Hog Heaven (6 page)

Another side effect of Adderall—in addition to hives, breathing difficulties, blurred vision, change in sexual ability, irregular heartbeat, fever, anxiety, frequent urination, blistered skin, vomiting, slurred speech, and a host of other unpleasant possibilities—was “new or worsening mental or mood problems.”

Many people would interpret that to mean the user might get depressed, irritable, or even aggressive—and that was true. Dexter Crabtree had experienced all three. But the “mood problems” could also include delusions and hallucinations. Scary stuff. Crabtree couldn’t afford to have either of those.

He wondered: If you had a hallucination, would you know you were hallucinating? Say you walk into your backyard and see a green-and-pink zebra. Would you know it wasn’t real, but still see it? Or would you see it and think it’s completely real? Because it would be better to see it and know it’s not real. Same with a delusion. If you were under the impression that you were the president of the United States, would you know deep down that you really weren’t? On a similar note, if you began to have irrational thoughts, would you be aware that they were irrational, or would you think you were being perfectly reasonable?

For instance, here he was, in the Mercedes with Ryan, not even seven in the morning, driving south at eighty miles per hour to pay a visit to Colton Spillar. The idea was that they would not leave Blanco County until Spillar had changed his mind. Or, to be precise, until he had changed his mind about changing his mind. Dexter had already decided that he would do whatever it took to achieve that goal. Every option was on the table. Financial inducements. Expensive gifts. The promise of a starting position. Verbal coercion, including threats of humiliation. Even physical punishment, although Ryan would have his hands full with a kid as big as Spillar. But Ryan was talented. He could do all sorts of damage to ligaments, tendons, and—

Christ.

Was this line of thinking rational? What sort of man does these things, and at what possible personal cost? Obsessed by a goddamn game. Had to win. Whatever it took.

“Want me to call ahead for a hotel?” Ryan asked.

Dexter thought about it. For a long time. Then he said, “Turn around.”

“Really?”

A mile passed.

“Dad?”

“No, don’t.”

“So call ahead for a hotel?”

“Well, we’re not gonna sleep in the car, are we?”

“A hotel in Johnson City?”

“If you want to stay in some fleabag in Johnson City, be my guest.”

“Then, uh, Blanco?”

“Austin, genius. Austin. It’s fifty minutes away. Get a room at the fucking W Hotel in Austin.”

Dexter hadn’t always been so willing to put himself at such great risk. He used to stick with the basic money-under-the-table approach, knowing that if he were to get caught, his world wouldn’t necessarily come crumbling down. People more or less expected those sorts of shenanigans from boosters in college football. Boys will be boys, right?

But these other things he’d been doing in the past few seasons, like yesterday’s little visit with Adrian Lacy? How dumb was that? Crabtree knew he was being an idiot, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was like watching some character in a TV show making stupid decisions.

Was Adderall to blame? He should stop taking it. He knew that. He could stop anytime, of course, and he would. Soon. In February. Just make it to National Signing Day, when recruits had to commit on paper, with no backing out, and then he could take a breath. Wouldn’t need as much energy.

Maybe by then, with his help, UMT would have landed a team that could win a national championship.

Fuck.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about college football, even for one goddamn minute?

Marlin poked his head into Bobby Garza’s office doorway at eight-fifteen. The sheriff looked at him and said, “Yikes.”

“Really? That bad?”

“You look like you got about two hours’ sleep.”

“That’s two more than I actually got. Mind if I sit?”

“By all means. You haven’t been home? Darrell told me you had a busy night.”

Darrell Bridges was one of the dispatchers for the sheriff’s department. Between Darrell’s radio calls and the calls directly to Marlin’s cell phone from various area residents, Marlin hadn’t had a moment to catch his breath.

“Yeah, once the shooting started after dark, the calls were pretty much nonstop. But would you believe I didn’t file on a single person last night?”

“No?”

