Hog Heaven (25 page)

“Check its ears!” Red shouted.

“Just wait a sec,” Billy Don said, still watching through the rear window.

And right then Red saw a light appear in the rearview mirror.

“They’re coming,” Billy Don said.

The vehicle was several hundred yards back—so far back that the headlights looked like one light—but it had to be the dog runners, because the vehicle was going faster than Red’s Ford. He mashed down on the gas pedal, but it was already floored.

“Can’t outrun ’em,” Red said.

“Shit.”

Red rounded a curve and the headlights disappeared for a moment. Then he came to a straightaway and the headlights reappeared. It didn’t look good—but Red had an idea.

“Billy Don, get ready to hang on.”

“What? Why?”

“Just get ready to hang on, right after this curve.”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

There was an old trick that game wardens used. They’d run a line to a switch underneath the driver’s seat, and when they’d flip that switch, it killed the power to the brake lights. That way they could sneak up on poachers without giving themselves away. Not long ago, Red had installed the same type of switch in his truck, so he could poach without giving himself away. He hadn’t used the switch yet, but it was just about to get its first tryout.

Now the single light in the rearview mirror began to look like two lights. Not good. They were gaining.

Then Red rounded another curve and the lights disappeared again.

“Hang on!”

He flipped the switch under the seat, and then he stomped the brakes hard, and even harder, and harder still. The truck began to groan as it was forced to lose its momentum quickly.

And then Red saw what he was looking for: a small caliche driveway to the right, almost hidden by the thick cedar trees that covered the roadside. Red had snooped around in this area before. He knew the driveway led to a cabin set far off the highway. No gate blocking the way. No chain.

Red violently whipped the Ford to the right, careening into the driveway, and for a second or two, it felt like the truck was up on two wheels and it might tip over. But the moment finally passed, and Red goosed the gas hard, slinging gravel as he shot down the narrow driveway.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy Don said. “You are a fucking lunatic.”

Red reached out and killed the headlights, then hit the brakes, and the truck came to a stop, hidden in the cedar trees, with no lights revealing where they were.

“I thought we was dead men,” Billy Don said.

Both men turned and looked behind them at the highway bathed in moonlight. Ten seconds passed. Then the dog runners’ truck roared past.

“Your father’s heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature are elevated. He has vomited twice, but the last time was well over an hour ago. Obviously, as you know, he isn’t thinking clearly. A few minutes ago, he tried to convince me that he is the all-being master of time, space, and dimension. If memory serves, that’s from an old Steve Martin routine. We’re running some tests on his kidneys and his liver, and we’ll have to see what those tell us, but I see no swelling in his lower extremities, no signs of fluid retention or abdominal pain, so we are cautiously optimistic. Based on my exam, it appears he has been abusing Adderall quite extensively, and for quite some time. Nevertheless, based on his condition at the moment, and assuming he is willing to address his addiction, I think there’s a good chance he can make a complete recovery. Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Is he currently taking any other prescription or over-the-counter medications?”

“No.”

“Has he ever abused any other drugs?”

“No.”

“Does he drink heavily?”

“No.”

“Any history of heart disease?”

“No.”

“Thyroid problems?”

“No.”

“Hypertension?”

“No.”

“Epilepsy or seizure disorder?”

“No.”

“Any mental illness?”

“Yes. He’s obsessed with college football.”

Marlin was six miles south of Round Mountain, in northern Blanco County, when a vehicle shot past him at a speed he could only estimate at approximately one hundred miles per hour. He immediately hit the brakes, brought his own speed down, and made a U-turn. By the time he was turned around and northbound, the vehicle was no longer in sight.

Marlin grabbed the radio microphone. “Seventy-five-oh-eight to Blanco County.”

“Go ahead, seventy-five-oh-eight,” said Darrell Bridges, the dispatcher.

“Currently in pursuit of a vehicle traveling at a high rate of speed, northbound on 281. My current location—just passing Arrowhead Road. You might want to alert Burnet County.”

