Hog Heaven (3 page)

Dexter Crabtree—54 years old and winner of the Bronko Nagurski Trophy 32 years earlier—had reached the point where he just didn’t feel one hundred percent without at least two Adderall tablets tucked into his anus at all times. Gave him such an amazing boost. So much vitality. Like he was a kid again. Like he could still drive a running back into the ground and feel his ribs crack like dry sticks. Or knock a quarterback unconscious during a well-executed blitz.

Sure, there were other ways to take the powerful prescription stimulant. It could be swallowed whole, chewed, or ground up and snorted or injected. But Crabtree preferred the practice known as “stuffing”—sticking the pills into any orifice with a mucous membrane. You didn’t get the hard-hitting rocket-blast effect you got with shooting or snorting, but those were the methods of junkies, which Crabtree most certainly was not. He had more self-control than that. Besides, stuffing provided a balanced and long-lasting buzz.

Crabtree had first tried Adderall a couple of years earlier, just to see what all the fuss was about. College kids were always talking about it online. Raving about it, really. So he’d gotten hold of some and—wow! He’d loved it. What a rush. Reminded him of some of the pills he and his friends used to pop, way back in his playing days. Okay, so Adderall was supposedly a little bit addictive, but so were a lot of things. Mexican food. Cuban cigars. The sweet young masseuse who visited his office once a week. Winning football games.

As far as Crabtree was concerned, there were only a few minor drawbacks to Adderall, with one of them being, obviously, that he had to stick the pills up his butt. Not exactly the most dignified method, but he’d gotten used to it. And it was well worth it for the energy it gave him.

At this moment, he was burning off some of that energy by drumming the fingers of his right hand on the steering wheel of his Mercedes CL600 coupe and waiting with all the patience he could muster, which wasn’t much. Another minor drawback of Adderall.

“What time does his class get out?” Crabtree asked.

“Eleven fifteen, I think,” said Ryan, Crabtree’s son. There were times when Crabtree could hardly stand the sound of Ryan’s voice. Meathead.

“You ‘think’? You’re supposed to
know
.”

“Eleven fifteen.”

“For sure?”

“Yeah, Dad, for sure.”

Crabtree kept drumming, because it soothed him. Same old cadence—the fight song of the University of Middle Texas. You’d hear the same tune if Dexter honked his horn. And of course, the customized navy-blue paint on the exterior of the Mercedes, and the cream-colored interior, perfectly matched the official university colors.

To say that Crabtree was a bit of a UMT football fan was like saying Adolf Hitler was a bit intolerant, or that Luciano Pavarotti had a decent singing voice. But there was a good reason for Crabtree’s nearly pathological loyalty. When other universities had been unwilling to take a chance on Crabtree because of his size, UMT had stepped up. They’d realized there was more to a player than his physical stature. What about heart? What about determination? What about the killer instinct, which Crabtree had in spades, both then and now?

Ultimately, UMT had gone out on a limb and offered Crabtree a full scholarship and a starting position, even as a freshman. The result? Dizzying new heights of success for the university, thanks to one of the most barbaric—and effective—defenses ever seen in college football.

Bottom line, UMT had made Crabtree what he was today: a former NFC defensive MVP with four division titles and two conference championships to his credit. A legend. A multimillionaire with an allegiance to his alma mater that was as much a part of him as his blond hair and green eyes. Unlike most alums, when Crabtree said, “I’d kill for UMT to win a national championship,” friends and family members joked that he meant it literally.

Fortunately for Crabtree, cash usually got the job done. Lots of cash. A river of cash that flowed to potential recruits and their family members. Not just from Crabtree, but from a secretive consortium of like-minded alums—all of whom were willing to skirt what they saw as unreasonable laws restricting the free market for talented athletes. As a result, UMT had made tremendous additional strides over the years.

It wasn’t just some piss-ant oversized regional college anymore. UMT was now a legitimate force in Division 1 ball, and many of the best players in the nation put UMT on the list of schools to consider. UMT had won all three of their games so far this season—and they’d looked damn good doing it—but next year was the season everyone was anticipating. It was no stretch to say they’d be a contender for the national title. Finally. After decades of hard work, on and off the field.

“That’s the dude,” Ryan said, pointing. “Just coming out the door. Blue jacket and cargo shorts.”

A couple of dozen students had just emerged
en masse
from the front door of the school in South Austin.

“You sure? You were iffy on the time.”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Kid’s name was Adrian Lacy. He didn’t look like a ball player. Not big, even as cornerbacks go. No more than five-eleven, one-eighty. Dexter Crabtree caught himself, and recognized the irony in the assessment he had just made. Lacy might be small, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a total terror on the field.

One thing for sure, Adrian Lacy was terrorizing UMT’s recruiting efforts. Making a major nuisance of himself. Creating problems that Crabtree didn’t appreciate.