“No road hunters, no trespassers, nothing. And here’s why: You know that big bulletin board outside Super S? It’s covered from top to bottom with little homemade ads and posters from landowners offering day leases for pig hunting. Same thing at every convenience store in town. Ads taped in all the windows.”

Garza smiled. “Supply and demand. The locals are cashing in. What’s the going price?”

“Generally about a hundred bucks per day, per hunter. But I noticed that the closer the lease is to Grady Beech’s place, the higher the price gets. One of Grady’s neighbors is asking a thousand a day.”

“Wonder if he’s getting it.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. I have to admit, I’m thrilled. Makes my job easier. I must’ve checked a dozen camps last night, and even the dog runners had their hunting licenses. That’s saying something.”

“Yeah, they don’t want to get busted and ruin their shot at the jackpot. See many dead pigs?”

“Some, but not as many as I would’ve guessed. Pigs are smart. Suddenly the woods are crawling with people, so the pigs are laying low.”

Garza shook his head. “How do pigs lay low?”

“You’d be surprised. They get deep in a cedar break and you’d never even know they’re there. You walk right past ’em. If you manage to shoot one pig, the rest of them hightail it and you won’t see them again.”

Garza said, “One thing that bothers me about this—I hate to see a bunch of pork go to waste.”

Marlin said, “Same here, but I learned last night that about half a dozen butchers in the area are offering to cut the pigs up and donate the meat to charity.”

“Nice.”

Marlin leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. “I could fall asleep right here.”

“You should go on home.”

“I will, but let me bring you up to speed first.” Marlin proceeded to tell Garza everything he’d learned from Coach Milstead the afternoon before.

When Marlin finished, Garza said, “Interesting. When I spoke to Grady and Leigh Anne yesterday, they didn’t say anything about Sammy switching his commitment to OTU.”

“Well, it probably didn’t seem relevant. I bet even now it wouldn’t occur to them that backing out of a commitment would put Sammy in any danger. I was skeptical myself, so I asked Milstead to name some incidents where a recruit was beaten up or at least threatened after switching schools. I mean, if these boosters and street agents are as aggressive as they sound, that sort of thing must happen occasionally, or even routinely. Milstead couldn’t come up with any examples.”

“And of course that means...”

“We have to consider the possibility anyway. Even though it’s a long shot.”

“Yep.”

Marlin rose from the chair. Time to get some sleep. But he asked, “How did Grady take the news, by the way?”

“I guess about the way you’d expect when you learn that someone chased your son to his death. He got pretty worked up. Unfortunately, he didn’t have anything useful as far as who the pursuer might’ve been. He gave me the go-ahead to check Sammy’s cell phone records, his email accounts, Facebook, all that stuff.”

“Gonna interview his friends?”

“Bill and Ernie will handle that today. They’ll go out to the school and pull some of the kids from class.”

“Did they find any brass yesterday?”

“They did, but the problem is, they found too damn much. Three handgun shells and a couple of rifle shells—all different calibers.”

“Okay, so one of those shells could be from the shooter, and the others were already out there from poachers or idiots shooting at road signs or whatever. That kind of thing.”

“That’s what we’re thinking.”

“The audio from that video is pretty crummy, but it sure sounds like a handgun to me.”

“Me, too.”

“Unless it’s not,” Marlin said.

“I love a man willing to stand by his opinions.”

“What caliber were the handgun shells?”

“A mixed bag,” Garza said. One nine millimeter, one .38, and one .357. I figure we can rule out the .357 since it’s a revolver and the brass wouldn’t eject.”

“Makes sense. Also I’d say the audio sounds like just one handgun, or two guns of the same caliber, rather than two different calibers. But I figure just one gun.”

Garza said, “I think so, too, and that helps. Wouldn’t you agree that if it’s a handgun, there’s a better chance the shooter was alone? Because it would be damn difficult to drive and shoot a rifle at the same time.”

“Absolutely. And any driver shooting a handgun, or even a rifle, would have to be shooting left-handed. Although I have no idea how that’s helpful.”