“Ten-four. Do you have a description of the vehicle?”

“It appeared to be a blue truck, but I couldn’t get the make or model.”

“Seventy-five-oh-eight, be advised that we just received a 10-99 on a blue, dual-cab GMC truck that was last seen northbound on 281.”

The radio code—10-99—meant the truck was stolen. But that wasn’t the only part that caught Marlin’s ear. A blue, dual-cab GMC? What were the odds?

“County, who called that complaint in?”

“The registered owner—last name of Bryant, first name of Dustin. Suspect is a Gilbert Weems.”

Darrell had no way of knowing the significance of that information.

“County, do we know how many occupants are in the vehicle?”

Marlin wanted to know if Dylan Bryant was with Weems. It was doubtful, but he couldn’t take anything for granted. Maybe there’d been a falling out between Dustin and Dylan, and Dylan had taken off with Weems.

“According to the complainant, it’s occupied one time.”

One person. Just Weems.

“County, please ask any available units to respond.”

The moment of truth.

Billy Don grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box and turned it on. The small pig carcass was still resting in his lap, and warm blood—from the instantly fatal gunshot wound to the porker’s neck—had seeped into the thighs of Billy Don’s jeans. He didn’t care. Wasn’t the first time.

“Well, come on,” Red said.

Billy Don tugged one of the pig’s ears and illuminated the inside.

Nothing. No tattoo.

He turned the pig’s head and illuminated the inside of the other ear.

“Yeeeeessss!” Red screamed, and he began pounding the steering wheel with excitement. “Hell, yeeeesssss!”

The tattoo was there.

One mile short of Round Mountain, Gilbert Weems came to the conclusion that he’d been screwed. The pig thieves in the red Ford must’ve turned off somewhere. They had to be back behind him. Otherwise, he’d have caught up to them by now.

He stomped heavily on the brakes and then made a wide, looping U-turn.

Marlin saw headlights in the distance—at least half a mile away. But they were coming fast. Marlin’s speed alone couldn’t account for how quickly this vehicle was approaching.

Could it be Weems? Had he turned around?

Marlin played a hunch and took his foot off the gas. Then he switched off the red-and-blue lights mounted on the grill.

He began to apply the brake.

Now the oncoming vehicle was about a quarter-mile away, and there was no doubt that it was really moving. Marlin had to wonder why Weems would have turned around. And what caused the rift between Weems and the Bryant brothers? Why would Weems have stolen Dustin Bryant’s truck? None of that mattered for the moment.

Marlin pulled to the shoulder and waited. The vehicle was eating up pavement quickly.

Two hundred yards.

One hundred yards.

Then it zipped past, and Marlin saw that it was a blue dual-cab truck. He cranked the wheel, made yet another U-turn, and gunned it, with the red-and-blues flashing again.

Weems recognized the green game warden truck—he’d seen plenty in his day—and he knew the warden would turn around and give chase. And he did.

Weems was flying at well over ninety—and the warden probably wouldn’t be able to catch up—but staying on the highway was a no-win situation. It would take him right back to Johnson City, where deputies would be waiting.

That left one option.

“Seventy-five-oh-eight to County. Be advised that the blue GMC is now southbound on 281.”

“Ten-four, seventy-five-oh-eight.”

“Correction: he just turned westbound on County Road 307.”

“Ten-four.”

Marlin made the turn, but once again, the GMC had a big lead, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to close the gap.

Red came back down to Earth and said, “Here’s the deal. I don’t blame you at all for grabbing the pig—I woulda done the same damn thing—but we need to settle down for a minute and think this through.”

“What’s there to think about?” Billy Don asked.

They were still parked in the driveway off 281.

“Well, I have no idea what the law says about a situation like this, but I’m betting those boys can say we stole the pig. Cops’d probably agree and give it right back to them.”

“But they ain’t got the pig and we do. Everybody knows repossession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“I think that’s an old wives’ tale.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t know yet. I guess I’m saying we shouldn’t get too excited. Not until we see if they call the cops.”