Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries)

Once again, a slew of people helped make this book better than it would have been.

Thanks go to my “pre-editors”: Becky Rehder, Helen Fanick, Mary Summerall, Kate Donaho, and Stacia Hernstrom, as well as my copyeditor, Christine Aebi.

Much appreciation to my expert sources of information: Trey Carpenter (wildlife biology), Jim Lindeman (game warden procedures and hunting laws), Tommy Blackwell (law enforcement), Martin Grantham (firearms), Kevin Critendon and B. R. Critendon (water issues), Joe Summy (Blanco County anecdotes), Ted Levay (scuba diving), Cisco Hobbs (construction), Don Gray (hunting anecdotes), and Michael Perna (dialect assistance). Any errors or distortions of reality are mine, not theirs.

Thanks to the people of Blanco County for providing such enthusiastic support, and to the booksellers across the nation for welcoming me so warmly at every turn.

And, of course, a huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Nancy Love, and my editor, Ben Sevier, for guiding me with skilled hands and good humor.

On the morning of Saturday, November 5—opening day of deer season—a statuesque blonde beauty strolled out of the trees, pulled down her khaki shorts, and peed beneath Cecil Pritchard’s deer feeder.

“Well, suck a nut,” Cecil said to himself, sitting in his deer blind a hundred yards away. He looked down at his coffee mug, blinking dumbly. Maybe he’d added a little too much Wild Turkey. And this
was
his fourth cup. But when he looked up again, the Nordic goddess was still there, hiking up her shorts. His brother-in-law would never believe it.

The day had started normally enough. Cecil climbed out of bed at four A.M. sharp, pulled on his camo coveralls, and brewed a pot of Folgers.
Nothing gets you going like the smell of fresh coffee,
Cecil thought, whistling happily. He would have loved a big plate of scrambled eggs, bacon on the side, and a basketful of biscuits, but Cecil wasn’t much of a cook, and his wife, Beth, was still drowsing in bed. Goddamn woman was as useless as a negligee on a nun. On weekdays, when he’d come home from the machine shop at lunchtime, he’d usually find Beth staring at the soap operas or Jerry Springer on TV, and Cecil would be left to make his own lunch. The way Cecil saw it, that was a serious infraction of the marriage vows. So, as he had prepared for the morning hunt, Cecil made sure to stomp around the mobile home as heavily as possible, kind of get the whole floor vibrating. It’d serve her right if she couldn’t get back to sleep after he left.

He met up with Beth’s brother, Howard, at the ranch gate at five in the A.M., just as planned—plenty of time to reach the blinds before first light. Seeing as how they had a few minutes to spare, Cecil took the opportunity to remind Howard what a lazy, good-for-nothing sister he had. Howard heartily agreed while munching a breakfast taco his own wife had prepared for him.
Sorry, I ain’t got but one,
Howard said around a mouthful.

The men split up and Cecil proceeded to his elevated tower blind, a beauty he had ordered from the Cabela’s catalog last spring. Once inside, Cecil readied himself for a long, relaxing morning hunt. He loaded his Winchester .270, double-checked the safety, and leaned the rifle in the corner. He pulled out his binoculars and gave the lenses a good cleaning. Then he poured a hot mug of java, added a generous dose of bourbon, and waited for sunrise.

The black night slowly gave way to gray, and then the rolling hills of Central Texas started to take shape. The birds began chirping tentatively and then went into full chorus. Cecil leaned back and soaked it all in. He was sitting twelve feet up, with a view that God Himself would appreciate. Man, this was living! Cecil waited all year for this morning, and he just knew there was a big buck somewhere in the woods with his name all over it.

That’s when Cecil heard a car rambling along the gravel county road that paralleled the ranch’s eastern fenceline. Weeks ago, Cecil had considered relocating his blind, but the road saw such little traffic, he’d decided to leave everything as is.

Looking through his binoculars, Cecil saw a rusty mustard-yellow Volvo easing down the road. It disappeared behind some trees and then the motor faded away. Cecil had thought the occupants were gone for good. But apparently he was wrong.