Garza frowned. “Wait a sec. If you’re shooting a semi-automatic outside a car window—the way the brass ejects, it would likely end up inside the vehicle, don’t you think?”

Marlin sat back down. “Maybe. Not necessarily. If the shooter had his arm extended out past the windshield—which seems likely to me—the casing would probably bounce off the glass and over the roof.”

Garza thought about it, then raised his left hand, like he was holding a gun, trying to visualize shooting from a moving vehicle. “Yeah, I’d say you’re right. And now that I think about it, if the shooter wasn’t really trying to hit Sammy, he’d be shooting downward at the pavement or up into the air or across the road.” Garza stuck his left arm straight out, like he was making a left turn. “Like this.”

Marlin said, “Of course, there’s the chance that none of the brass is from the shooter.”

“Bite your tongue. Henry is processing those shells as we speak. All I want is one good fingerprint. Wouldn’t it be great to have a solid suspect by day’s end?”

“Hate to remind you, but it’s rained a couple of times since then.”

“You are a constant ray of sunshine and optimism.”

“Glad to help.”

They both went quiet for a minute.

Marlin said, “Find anything else useful on Sammy’s phone?”

“Nothing obvious. Something might prove useful later.”

Marlin stood up again. “I feel like I’m forgetting to tell you something.”

“Will you be out again all night tonight?”

“I hope not. I’ve always got reinforcements, if it gets too crazy.” Marlin had alerted game wardens in five neighboring counties about the situation with the pig bounty, and the subsequent influx of hunters. All of those wardens were ready and willing to respond to calls in Blanco County, as needed. In fact, some of the younger ones were envious that Marlin had so many calls to keep him busy. Marlin remembered the days when he was that gung-ho himself.

“Okay, then let’s touch base later,” Garza said. “When you wake from your beauty sleep.”

Marlin’s phone rang. A rancher wanted assistance rounding up a loose bull on Ranch Road 3232. Marlin said he’d be there in twenty minutes.

When he hung up, Garza said, “You’d better turn that thing off for awhile or you’ll never get any rest.”

Roy Ballard made sure that the man who was hiring him understood that he was
not
a private investigator.

“Then what are you exactly?” the man asked.

“I play the handsome stranger on various daytime dramas. Other times I play the handsome newcomer, or maybe the handsome bystander.”

“On soap operas? You’re kidding.”

“Actually, yes, I am kidding. I’m a legal videographer.”

The man—his name was Grady Beech—smiled. “Okay, gotcha. Good.”

They were seated at a table in a building called the tasting pavilion at Grady Beech’s winery. Grady Beech happened to know one of Roy Ballard’s largest clients—a woman who worked in a large insurance firm—and she had given Beech Roy’s name and number. Beech had called yesterday afternoon, and Roy had driven out from Austin this morning for this meeting. They were the only two people in the pavilion at the moment, but it was early. Not even eleven o’clock yet. Roy figured most people, even vacationers, didn’t visit a winery this early.

“So you’re familiar with the exciting and fast-paced world of legal videography?” Roy asked.

“Well, no, not even a little bit, but I’m guessing it involves videography.”

“Indeed it does. I can explain it further if you’d like, but it’s kind of boring, so I won’t be offended if you say you’d rather plunge that corkscrew into your eyeball.”

“I’ll admit I’m curious, because Heidi said you were kind of like a private eye. And that you’re very good at it.”

“Well, Heidi is a sweetheart, but she hasn’t been the same since she started smoking hashish.”

Beech grinned at him. Nice to see a client—especially one in Beech’s situation—who managed to retain a sense of humor.

“Let’s hear it,” Beech said. “What does a legal videographer do?”

“Brace yourself. What I do is videotape all sorts of stuff that might be used in a legal proceeding. Getting testimony from witnesses. Documenting the scene of an accident. Site and workplace inspections. But my specialty is catching people committing insurance fraud. In fact, that’s pretty much all I do.”

