Hog Heaven (12 page)

“Eric and Garrett. The other guys you already talked to.”

Marlin slowly reached out and picked up the photo, wanting to see if Colton would steal another look at it. He didn’t. Marlin slipped the photo back into the manila folder.

He said, “You know anyone who might’ve been mad at Sammy?”

“No, sir. Did that woman have something to do with Sammy dying?”

“We don’t have any reason to think that. But Sammy might’ve known her, and we’d like to ask her a few questions. That’s all. So if anyone on the team knows who she is, that would be really helpful.”

The flush in Colton’s face still hadn’t gone away. “Wish I could help,” he said.

Marlin paused for a moment. Just let the silence settle in the room, to see how Colton would react. Would he get fidgety? Ask if they were done?

Colton said, “Sammy was a great player. We’re missing him this year.”

“From what I hear, you’re a pretty good player yourself. Going to UMT on a scholarship.”

“Actually, I switched to Oklahoma Tech.”

“Oh, yeah? Didn’t Sammy do the same thing?”

“Yeah.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“OTU just seems like a better fit for me.”

Two solid-black pigs and one solid-white pig. That’s what Red had seen so far. He and Billy Don were once again sitting in the 12-foot tower blind on the Kringelheimer Ranch. Red wasn’t sure if Billy Don had seen those pigs, too, because the big man was being awfully quiet. Pouting. Or angry. Or something. Red didn’t understand what the problem was. He knew that Billy Don had his panties in a bunch over the way Red had treated Armando at the flower shop. Weird. And it was getting tiresome.

They should both be thrilled that they knew something all of the other pig hunters didn’t, because it gave them an edge. Most feral pigs were one color—black, white, or brown. Others were a combination—mostly black and white. Armando had said the pig was brown and white, which wasn’t rare or anything, but in Red’s experience, that was the least common combination. Very helpful to know that, and Red was glad he’d managed to get the information out of Armando. Billy Don should be glad, too.

Red retrieved a bulging plastic sack from the floor at his feet and began to root around in it.

“Pork rinds?” he asked.

Billy Don shook his head.

“Corn Nuts?”

“Nope.”

“Slim Jim?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Moon Pie?”

“Don’t want nothin’.”

Red dug even deeper.

“Teriyaki jerky?”

Billy Don didn’t react at all.

“Peanut butter crackers?”

Still no response. Red put the sack back on the floor.

“So what’s the deal?” he asked.

“Ain’t no deal,” Billy Don said.

“Something’s going on. You’re acting like a woman. Giving me the silent treatment.”

Billy Don turned his head slowly and glared at Red. “Want me to toss you headfirst outta this blind?”

“Hell, no, but how about, instead, you quit moping around? That, or come right out and say what’s on your mind.”

“No problem. What’s on my mind is that you treated Armando like shit earlier. You were a real asshole.”

“Well, I’m not saying that’s true, but even if it is—so what?”

“So what?”

“Yep. So what? Why do you care how I treat Armando?”

Billy Don was shaking his head. “Let me ask you something. Say some dude in a bar punched you in the face and you didn’t deserve it. If I’m standing right there, would you want me to do anything about it?”

“I’d want you to do something even if I
did
deserve it.”

“Zackly. And I would. That’s what friends do.”

“Wait a sec.” Red had to take a breath. “You’re saying you and Armando are
friends
?”

“Yeah. What of it? Why do you care if I’m friends with Armando?”

“I really gotta spell it out?” Red asked.

“Appears you do.”

Red opened his mouth to reply, but he happened to glance out the window of the blind, and there stood a small brown-and-white pig. Staring in this direction, because he and Billy Don had been talking more loudly than they should have been.

“Red, why are—”

“Shhh! Don’t move.”

The pig was still standing there, no more than fifty yards away. Red knew that pigs had poor eyesight, but he would swear that the pig was looking directly at him.

Red reached for his .30-30, which was leaning in the corner of the blind. He brought the rifle up slowly. Very slowly. Being oh so careful not to bang the muzzle on the metal roof.

The pig started to walk away to the left, while still keeping an eye on the blind.

By now, Billy Don had turned his head to see what Red had seen. Now he said, “He’s heading for them cedars.”

Red stuck the barrel out the window, then lowered it to rest on the window frame.

“Hurry up, Red.”

He nestled his cheek against the stock, peered through the scope, and quickly found the little pig in the field of view. This would be an easy shot. Piece of cake. Like hundreds of other shots he’d made successfully over the years. Red put the crosshairs on the pig’s shoulder, pulled the hammer back, took a breath, held it, and slowly squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud and very recognizable click.

Crap!

He’d forgotten to jack a round into the chamber when he’d first sat down. This business with Armando and Billy Don had distracted him too much.

Red quickly cranked the lever down and back up, loading a round into the chamber, but the noise it produced was just enough to send the pig into a trot. It reached the grove of cedars before Red could get off a shot.

Armando was working on a large arrangement—four dozen long-stemmed red roses, mixed with baby’s breath and greenery—but his heart wasn’t in it, because he was feeling so guilty. He’d betrayed Sharon’s trust, all because he’d let that ignorant, repugnant, empty-headed, bigoted, insensitive hayseed browbeat him into spilling the beans. If only he had—

“Armando?” It was Grace, the owner of the shop, suddenly at his elbow. He’d been too preoccupied to even notice she’d come into the back room.