Now Cecil was staring slack-jawed at the blonde trespasser, knowing that all his preseason plans and preparations were wasted. He was furious. The woman might as well have erected a flashing neon warning sign—DEER BEWARE!—because no self-respecting buck would come within a thousand yards of so much human scent.

Finally, Cecil managed to get over his astonishment and do something. He stuck his head out the small window of the deer blind and yelled, “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing? Get your ass away from there!”

The tall blonde casually buttoned her shorts, smiled, and flipped Cecil the bird.

Cecil decided enough was enough, and rose to go give the woman a serious tongue-lashing, maybe escort her back to her damn rattletrap car. But as he stood, he spilled his coffee, dropped his binoculars to the floor, and—
Goddamn it all!
—banged his rifle scope against the side of the blind. Cussing loudly now, Cecil opened the blind door and began to climb down the ladder—only to hear a car door closing and the Volvo gently puttering off into a fine Texas morning.

At nine A.M. on Saturday, November 5, a thick-chested man with crow’s-feet, jowls, and graying hair was throwing a hump into his live-in Guatemalan housekeeper—but his mind was elsewhere and his erection was starting to droop. The distraction was laying right there on her nightstand: the “Travel” section of the newspaper. He could see an ad that read, BARBADOS—FROM $549! CALL YOUR TRAVEL AGENT TODAY!

Shit, if only it were that easy. But Salvatore Mameli—formerly known as Roberto “The Clipper” Ragusa—couldn’t just pick up and go like normal people. His life was way too fucked up for that.

A few months back—maybe it was more like a year now—Sal had forced himself to take stock, to figure out how he wanted to spend his golden years. After all, he probably still had a couple of good decades left. He was only fifty-seven—knock wood—way past the average age of most men in his former line of work.
So what is it,
he had asked himself,
that I really want out of life?
It boiled down to this: He wanted to live his life in peace, away from the Feds, in some distant country where he wouldn’t have to worry who was waiting around the next corner. He wasn’t asking much, really, but it would require a lot of dough.

The irritating thing was, Sal still had plenty of money from the old days—a small fortune that the government couldn’t seize because Sal had actually earned those particular assets through legitimate businesses. But those accounts were being eyeballed like a stripper at a bachelor party. If Sal tried to make a sizable withdrawal—especially in cash—red flags would go up and he’d be surrounded before he made it to the airport.

No, what Sal needed was fresh money that could be easily concealed. Lots of it. Then he could make his break.

He could picture the location in his mind: Definitely somewhere tropical, like this Barbados place. Maybe a small island that had no extradition treaty with the United States. Better yet—no rednecks, pickup trucks, or country music. He’d had his fill of that shit.

Sal had lived in Blanco County, Texas, for three years now, which was about thirty-five months more than he could handle. And Johnson City, the county seat? Forget about it. You couldn’t find decent Italian food anywhere. You had to own a satellite dish to catch most of the Yankee games. And everyone was so damn friendly, it made his asshole pucker.

For two and a half years, Sal had simply lain low, trying to figure out his next move. Unfortunately, the U.S. Marshals Service always had its eyes on him, so closely he could barely take a crap without a marshal there to offer him toilet paper.
Just a few more trials,
they kept saying,
and then you’ll be free to do what you want. Leave the country, we don’t care. But for now, you owe us. With your life.
And Sal had to admit that was true. He knew he could be rotting in federal prison right now—assuming some wiseguy didn’t shank him in the ribs out in the yard. All of Sal’s pull from the old days wouldn’t mean shit. Some greaseball would waste him without batting an eye. That’s the way it was nowadays: No respect for men like Sal anymore.

So, three years ago, as much as he hated to do it, Sal had chosen the only alternative. The problem was, the trials could take years to wind their way through the judicial system. After all, the Feds were in no hurry. They were going after some heavy hitters, so they wanted to dot every
i
and cross every
t.
And, of course, there could be mistrials, appeals, and all kinds of delaying tactics that could keep Sal Mameli squarely under the U.S. District Attorney’s thumb for years to come. With each day that passed, Sal couldn’t help worrying that his former associates were closer to tracking him down.