“Okay, now it makes sense. These people committing fraud—you follow them around until they trip themselves up, right?”

“Exactly. Some guy with a bad back might decide to go water skiing or do the hokey-pokey.”

“I’ve seen videos like that. So that part’s kind of like being a private investigator.”

“Maybe, but I need to be clear that I’m not licensed for P.I. work, so I can’t really—”

“This would be totally unofficial. Off the books. I could even pay cash, if you wanted.”

“I prefer Kruggerands. But a personal check is fine, too.”

Beech took a deep breath. It was obvious that he was struggling with something. “Okay, I might as well get to it—the reason I asked you to come out.”

Roy said, “If it helps, I did some Googling, so I know a little bit about the situation with your son. The way he died, and the new developments. You have my condolences.”

“I appreciate that—but I need you for something else entirely.”

That took Roy by surprise.

“It’s not about Sammy,” Beech said. “It’s about Leigh Anne. My wife.”

Just after seven o’clock that evening, Red O’Brien turned the corner onto Billy Don’s street, saw a light-green Prius, and let loose with a long and colorful string of profanities commonly reserved for male members of the homosexual community. Many of the aspersions were hyphenated compound words. Some were Red’s old favorites, others he created right then, on the fly.

Red didn’t know the reason, other than the obvious, but he didn’t like this guy Armando at all. Maybe it was because Armando said things that were almost insults, but not quite. Like he was goading you. Trying to see how far he could push it without getting punched in the face.

And, of course, there was the gay thing. Red honestly didn’t have a problem with homos, as long as they had the common courtesy to keep it to themselves. Seriously, why did they feel the need to flaunt it in public? It wasn’t like Red went around showing off how straight he was. But Armando was just so open about it. Like he expected people to just accept it and treat him like a normal person.

Nope, Red didn’t like it, and he had been hoping he’d never see the florist again. But here was the Prius, parked in front of Betty Jean and Billy Don’s house again.

Up until that moment, Red had been feeling pretty good—except for a mild yet insistent hangover. Last night, after sundown, he’d sat on his back porch with an ice chest full of Keystone Light and listened for rifle shots. Wasn’t long before it sounded like a dadgum shooting gallery out there.

Of course, that much shooting was both good and bad. It meant there were a lot of hunters out there gunning for the pig. But it also meant he and Billy Don could hunt on the Kringelheimer Ranch and shoot as many times as they wanted.

Earlier today, Red had gotten out of bed at the crack of ten-thirty and driven out to the Kringelheimer place to set up for a hunt that night. Fortunately, Red had acquired a useful set of habits and skills as a poacher that he had refined over the years, and now he put them into use. For starters, he replaced the lock on the gate with one of his own. The day before, when Red and Billy Don had hunted on the ranch, Red had simply cut the lock and left it hanging in place, so it appeared to be undisturbed. Good enough to pass a drive-by inspection by the game warden, but obviously not good enough to pass a hands-on look-see.

Being a frequent trespasser, Red kept an extensive inventory of combination and keyed padlocks on hand—every common brand and model—for just this type of occasion, so he was able to replace the original lock with an identical lock. Granted, some landowners voluntarily gave the combination or a duplicate key to the game warden, so the warden could have access to the place even when the owner wasn’t around. But Red was confident Kringelheimer hadn’t done that, because the rancher was a proud Tea Party member, and the last thing he’d do is voluntarily grant some jackbooted government thug access to the ranch.

Next, Red drove to the tower blind where they’d hunted the day before, hammered a T-post into the ground, and mounted a solar-powered spotlight on it, aiming it directly at the deer feeder. The word “spotlight” made it sound more powerful than it really was. This light actually cast a beam no brighter than a regular flashlight—almost like moonlight. Wouldn’t spook the animals. Which was why Red had been using this particular type of spotlight for the past few years. He’d learned the hard way that a big old million-candlepower spotlight—the kind that could light up an entire oat field—did nothing but get you in trouble. Wardens could see those things from miles away, and they knew the county well enough that they could pinpoint exactly where the spotlighting was taking place. With this little solar jobbie, Red could pop a deer—or, in this case, a pig—with a .22 magnum and nobody would be the wiser. Stealth. That was the key.

