, friendly eyes.

She came to his bedside and said, “Mr. Salazar, my name is Nicole Marlin. I’m the victim services coordinator for Blanco County. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better.” His voice was raspy.

“I understand. Can we talk for a few minutes, or should I come back later?”

“We can talk.”

“I want you to know I’m very sorry for what happened to you. Have you ever been the victim of a violent crime before?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Nicole.”

“Only if you call me Armando.” His mouth still hurt, but it wasn’t quite as bad as it had been earlier. Maybe it was the pain meds. He was self-conscious about his missing teeth.

She smiled, and it was lovely. “It’s a deal,” she said. “Are you familiar with what a victim services program is?”

Armando said that he wasn’t, and Nicole proceeded to give him a description of various services that were available to him as an individual affected by a crime. The list was quite impressive—ranging from counseling to crisis intervention to guidance through the legal system. Armando had had no idea that that type of program even existed.

“Almost anything you need, you can ask me,” Nicole said. “I am here to help you in any way that I can.”

She was so sweet and genuine, Armando almost began to cry.

“Maybe it’s time to hit the road,” Dustin Bryant said as they waited for the waitress to bring the check. “Head on back home.” He said it quietly, casually, trying to keep the worry out of his voice. Trying to sound like the whole Blanco scene had grown boring and Dustin was ready to move on. Like he wasn’t pretty damn terrified that the sheriff would show up any minute and put them all in cuffs.

After Gilbert had joined them at the table, Dustin had noticed that just about every customer in the café was taking sideways glances at the three of them. Dustin and Dylan hadn’t been able to hear what Gilbert had said to the game warden, but it couldn’t have been good. Gilbert had told them he was “just saying howdy,” but Dustin wasn’t buying it. Gilbert had never just said howdy to any law-enforcement officer in his life. What he did instead was taunt and tease them, like he’d done with the sheriff and his deputy the day before.

“That might not be a bad idea,” Dylan said, backing Dustin up.

“Jesus Christ, y’all need to quit being pussies,” Gilbert said. “Cops around here are clueless and those voicemails are just bullshit. They’re trying to rattle you, ’cause they ain’t got nothin’. Get it?”

“I’m not even talking about all that shit,” Dustin said.

But those voicemails were exactly why he was ready to leave town. The sheriff had left a second one an hour after the first, saying he was trying to get arrest warrants for all three of them, so Dustin’s time for making a deal would run out soon. A couple of other times, the sheriff had called without leaving a message at all. Dustin had told Gilbert that the sheriff was calling and hassling him, and now he was wondering if he should have kept that between him and Dylan.

Did the sheriff really have video of the assault last night? On the way to the café, Gilbert had insisted on driving past the convenience store to see if there were any exterior surveillance cameras, but they hadn’t seen any. Didn’t mean there weren’t any, as far as Dustin was concerned. Maybe they were concealed.

Of course, Dustin hadn’t shared everything with Gilbert. He hadn’t revealed that the sheriff was offering a deal to Dustin and Dylan—if they would rat on Gilbert. When Gilbert had asked to hear the voicemails, Dustin said he’d deleted them already. He hadn’t.

“Then what are you talkin’ about?” Gilbert asked now.

“This pig hunt.”

“What about it?”

“Waste of time. I gotta get back to work in a couple days. Besides, what’re the odds we even have a chance at it?”

Gilbert grinned. “Getting better by the minute.”

Last night, he’d started a rumor. Everywhere they’d gone, he’d spread the word that the pig had been shot yesterday evening. “God’s honest truth,” he’d said to the doubters. See, he’d seen the dead pig with his own eyes. Saw the tattoo in the ear. He’d been standing right there when the TV news crew had come out and interviewed the man who’d shot it. The story hadn’t aired yet, but it would soon. So the contest was over. Ain’t that a bitch? Might as well pack it up and go on home. Gilbert was a great liar. Most everyone he’d talked to had believed him. And the traffic around town
had
seemed lighter this morning, like some hunters had already cleared out. Dustin would never have thought of a trick like that, but it came natural to Gilbert. Kind of funny that it was working.

The phone on Dustin’s hip vibrated again. He ignored it.

When they came outside, the man who had been having lunch with the game warden was sitting, boots dangling, on the opened tailgate of a truck parked with its nose toward Highway 281. The man hopped to the pavement and immediately headed their way, with a deliberacy to his stride that was unmistakable. Dustin didn’t know why, but just like last night at the convenience store, he had the distinct feeling that something was about to go terribly wrong. He was tired of having that feeling.

Apparently, Gilbert saw the man coming, too, because he simply stopped and waited where he was, fifteen feet from the restaurant’s front door, squinting, with a toothpick nestled between his lips. It was a clear day and the sun was beating down with a surprising intensity for September.

The man stopped five feet away, locking eyes with Gilbert.

Gilbert spoke first, saying, “You need something, sport?”