“Yes?”

“That’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

“But... which customer is it for?”

“Uh, the anniversary party this evening.”

“Honey, those are supposed to be
yellow
roses.”

“Oh, lord. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. We have plenty of time to get another arrangement ready.”

It was only a small mistake, but Armando had always prided himself on his meticulous attention to details. He had to clear his head and get his concentration back. Now it was obvious what he had to do. Confess to Sharon. Admit what he’d done. Then, in the future, avoid Red O’Brien at all costs.

Dexter Crabtree was in the process of stuffing Adderall—in the privacy of a filthy gas station bathroom stall, slacks hanging from a hook on the door—and he couldn’t help gloating a bit. Clever what he’d done—the way he’d outfoxed Vera Spillar.

Giving her half of each hundred-dollar bill was absolutely brilliant. Just like Crabtree had said, she’d gotten half up front. Of course, that half was worthless without the other half. So she’d have to follow through with her side of the deal—or get nothing. Crabtree had seen that little trick in various movies over the years and had always wanted to use it himself. The only risk was that his half of the money would also be worthless if Vera Spillar didn’t come through, or if Colton refused to do what she asked him to do. Fine. Crabtree could afford the gamble.

As soon as Colton Spillar announced that he was renewing his verbal commitment to the University of Middle Texas, that would be that. There would be no more opportunities for him to change his mind. He’d reached his limit—and there most certainly was one. Unspoken, but it was there. Most college coaches could understand how Colton might be lured away from his original commitment by a program as prestigious as OTU’s. And they could understand how Colton might start to feel guilty later and switch back to his first commitment, to keep his word. But if he attempted to switch yet again, to OTU or anyone else, he’d be seen as a recruit who couldn’t be trusted. A serial waffler. Coaches were patient, and they didn’t mind stealing recruits from one another, but some of them had started drawing a line in the sand about all this switching around. They didn’t want to waste time chasing a player who had about as much loyalty as a ten-dollar hooker.

Now all Crabtree had to do was wait.

Wait for the tweet—directly from Colton, or from one of the various media outlets that kept Crabtree up to date. And as luck would have it, just as he was pulling up his slacks, his cell phone emitted the alert for an incoming tweet. He pulled his pants up to his waist and—in a burst of giddy anticipation—yanked his phone from his front pocket.

That’s when it happened.

He bobbled his phone. Clumsy. In too much of a hurry. The phone practically leapt from his hands, as if it had a mind of its own. Crabtree was already buzzing from the Adderall, but now his heartbeat jumped up a level, because in that fraction of a second while his phone was in midair, he knew exactly where it was going to end up.

And it did.

It landed in the toilet with a sickening splash.

The alert sounded again, but now it warbled from beneath several foamy inches of stagnant yellow pisswater. Crabtree hadn’t flushed the toilet when he had come into the stall, and it appeared none of the previous ten occupants had bothered to flush, either. Crabtree simply stood there and watched until the alert stopped sounding and the screen on his phone went dark.

Fuck.

He couldn’t just leave his phone in there. It was the most important thing he owned. It was loaded with all his important contacts—information that he hadn’t backed up as frequently as he should have. It was his electronic lifeline to the world of college football. He didn’t care about the actual phone, which was probably ruined, but maybe he could salvage the SIM card.

The good news was, he had Latex gloves.

He removed a glove from his pants pocket and tugged it on to his right hand, focusing on the fact that he was pretty sure urine was sterile. He had read that somewhere. So what he was about to do was gross, yes, but probably not dangerous. Then again, the bowl itself was crusted with all sorts of disgusting particles and remnants he’d rather not even contemplate. So, on second thought, there had to be billions of germs colonizing that water.

Think positive. He had a glove. The same kind surgeons wore. The germs were irrelevant.

He pulled the glove as high as possible up his wrist, then he slowly lowered his hand below the rim until it touched the surface of the water. He paused. Then he lowered it farther. He could feel the warmth of the water enveloping his fingers and creeping upward on his palm.

But he wasn’t able to touch the phone yet.

He went a little deeper and his fingertips finally brushed the phone, but he couldn’t actually grip or grab it. Ever so slowly, he lowered his hand a bit more, hoping to use two fingers like pincers. Still couldn’t get it. Meanwhile, the level of the water was past the heel of his hand and almost to the lip of the glove.

He heard someone outside, trying to turn the locked doorknob. Then a light knock. “Dad?”

Ryan, wondering what was taking so long.

“Just a minute, goddammit!”

Crabtree reached still deeper, his eyes focused on the phone, and the way his two fingers could almost grasp it, clutching at it, so close, only to have it slip away each time, and then he reached too far, and the pisswater poured into his glove like water over the transom of a sinking rowboat.

No reason to be careful now. Crabtree plunged his hand all the way into the bowl, grabbed the phone, and pulled it out. He hustled over to the sink—feeling the pisswater running down his wrist and forearm—and quickly rinsed the phone off. Amazingly, it was still working.

He checked the incoming tweet, which had indeed come from Colton Spillar. But it had nothing to do with his verbal commitment. It simply said:
We’re dedicating the rest of the season to our lost teammate, Sammy Beech.

Crabtree read the tweet twice before the screen went dark again.