“How you wanna do this?” Ryan asked.

“Let’s see where he goes.”

“Want me to get out and follow him?”

“If I wanted you to do that, I would’ve said so.”

Ryan had a story of his own. Good enough to play at UMT, thanks to a few pulled strings, but not good enough to go pro. Actually, not smart enough. Dumb as a stump, really. He had the physical attributes—big, and stronger than a goddamn bull—but nothing between the ears. Twenty-five years old now and working for Daddy. Assistant vice-president of market development, a meaningless title. That’s okay. Dexter needed him for situations like this.

Adrian Lacy walked toward the parking lot, and Dexter pulled the Mercedes around after him. Just as Lacy opened the door to a tricked-out Honda, Dexter pulled alongside.

“Hey, Adrian?”

Lacy turned. “Yeah?”

“How’s geometry going?” Everyone knew Lacy needed a passing grade to keep his football dreams alive.

Lacy had shades on, but now he lifted them up and said, “I know you?”

“Dexter Crabtree.”

It had the effect Crabtree wanted. Lacy’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit! For real?”

“That’s me.”

“Excuse my language, but damn! You’re, like, one of my heroes.”

“That’s good to hear, son.”

“Coach shows us footage of your old games all the time. You were the bomb!”

“I appreciate that.”

“That tackle you made in the Cotton Bowl? Dude, that was legendary.”

“Well, there was a little luck involved, along with some help from above. You busy right now, Adrian? You got about ten minutes to spare?”

“You bet.”

“How about you hop in and we take a ride?”

When Marlin stopped in Sheriff Bobby Garza’s doorway, Garza was behind his desk, cell phone in hand, dialing, but he stopped when he saw Marlin. “Damn, this thing is powerful. I was just calling you. I must’ve hit the button that makes you magically appear.”

“What’s up?”

“Why don’t you come on in and close the door.”

Marlin did, then he took a seat across from the sheriff.

“Lady was walking her dog yesterday afternoon on McCall Creek Road and found a cell phone in the weeds. It looked like it had been run over at least once—pretty much crushed—and it wouldn’t power on. So she was just going to toss it, but then she saw a name engraved on the casing. Sammy Beech.”

“Near the accident site?”

“No, actually it was about a half-mile away, which seems odd, until you hear the rest. Her teenage son pulled the memory card out of the phone and it wasn’t damaged at all. So he went rooting around in the contents and found an interesting video. His mom called me, told me what they had, and, of course, I needed a search warrant to go any further. Judge Hilton signed off on one about an hour ago. Come take a look at this.”

Marlin circled around the desk and stood behind Garza’s chair as the sheriff opened a video clip on his computer. All Marlin saw at first was a dark screen, accompanied by the sound of what he took to be a motorcycle engine. The pitch of the engine fluctuated, faster and slower—as if the rider was negotiating a curvy road.

“Okay,” Garza said, “apparently what happened was that Sammy pulled his phone out, while he was driving, and started recording. Dangerous as hell, but he had a reason. Look here—”

The video screen filled with a bright flash of light, but only for a split second. Then darkness again. Then more light, just for a very brief moment. Garza paused it. Now Marlin could tell that the bright light was actually created by two separate lights. Headlights.

“Someone was chasing him,” Garza said. “He was trying to get them on video.”

“Why not just call 911?”

“Best guess is, it was easier to shoot video. The model of phone he had, all he had to do was hit one button to start recording. He was probably able to do that without even looking down. A lot easier than dialing. Besides, service is pretty spotty through there, and he probably knew that, since he lived right down the road.” Garza looked at the computer screen. “Honestly, when I first watched it, I was wondering if it was just him and some of his friends screwing around.”

“I wish we could tell more about the vehicle.”

“Yeah, and it doesn’t get any better, unfortunately. I’m hoping we can at least figure out how far apart the headlights are, maybe how high they are off the ground. Might tell us if it’s a car or a truck.”

“I think we’ll be lucky if we can get that.”

Garza looked up at Marlin, grinning. “I’m glad you said ‘we.’ Here, check this out. We’re just getting started.”

Garza hit the Play button and the video continued. The next thirty seconds was a swirled, shaky mess of darkness and light, darkness and light, as Sammy Beech attempted to record the pursuer behind him. But it had obviously been very difficult to aim the phone backward accurately while driving.

Then Marlin heard a gunshot.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah,” said Garza.

The sound of the shot was almost masked by the noise of the motorcycle engine, but it was faintly audible, and it was clearly a gunshot.

“Definitely not some of his friends screwing around,” Marlin said.

“Nope.”

Garza let the video play, and a few seconds later, Marlin heard another gunshot. Then a third. Garza paused it again.

“What do you think?” the sheriff asked. “Handgun or rifle?”