“Just to be clear, since you don’t strike me as the most intelligent guy I’ve encountered this week, when I was talking about the shooter being a coward, I was referring to you. You were the shooter, so you’re also a coward. Am I wrong on either count?”

Jesus
, Dustin thought.
This guy doesn’t fool around. Comes on strong, right from the get-go.

Dustin glanced over at Gilbert, who had a smirk on his face, as usual. Like he was amused, but not worried in the least. Gilbert slowly pulled the toothpick out of his mouth and casually flicked it into the parking lot. “Who the hell are you again?”

“My name is Phil Colby.”

“You really this dumb, Phil Colby?”

“Who can tell? I’ve never had my IQ tested. You gonna answer my question?”

“You ready to take on three guys at once?”

Colby said, “What, you three? There won’t even be one to take on. I’m a good judge of people, and I’m pretty sure about that. Your two friends aren’t gonna back you up. They don’t think you’re worth the trouble. Anybody can see that, except you, I guess. That leaves you, by yourself, and you don’t really concern me.”

Gilbert gave a fake chuckle. “Why’s that?”

“Cowards aren’t much of a threat, except for shooting people in the back.”

Gilbert looked at Dustin and said, “You believe this guy?” Dustin didn’t say anything. He was so tired of Gilbert and all the trouble that seemed to follow him around.

“Of course, you’re welcome to prove me wrong,” Colby said.

“Yeah? How would I do that?” Gilbert was still smirking. “Just for conversation’s sake, tell me.”

“Kick my ass.”

The tension was ratcheting up so high, Dustin could hardly stand to watch. He could feel perspiration trickling from underneath his armpits. He was tempted to walk away, get in his truck, and drive home to East Texas without stopping. But he couldn’t move.

Gilbert said, “That’s all it would take? Kicking your ass?”

“You bet. A coward wouldn’t have the guts to even try.”

“You’re a feisty little booger, aren’t you?”

“A better question is: Why are you still talking when you should be kicking my ass?”

Dustin had never seen anyone deal with Gilbert this directly, and without the slightest detectable trace of fear.

“I guess because it don’t really matter to me whether you think I’m a coward or not,” Gilbert said. “You’re nobody. You’re some game warden’s jack-off buddy, that’s about it.”

“See, you’re still talking. Still mouthing off. That’s what cowards do. Easier to talk than to take action. By now, your friends are starting to understand what a coward you are. Their respect for you—if they ever had any—is gone now.”

“Fuck you.” Now the smirk was disappearing. This man had definitely gotten under Gilbert’s skin.

“More talking. Easier than proving you’re not a coward.”

Dustin had lost track how many times Colby had said the word “coward.” He was repeating it, Dustin knew, because there weren’t many worse things to call a man.

“Listen, asshole,” Gilbert said. “I don’t have to prove anything to you. Besides, how do I know you aren’t setting me up? That game warden probably asked you to do this so he could arrest me for assault.”

“He doesn’t know I’m still here. And you and your buddies can say I started it, because it’s true. I did start it. That means you won’t get arrested.”

“I will be if I throw the first punch.”

“So that’s what’s holding you back? You want me to throw the first punch instead?”

The four men were standing in front of a plate-glass window that gave everyone inside the restaurant a clear view of the parking lot. Dustin glanced through the glass and saw that virtually every customer was watching the scene that was unfolding outside.

Gilbert hadn’t answered the question, and Dustin didn’t blame him. There was something about this man that was intimidating as hell. He reminded Dustin of some of the pit dogs he’d seen—the ones that would keep fighting, injured, bleeding, it didn’t matter—until they’d destroyed their opponent. Relentless determination. Once they started, it was almost impossible to make them stop.

“I’ll do it,” Colby said, leaning closer, his voice low. “Just say you want me to. That’s all you gotta do. Just say it. But you should know that I won’t stop with the first punch. That man you shot at? The game warden? He’s my best friend. Known him since I was six years old. I love him like a brother. So if you tell me to throw the first punch, you better believe I will, and I’ll try to do as much damage to you as I possibly can. One or both of us will be leaving here in an ambulance. So go ahead. Say it.”

Dustin realized he was holding his breath—and trying to decide what he’d do if the shit hit the fan. Cover Gilbert’s back? Not a chance. No, the only question was: Stay and watch or get the hell out of Dodge?

Gilbert looked like he was just about to act. A punch, a headbutt, something. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The moment passed.

“Well, I guess that answers my question,” Colby said.

He turned and walked to his truck without a backward glance.

Another day, another shopping excursion. Apparently. This time, Leigh Anne Beech went south on Highway 281 out of Johnson City, as she’d done the day before, but she bypassed the turnoff on Highway 290 to Austin.

Going to Blanco?

Nope. She passed through and kept going.

Forty minutes later, she entered the northernmost outskirts of San Antonio. Turned right—west—on Loop 1604. Exited at Blanco Road and took the turnaround over the highway, which put her going east on the access road. Turned into a shopping center called Ventura Plaza and parked in front of a restaurant called Silo.