After that, Red had scattered a five-gallon bucket of soured corn near the feeder, because pigs had powerful noses, and the gut-churning stench of soured corn could carry for miles. There were some other tricks you could do with the corn, like digging a deep posthole and dumping the corn down inside. The pigs would hang around that hole for hours, digging and eating, digging and eating. Of course, as soon as you popped one, any other pigs hanging around would generally run off. You had to be a pretty good shot to hit a running pig.

Red loved the thrill of the hunt. And tonight would be even more exciting, because $50,000 was on the line. So, as Red passed the Prius, he decided he wouldn’t let Armando dampen his spirits. Or Betty Jean, either. She would probably be home by now, but Red could avoid dealing with her and Armando both by not even going inside the house. Easy solution.

So Red honked the horn once, good and firm.

Waited a minute. A very long minute.

He started to honk again, but then decided not to, because it was an almost sure bet that Betty Jean would appear at the door and tell him to shut the hell up.

So he waited, and before long the front door opened and Billy Don appeared in the doorway. He waved at Red to come on inside the house. Red shook his head and waved for Billy Don to come on and get in the damn truck. Billy Don held up one finger, meaning
Give me a minute.

Good. No going inside.

Red waited again. Several minutes. What the hell was Billy Don doing in there? Red was tempted to honk again, but why risk the wrath of Betty Jean?

Finally the door opened again, and here came Billy Don, carrying his rifle case and a small ice chest. And right behind him was Armando, carrying the camo-patterned canvas bag Billy Don used to tote snacks, binoculars, more snacks, extra ammo, and other crap. Wasn’t it just like a gay guy to be all helpful and stuff? Red figured it was like some sort of mothering instinct. Whatever. It wasn’t going to bother him. But he decided that if Armando made a single smart-ass comment, Red wouldn’t put up with it. Gay or not, Red would bust him across the mouth. It might be like hitting a girl, but Red would do it anyway.

When Billy Don opened the passenger door, he had a mischievous grin on his face, like he was up to something. He said, “Hope you don’t mind, but Armando wants to go with us.”

After helping with the loose bull, then answering a call about some dove hunters shooting birds off a power line, Marlin had managed to go home, have lunch, then sleep for four hours. Then he’d taken a leak and slept for two more hours. When he woke, he grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Not a single voicemail. Outstanding. He’d received a text from Nicole.

Working late. Where are you?

She’d sent it twenty minutes earlier. He tapped out a reply.

Home. Just woke up.

She said:
Another busy night tonight?

Quiet right now. Crossing my fingers. Meet me for supper?

He rose from the bed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he was done, she’d sent another text.

Love to. Where?

He was just about to respond when his phone rang. A widow living on five hundred acres not far from Grady Beech’s place was calling. “I saw somebody moving around in that creek bottom on the west side of my place. I was over there checking the deer feeder.”

Marlin heard from this elderly woman several times a year, and more often than not, she was mistaken about what she’d seen. She was a tough old gal—he’d seen her hoist a fifty-pound bag of corn onto her shoulder and carry it at least a hundred feet—but her senses weren’t quite as sharp as they used to be.

“But you’re not positive there’s anybody there?”

“I saw ’em through my binoculars. Two or three of ’em.”

“They’re on your land and not across the fence?”

“That’s right. Ten minutes ago.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Nope. Just turned around and called you.”

“Have you leased the place out to anybody?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you hear any shots?”

“What?”

“Have you heard any shots?”

“Of course I’ve been hearing shots. Between the dove hunters and this damn-fool pig contest, I’ve been hearing shots all day.”

Marlin smiled. She got him on that one. “I’ll be right over,” he said. “You stay in the house, okay? I’ll check it out, and then I’ll drive around and tell you what I found.”