“Well, that audio isn’t so great, but I’d guess handgun.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

“Any calls to Dispatch about shots that night?” Marlin asked.

“No. You know how isolated that road is. Middle of the night, air conditioners running, probably not much chance anyone’s gonna hear it. And if they did, they’d figure it was a poacher and call you.”

“Nobody did. I heard about Sammy early that next morning, and if I’d gotten a call about shots on McCall Creek the night before, that would’ve raised a big red flag.”

Garza let the video roll again, showing more jumbled, useless footage—darkened screen, occasional flashes of light, and the rising and falling drone of the motorcycle engine.

Marlin said, “If Sammy knew who was chasing him, it would’ve been simple enough for him to hold the phone near his mouth and say the name out loud. He could’ve told us exactly what was happening.”

“Probably, but sometimes adrenaline does some weird stuff. Makes you overlook the obvious. Now watch this.”

The audio changed drastically and suddenly. The whine of the engine quickly dropped, replaced by a loud crash, then a sustained rumble.

“He dropped the phone,” Garza said. “Or tossed it. Pretty sure that’s the sound of the phone sliding along the pavement.”

The screen was dark, so it was hard to tell exactly what was happening. The rumble slowed, then came to a full stop. Just seconds later, a vehicle passed. The pursuer, roaring by. No video, just audio.

“Sounds like a decent-sized engine,” Marlin said.

Garza fast-forwarded through the next five minutes of video. The screen was totally black—no stars—so Marlin figured the phone had landed with the camera lens downward. Not helpful. Garza returned the video to normal speed, and after a few seconds, Marlin again heard the sound of a passing engine. Sounded like the same vehicle, roaring by just as quickly.

Garza said, “I think the person followed Sammy until he wrecked—maybe got out of the vehicle at the accident site, checked to see if Sammy was alive, then turned around and hauled ass. The video runs for another hour and a half—nothing interesting—and then I guess the battery died or the memory ran out.”

“Anything else helpful on the phone? Texts? Photos?”

“Haven’t looked through it all yet, but I will. Meanwhile, I’ve got Bill, Ernie, and a couple of reserve deputies searching the shoulders of McCall Creek Road to see if they can come up with any casings.”

That’s how small the Blanco County Sheriff’s Office was—that the chief deputy and his second in command were out combing the weeds in search of spent brass. It also meant that there were occasions when Garza asked Marlin to assist with larger investigations. After all, Texas game wardens were fully commissioned peace officers and could enforce any state law, not just those pertaining to hunting, fishing, and boating. Marlin, Garza, and Bill Tatum had known each other since childhood, and they worked well together. There were also times when Garza would turn Marlin loose to work on his own and see what he could find. Marlin enjoyed helping out. It was almost always an interesting change of pace, and he’d found that he was a talented investigator—so much so that there had been times when Garza had tried to persuade him to come work for the sheriff’s department. Marlin had always graciously declined.

“You looking for some extra manpower on this?” Marlin asked.

“Sure wouldn’t hurt. Didn’t you have some kind of hunting weekend with Sammy and his friends a few years ago?”

“They came out for a youth hunt I ran at Phil Colby’s place.”

“A youth hunt? What’s the bag limit on youths these days?”

Marlin grinned. “Never heard that one before.”

“You got time to help out?”

“Sure. But first, some bad news for all of us.” Marlin told him about his meeting with Grady Beech the previous afternoon and the $50,000 wild pig bounty.

“Is that even legal?” Garza asked. “Can he do that?”

“Nothing in the Wildlife Code against it,” Marlin said.

“Pretty creative, I’ll give him that.”

“Gonna bring some idiots to town in the next few days.”

“To say nothing of the local idiots,” Garza added.

“Good point.”

“I’ll reach out to all the reserve deputies, so we can focus on Sammy Beech,” Garza said.

“Whoever was chasing him—what could you charge them with?”

“Ideally, murder.”

“Even though Sammy actually died in a wreck?”

“Doesn’t matter. Whoever fired those shots chased Sammy to his death. At a minimum, it would be manslaughter. Depends on what we can prove regarding the pursuer’s culpable mental state and other jargon. The bottom line is, was he trying to kill Sammy?”

“Maybe he wasn’t actually shooting
at
him. Maybe he was just trying to scare him.”

“I’m betting he’ll say exactly that, if we can figure out who it was.”

“So what’s the next step?”

Garza let out a sigh. “Right now I need to go talk to Grady. Let him know what’s going on.”

“What would you like me to do?”

Adrian Lacy continued to gush—expressing appreciation for some of Crabtree’s greatest on-field accomplishments—as they drove a short distance from the school and parked in the service alley behind a Home Depot. No other vehicles or people were anywhere in sight.

