Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy (13 page)

17

JESSIE WASN’T MUCH of a barker, and Marlin was grateful for that. He didn’t want to spook the wounded animal—a fox or coyote, Marlin was sure of it—and cause it to run even farther.

Turpin had Jessie on a long leash, and both men slipped under the fence onto Kyle Dawson’s property. Marlin was carrying the 30/30 he kept in his truck, Turpin was carrying a tranquilizer gun. Both men wished they had brought a video camera—just in case.

Marlin was about to offer to point out the last drop of blood he had spotted on the trail, but he saw there was no need for that. Jessie tugged on the leash and was raring to go, following the same path Marlin had walked earlier.

Without a dog, trailing a wounded animal can be a tedious and ultimately futile exercise, as most hunters know. Frequently, as was the case here, the blood trail thinned to a few meager drops, many yards apart. The pursuer could spend ten or fifteen minutes just looking for the next trace of blood, which might be lost in high grasses or underneath shifting leaves.

But with Jessie’s powerful nose leading the way, the pursuit went so quickly that Marlin and Turpin could barely keep up. In less than five minutes, the trio had covered more than a quarter of a mile over the rugged, rolling terrain.

They crested a hill, and Marlin could see a rooftop on the horizon. Kyle Dawson’s house, still half a mile to the east. Jessie continued downhill, where they came to a shallow creek, maybe ten feet across. The dog plunged right in, and the men waded after her. Back on dry land, Jessie picked up the trail again and continued her relentless tracking, meandering through juniper thickets, across caliche flats, and under fences that split the ranch into smaller pastures. Occasionally, Marlin spotted a small drop of blood, and at one point, a covey of quail burst from a clump of brush, startling both men. Jessie, however, paid the birds no mind at all, remaining focused completely on the job at hand.

“Pretty damn impressive,” Marlin said, breathless, as they topped the far side of a ravine.

Turpin grinned. “And I hardly had to train her. It’s just her nature.”

For just a moment, the dog stopped and looked back at the men, wagging her tail, as if she were enjoying the compliment. Then it was back to business, nose to the ground, keeping the leash taut.

They reached a dense grove of towering western red cedars, the lower branches so thick, the men could barely make their way through. Jessie, however, simply scooted along underneath the lowest boughs, just as the wounded animal had done. The ground was covered with a thick mulch, and it was easy to see the animal’s path. Marlin spotted several tracks in the mud, and he asked Turpin to hold up for a moment. He studied the prints and was more convinced than ever that it was a coyote.

Jessie barked, and Marlin had a hunch they were getting close. He worked the lever on his 30/30, chambering a round, then lowered the hammer to the safety position and nodded at Turpin to continue.

Jessie led them out of the cedars, and Marlin found himself staring directly at the front door of Kyle Dawson’s house, roughly a hundred yards away.

“Damn, that’s weird,” Marlin said. He knew most wild animals completely avoided areas inhabited by man, especially during daylight hours.

“Maybe it’s getting weak, not thinking straight,” Turpin said, grinning, catching his breath. “I know I’m not.”

Marlin took a breather, too. The brisk trek had made him realize how out of shape he was. He was feeling light-headed.

After a few minutes, Jessie couldn’t stand the wait anymore and barked impatiently.

“Well, let’s get after it,” Turpin said.

The coonhound proceeded directly toward the house, then gradually veered to the north and began to go around it. Marlin noticed there weren’t any vehicles parked in the circular drive out front, or in the driveway by the garage on the north side.

“Hold up a sec,” he said. While Turpin and Jessie waited, Marlin walked to the front door and knocked. Then he went to the garage and peered through the windows in the retractable doors. He saw Kyle Dawson’s truck, but Marlin knew Dawson also owned some type of sports car. It was gone.

He rejoined Turpin, and Jessie led them in a wide berth around the house. At the back, on the eastern side, was a swimming pool, hot tub, and tennis courts. Beyond that was a dilapidated riding stable inside a large corral made from split-rail fencing. No horses to be seen, though. Marlin remembered that Floyd Dawson used to ride horses on occasion.

Here, closer to the house, the landscape was maintained, the native grasses cut short. Kyle—or, more likely, a paid worker—probably drove a small tractor over the acreage on occasion to mow the grasses to a manageable level.

Jessie was getting excited now, barking more frequently, raring up on her back paws as she pulled on the leash.

“Looks like she’s headed for the stable,” Turpin said, trotting to keep up.

Marlin followed, and sure enough, Jessie squeezed under the fence and began to drag Turpin toward the wooden stable door.

The deputy brought the dog to a halt about ten feet from the door, which stood open about a foot. “Whatever it is,” Turpin whispered, “I’d say it’s in there.”

Marlin nodded and walked to the front, taking the lead for the first time. With the rifle in front of him, he slowly approached the door. An animal could come busting out of there at any moment, and Marlin assumed it wouldn’t be a house cat this time.

He reached the door and gently pulled it to until there was only about a four-inch space. Then he pulled a flashlight from his belt and shined the light inside the dark stable.

What he saw first, against the far wall, was a large steel-mesh crate, the kind used by dog owners who keep their dogs inside the house. As far as Marlin could remember, Dawson didn’t own any dogs. The crate was about the size of a refrigerator laid on its side. Hay had been tossed inside the crate as bedding, and there were two metal bowls for food and water. But the crate was empty.

Right next to it was another crate, also empty.

Marlin swung the flashlight wider and found a third crate.

He saw a pair of eyes, red from the light, staring back at him.

He heard a low growl.

Then the animal stood up, blood matting its chest, and Marlin had a clear view.

He was so surprised by what he saw, he almost dropped the flashlight.

“So you really don’t want the car?” Terry Hobbs asked. “Even for ten g’s?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The man he was talking to was the only potential buyer Terry could think of, and this was a guy who bought just about anything of extreme value.

