Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (11 page)
Read Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Online
Authors: Ben Rehder
“You lowlife piece of shit,” Slaton croaked, out of breath, cradling his arm against his wounded ribs. “Bring your hands up…slowly!”
Sal did as he was told, the .35 hanging in his hand. Now the room was cloaked in an eerie calm, both men gasping for air, eyeing each other carefully, Sal feeling the blood pound in his ears, the ache in his arm, the warm stickiness of blood on his belly.
“Toss that piece over here,” Slaton demanded.
Sal pitched the gun at Slaton’s feet.
“What the fuck is this?” Sal shouted, trying to show a little bravado, maybe back Slaton down a little. “Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”
“Shut up! Just shut your goddamn mouth!”
Sal stared Slaton directly in the eyes, refusing to look away, knowing that would only make him look guilty. Whatever Vinnie had done, he had pushed it too far. Or he hadn’t pushed it far enough, gone ahead and clipped the guy. And now Sal was the one paying the price.
Slaton just stood there, his pupils large as dimes, boring his eyes into Sal’s skull. Sal knew that look, and he didn’t like it at all. He had seen it on plenty of faces back East, wiseguys looking to make their bones, trying to work up the courage to kill another human being. In a matter of seconds Slaton would either pull the trigger or lose his nerve.
Sal had owned a .45 just like the one Slaton was holding, knew the damage it could do, the softball-sized hole it would leave in the back of his head. His brains would be all over the wall behind him. Sal stared down the barrel of the weapon, feebly holding his hands in front of him, waiting to hear the roar that would cast him into another world.
Then he noticed that the safety was still on.
The old fucker was so worked-up he’d forgotten about the safety. It was Sal’s only chance, but he had to act quickly, before Slaton tried to pull the trigger and realized his mistake.
This time, it was Sal who leaped forward, literally vaulting himself over the desk, wrapping his arms around Slaton as the rancher pulled frantically on the trigger. Both men crashed to the ground, Slaton grunting as he landed on his back, a stream of frothy blood rolling from the corner of his mouth. Sal felt a new cut open on his scalp as Slaton slammed the butt of the gun against the crown of Sal’s head with surprising force. Sal grabbed Slaton’s right wrist, shook the gun loose, then gripped the left wrist. Now he had both of Slaton’s wrists pinned to the floor. Before the rancher could begin to struggle, Sal crashed his head against Slaton’s, a classic head-butt, and the rancher was out cold.
Sal rolled off of him and sat, breathing heavily, on the floor, one leg still arching over Slaton’s knees. “What the fuck!” Sal said to himself. He had never been in a brawl like that. Back home, you pop a guy one time in the chin and he’s ready to call it quits. But this old bastard fought like he was possessed by the devil.
Sal worked his way to his feet, got a head rush, and almost fell back to the floor. He squatted there a moment, hands on his knees, and regained his composure.
Finally, he picked up both guns and turned to go clean himself up.
Maybe I should call the law,
he thought.
Wouldn’t
that
be a switch? The cops coming to
my
rescue?
Then he heard a noise behind him, the growl again. Sal turned to see Slaton standing, a bloody mess, ready to come at him once more.
“Don’t even think about it,” Sal hissed. He raised his .35 and pointed it. But Sal saw another familiar look on Slaton’s face. A look that said,
Sure, I might die today, but I’m gonna take you with me.
With a bone-chilling scream, Slaton lumbered forward.
Sal shot him in the center of the chest—and Slaton stopped in his tracks. Sal fired again. And a third time. For a moment, both men were frozen, motionless, the rancher standing bolt upright, confusion on his face, his eyes staring into space somewhere above Sal’s head.
Then he crumpled to the ground like a house of cards.
Seconds later, Vinnie came bursting into the room, eyes wild, ready to act. “What the hell? Pop! What’s going on?”
Sal collapsed into a chair, giving Vinnie a clear view of the body on the floor.
“Jesus,” Vinnie said, going pale. “Jesus Christ. What the hell is he doin’ here?”
Sal gave his son a harsh glare. “I was gonna ask you the same fuckin’ thing.”
Bobby Garza, a rugged, handsome man in his mid-thirties, had held the office of Blanco County sheriff for just more than a year. He had won the appointment by default when the previous sheriff, a corrupt, greedy ape of a man, was implicated in a drug-smuggling ring. A collective sigh of relief could be heard around the county when Garza was selected, because he was the only available deputy with the right combination of experience, intelligence, and honesty. Later, John Marlin had been one of Garza’s chief supporters in the general election in the spring, and Garza had held the office by an overwhelming margin.
Thirty minutes after Marlin had radioed the dispatcher to request assistance with the death of Bert Gammel, Garza’s patrol car crunched down the gravel road of the Hawley Ranch and pulled in next to Marlin’s truck.
Marlin’s relief at seeing Garza, who had become a close friend over the years, was tempered by the presence of a skinny, red-faced man with a crew cut in the passenger seat. Wylie Smith had been hired to fill Garza’s deputy position when Garza rose to sheriff, and the new man hadn’t made many friends since. Before coming to Blanco County, Wylie had been stationed in Houston with the Harris County Sheriff’s Department, and he had brought along the cynicism, sarcasm, and attitude of superiority that so many big-city residents seem to pack with them when they come to the country. But Marlin had to admit that the forensic training Wylie had received in Houston would be valuable to the case.
“What we got, John?” Bobby Garza asked, shaking Marlin’s hand. Wylie surveyed the landscape and offered no greeting.
“Lester found one of his hunters dead near his blind this morning,” Marlin replied, picking a careful path toward the body. “It’s Bert Gammel.”
Garza and Wylie both nodded somberly as they stared at the corpse.