Lacy was a smart kid. A genius, compared to most of the other recruits, based on the clever tactics he’d been using to ensure the success of his future college career. What Lacy had been doing—and Dexter had to admire the initiative—was tweeting regularly to a select group of blue-chip ball players across the state, encouraging them to rescind the verbal commitments they’d made to various schools and choose the Texas Longhorns instead. Together, Lacy said, they would be unbeatable. Which was almost certainly true. And there was nothing illegal about the tweets, either; communication between recruits was virtually unrestricted.

Several players had recently taken Lacy’s advice and switched to the ’Horns, and at least one more—a kid from central Texas who was headed for UMT—was rumored to be waffling. That kid, the waffler, was one of the top offensive linemen in the nation, and he, along with a couple of other key players, would make UMT a legitimate contender for the national title. Crabtree hadn’t made any offers to that offensive lineman yet, but that might be the next step, if this meeting didn’t go well. Crabtree couldn’t risk losing him.

He’d already lost Sammy Beech a few months ago—although there was admittedly some consolation in the fact that nobody else could have the superstar either, not with him being dead. But there couldn’t be any more defections, or UMT would once again be nothing more than an also-ran.

Crabtree twisted around to face Adrian Lacy in the backseat and said, “Listen, son, I need to ask you for a favor.

“Really? Shoot.”

“It’s a pretty big favor.”

“No problem. Name it.”

“That’s very kind of you. It involves these tweets you’ve been sending out... very creative. But I want you to lay off of Spillar. We need him at UMT. He could really put our program over the top.”

Lacy smiled. “You want me to stop tweeting?”

“Only to Spillar. No need to be greedy, right? Leave a few of the good players for the rest of us. That seems fair, doesn’t it?”

“Man, I ain’t doing nothin’ wrong. Tweeting ain’t no big deal. I ain’t breaking no rules.”

Crabtree could feel his patience wearing thin. “I realize that, but—”

“Just using every advantage I can get. That’s how you win.”

Not only had the kid interrupted, his tone had become condescending.

“So you won’t quit tweeting to Spillar, even as a personal favor to me?”

“I’d like to, but I can’t do it.”

Crabtree said, “Ryan.”

Ryan opened the passenger door, got out, then got in the backseat with Lacy. The kid knew something odd was happening, but he wasn’t sure exactly what. He was looking back and forth between the two Crabtrees, starting to get a little nervous. Ryan outweighed Lacy by about fifty pounds.

Ryan held a hand out, grinning, as if asking Lacy to shake hands, and the kid took it. Maybe not so smart after all. Ryan made a quick move, immediately twisting Lacy’s entire arm downward and rotating it clockwise, putting a considerable amount of pressure on the wrist and elbow ligaments. Lacy yelped in pain. “Son of a bitch!”

“Quiet, Adrian,” Dexter Crabtree said.

“What the fu—”

“Quiet! One good twist and you’ll need rehab for a year.”

Lacy yelped again, but not as loudly. Learning quickly. Ryan was a meathead, but he was also an expert at some kind of Korean martial art with a strange name Crabtree could never remember. Useful as hell.

After a long silence, Crabtree said, “You know, the game has changed a lot since I played. Less physical contact nowadays. You can hardly touch a guy without drawing a flag. We keep adding all these new rules, it’ll wind up a sissy sport, like soccer. I’ve seen you play, Adrian. You never would’ve made it in my day. You’re not tough enough. You should be out there tearing heads off, but instead I see you limping around like some kind of pussy.”

Crabtree waited to see if Lacy would respond to the insult, but the kid wisely kept quiet.

“So here’s the deal. New plan. No more tweeting at all. Hear me? None. Not just to Spillar, but to any other recruits at any school. Agreed?”

Ryan must’ve been twisting pretty hard, because Lacy immediately said, “Yeah! Agreed!”

“If you decide to change your mind later—”

“I won’t!” The kid was almost crying.

“And you don’t say a word to anybody about this conversation. Ever.”

“I promise.”

“Not only would Ryan and I deny that it ever took place, but I happen to know a young man who’s ready to say he gave you a blowjob at a party last year. Not that you’re a homosexual or anything like that, Adrian, but you’d both had too much to drink and things sort of got out of hand. So you let him get a little freaky on you. A one-time thing. Maybe you were even imagining your girlfriend when this guy was going down on you, but it really doesn’t matter. See, something like that, whether it’s true or not—it’ll be all over the Internet in a matter of hours. Can you imagine how your teammates would react? Or the college coaches?”

“Fuck!”

“We cool, bro?” Now Crabtree was the one being condescending, and it felt good.

“We’re cool!”

Crabtree nodded, and Ryan released Lacy’s arm. “I knew I could count on you, Adrian. I appreciate it. I really do. Now you better go get some ice for that arm of yours, before it swells up.”