“Shit no, but thanks,” the voice on the line said. “Got outta those high-dollar imports a couple years back. Too risky.”

“Too risky? What about that Matisse last year?”

“Now, see, a Matisse I can stick into a suitcase and carry onto a plane. I got buyers overseas who won’t ask questions. Try the same thing with a Lotus.”

Terry saw his point. “You know anybody?”

“Top of my head, no. But I’ll ask around. Where’d you pick it up, anyway? Never known you to boost cars.”

Terry told him where he’d found it.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“Problem?” Terry asked.

“You gotta be careful out there. Security and shit nowadays. Cameras all over the place.”

Uh-oh.
Terry hadn’t thought of that. He hadn’t thought at all. Just got in the car and took off.

“Didn’t have to break in, though,” Terry said. “Guy left the key in it.”

“Seriously? Rich dude with shit for brains.”

“How could I resist?”

“Next time, find a way. You’ll have a tough time unloading it. If you don’t get collared.”

Now
Terry was depressed. He thanked the man and hung up, promising to stay in touch.

Shit.
He had seen an easy score, and he’d taken it. But this thing was turning into a headache. Not worth the hassle.

Just the fact that it was sitting out in his garage made him nervous. It was the first time he’d dealt with a piece of stolen property he couldn’t fit into a crawl space or a safety-deposit box.

Marty Hoffenhauser had never been inside the feed store before, but it seemed like a good place to start. The store had a fenced yard outside, and Marty recognized many of the products inside the fence as hunting-related equipment.

The deer blinds were easy to identify: small squat boxes made from corrugated black plastic, with windows all around and a small door on one side. Some of the boxes were elevated, perched on thin legs made from steel tubing, with a ladder leading to the door.

Then there were fifty-gallon drums, also mounted on steel legs, with some sort of device attached to the bottom of the drum. Marty was fairly certain those were deer feeders.

Marty figured a place like the feed store would have deer antlers, and if they didn’t have any, they could probably tell him where to get some. So he stepped through the door.

The store had many more hunting products inside—hundreds, actually—all arranged neatly in cabinets and on shelves. Marty had no idea it took this much equipment to go deer hunting. He figured you just grabbed a rifle and headed into the woods, but it was apparently more complicated than that. It was kind of interesting, actually. In one aisle alone, Marty found small bottles of deer, fox, and raccoon urine, hand warmers, earplugs, knife sharpeners, gun oil, battery-powered spotlights, compasses, rifle slings, reloading kits, varmint guards (whatever those were), solar panels to charge feeder batteries, and about a dozen other items.

Against a wall, there was a long rack of camouflage clothing—shirts, pants, shorts, coats, vests, socks, ski masks, caps, even long underwear—in a variety of patterns, weaves, textures, and colors. Marty noticed that most of the camouflage designs were actually trademarked, with names like RealTree and Mossy Oak.

But he didn’t see any deer antlers.

A salesman approached, a young guy in Wrangler jeans, boots, and a pressed Western-style shirt. “Help you, sir?”

“Yeah,” Marty said. “Do you carry deer antlers?”

“For rattling?”

Rattling?
Marty didn’t know what that meant, so he just said yes. He figured antlers were antlers, regardless of what they were to be used for.

The salesman moved to the next aisle over. On the bottom shelf was a pair of antlers connected by a leather strap. “Our last pair,” he said. “Kinda late in the season for rattling. I guess you might still bring some does in, though.”

Marty tried hard not to appear confused. The salesman handed the antlers to Marty, who studied the tag. “Oops. It says here that they’re made from synthetic materials.”

The young man shrugged. “Yeah, but they sound just like the real thing.” He took the antlers from Marty’s hands and began striking the antlers against each other, making a cacophony of sounds.

Marty smiled. “Very nice. But I’m really looking for genuine antlers.”

The salesman placed the synthetic antlers back on the shelf. “Don’t carry ’em. You might check with Junior Barstow.”

“Okay, great. Where do I find him?”

“South on Two eighty-one. At the snake farm.”

Marty couldn’t hide his puzzled expression this time.

“He also runs a taxidermy shop,” the salesman said. “He might have some sheds.”

Sheds?
What the hell did that mean? Marty didn’t want to come across as a total idiot, so he thanked the man and walked back outside to his car. He drove south on the highway and spotted a hand-painted sign he had briefly noted in the past:

LIVE SNAKES! INDAIN ARROWHEARDS!

DIRECTLY AHEAD!

THRILL THE KIDS! IT S A SCIENTIFIC AND HISTORIC WONDERLAND!

(VISA EXCEPTED)

Marty pulled into the parking lot, stepped from his Jaguar, and surveyed the surroundings. He saw a collapsing fireworks stand, a sagging double-wide mobile home, and a rusty Blue Bell ice cream truck with no wheels.

Marty remembered reading a newspaper article about this place once. The owner was a snake handler, taxidermist, butcher, and collector of Indian artifacts. Rare arrowheads, spear points, pottery, things of that sort.

“You need something?” An elderly man had exited the mobile home and was calling to Marty. Something long and black was draped over his shoulders. On closer examination, Marty realized it was a snake.

“Uh, you Junior?”

“That’s what they call me.” Barstow’s accent was as thick as gin fresh from the freezer. It was times like this Marty wished he could enhance his mild Austin accent and blend in a little more with the Hill Country locals. It might prevent them from eyeing him suspiciously, as Barstow was now doing. Marty was sure the Jaguar didn’t help matters much. One of the few foreign cars in Blanco County.

“Guy at the feed store said you might have some antlers for sale,” Marty said, trying to bump his drawl up a little.

The old man didn’t reply. His expression was stony.

“Sheds?” Marty said hopefully.