Marlin said, “Took a round right in the chest. Plus, he’s hunting with a two-seventy automatic. I didn’t find a shell casing, so I guess we can assume he didn’t fire.”
“Do me a favor, will ya, and don’t assume what we know at this point,” Wylie said. “Leave that to us to figure out.”
Marlin gave Wylie a cold stare, but before he could reply, Garza spoke up: “Well, it doesn’t hurt to go into this with a fresh eye, but Marlin was first on the scene, so let’s hear what he has to say.” Marlin wished Garza had added
asshole
to the end of that last sentence.
Marlin checked his notes and quickly ran through Lester’s report, then summarized what he himself had discovered so far. He discussed the narrow alley between the trees and ended with the likely-looking hiding spot where the killer had carried off the ambush.
“So you just took it on yourself to begin the investigation?” Wylie asked. “Decided to start without us?”
“Well, it wasn’t what I’d call a real thorough bit of detective work, Wylie. I saw what I saw and decided to give the area a look. Anyone could have figured it out. Even you.”
Wylie’s face turned a vivid red.
Garza spoke up again: “Cool it, both of you. I don’t need you at each other’s throats right now.” He turned to Marlin. “John, it sounds like you did what any of us would have done. Now let’s see what you found.”
Marlin led them to the fenceline and the three men crossed the barbed wire. Marlin pointed out the makeshift blind under the cedar tree, drawing their attention to the puddle of tobacco spit.
“There’s our DNA,” Garza said, giving Marlin an approving smile. “Hell of a job. Anything else?”
“I saw a partial boot print over there between a couple of cedars. That’s all, so far.” He looked at Wylie. “I decided to leave the area and wait for reinforcements.”
“Great,” Garza said. “Good work.” He turned to Wylie. “Wylie, you’re the lead dog on this one. You’ve got the most experience in this area, and I’m hoping we can all learn a couple of things. So, how do you want to proceed?”
Wylie looked around and made an exaggerated gesture with his hands. “My first question is, where is Lester Higgs?”
Marlin said, “Took off about twenty minutes ago. Said he had some ranch work to do. I think he went back up to the barn for some supplies. I told him a deputy would be in touch.”
Wylie snorted. “You let our first witness just wander off? He could be on the phone right now, telling half the county what happened.”
Marlin swallowed the anger that was rising in his throat. “Listen, I asked him not to discuss—”
“Yeah, right,” Wylie interrupted. “I’m sure that’ll stop him. Smart move.”
Marlin opened his mouth, but once more Garza interceded: “Wylie, would you just back off a minute? Lester’s a good man. If John asked him to keep it under his hat, that’s what he’ll do. We can stop and interview him again if we need to on the way out.”
Marlin could tell that Wylie didn’t like it. “All right, the first thing I need to do is a more thorough search,” Wylie said. He looked at Marlin. “I’d prefer it if everyone just stayed out of my way.”
Wylie turned and made his way back toward the fence, returning to Garza’s patrol car for equipment. After he was gone, Marlin looked at Garza and said, “That boy needs his cinch tightened a little.”
“We gotta clean dis shit up and quick, before your mother gets home,” Sal said, placing the handgun on his desk.
“But, Pop, what the hell happened?”
“Never mind dat shit now. Go out to the garage, grab dat tarp on the shelf above the washer. Bring a bucket and a bunch of rags. We don’t got much time,” Sal said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was three-twenty. Angela had said she and Maria would be home by six at the latest, when her Crock-Pot dinner would be ready.
Vinnie hustled to gather the items, and both men went to work cleaning up the scene.
First they wrapped Slaton in the tarp, bound it tightly with duct tape, and dragged him into the garage. Vinnie hopped into his Camaro in the driveway and backed it into the garage, parking in his mother’s usual spot. Fortunately, the Mameli home sat on five acres, and this provided plenty of privacy. Vinnie easily hefted the corpse and plopped it into his trunk.
For the next hour, the men attacked the grotesque residue in Sal’s den. They scrubbed, washed, wiped, and sponged, and the evidence was quickly disappearing—except for a large oval bloodstain on the carpet where Slaton’s body had fallen.
“Dis ain’t workin’,” Sal muttered, rubbing the rust-tinted carpet. “Fuck!
Dis ain’t workin’!”
“Want some more water?” Vinnie asked, holding the bucket.
Sal pondered the situation for a moment. “Naw, we’d be here all night. Look, what you gotta do is run down to the Super S and rent a carpet cleaner, one-a dose portable jobs. Take my Lincoln, and get your ass back here
pronto!”
“What about his truck, Pop?”
Damn it to hell!
Sal had forgotten about Slaton’s Ford out front. “Why didn’t you remind me!” he shouted, Vinnie shrinking back. Sal thought things through, gears spinning. “Okay, listen. I’ll take my Lincoln, you follow in his Ford and we’ll ditch it somewhere along the way.”
He turned and grabbed something off the shelf behind him. “Put on dese gloves. We don’t need your fuckin’ prints all over the place.”
By five-thirty, U.S. Marshal Smedley Allen Poindexter was wolfing down his fifth Twinkie, sitting in his nondescript sedan, bored out of his mind. That was the thing about this job—there were times when you sat for hours doing nothing but watching and waiting.
Unfortunately, Smedley had a habit of combating the tedium by eating; there was always an assortment of packaged cookies, donuts, chips, and salty snacks on the passenger seat beside him. Sometimes a quart or two of Big Red soda, which tasted just fine to Smedley even when it was warm. In the past eleven years, he had packed a total of seventy disgusting, blubbery pounds onto his already pudgy body. He now tipped the scales at a whopping 280, way too much for his five-ten frame.