Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (34 page)

Smedley was aware of a figure standing over him. It was Red, eating a hamburger. Burger King wrapper. Smedley tried to fight it, but his mouth began salivating and drool ran down his cheek. Red was saying something now, holding the burger out, taunting him. Smedley didn’t have to read lips to know what he was saying:
Tell us where the body is, and you’ll get a burger of your own.
Smedley eyed the burger, stomach growling, and was afraid he was going to cry.

Suddenly, Red’s expression changed and he set the burger on a desk. He glanced through a window and his eyes got wide.

Garza pulled through the gate to Emmett Slaton’s ranch and followed the driveway toward the house.

“Over there, to the right.” Marlin had spotted a small mobile home tucked in a cedar grove, with a small fleet of brush-clearing machines squatting nearby. Headquarters for Slaton’s business.

Garza steered off the paved driveway and followed a dirt road to the shiny single-wide. As they stepped out of the cruiser, Red O’Brien emerged from the trailer and stood on the steps to the door.

“How you doing, Red?” Garza called.

“Hey there, Sheriff. What brings you out here? Hey, John.”

Marlin nodded a greeting.

Garza squinted into the sun and told Red they were reinterviewing some of the witnesses in the Slaton case. “We’d like to ask you some more questions about Emmett’s disappearance, if you’ve got a few minutes. Wylie mentioned that you had some theories, and I’d like to hear them personally.”

Red was pretty sure he could feel his balls lodged firmly up in his throat.
Something
was in there in the form of a big lump. His hands had started shaking, so he slipped them into the pockets of his jeans. Now, if he could just control his voice, keep it from wavering all over the place like it normally did when he got shook up. Otherwise, the game warden would spot his nervousness in a heartbeat, because Marlin had seen it firsthand plenty of times.

Red took a quick peek at Smedley’s car, twenty yards away under a large tarp. Sweet Jesus, he was glad they’d decided to cover it up last night. With it being all smashed up, Garza and Marlin would likely be kind of curious.

“Well, yeah, I tol’ your deputy all about it,” Red said, trying to keep it brief. “Sal Mameli really had a hard-on to buy Mr. Slaton’s business, but Mr. Slaton didn’t wanna sell. Then one day—I think it was last Sunday—we seen Mameli driving outta here like a bat out of hell.”

Garza nodded. “Tell you what, why don’t we go inside and sit down? So John and I can take a few notes.”

Red felt faint, and his knees almost buckled.

“You all right?” Marlin asked.

Red tried to respond with a grin. “Little bit light-headed. We’re doing some paintin’ in there, and the fumes been gettin’ to me. You mind if we stay out here so I can get some fresh air?”

Someone was outside! Smedley craned his head and could see Billy Don peeking through the blinds. Red was out there talking to whoever it was.

Smedley tried to pull his wrists apart, but they were bound too tightly. He attempted to straighten his body, to break the tape that was securing him to the chair. No luck. Finally, in desperation, he began slamming his head against the floor of the trailer.

“What was that?” Garza asked.

They all could hear some sort of thumping or banging inside the trailer.

Red giggled. “Oh, that? Just Billy Don movin’ some furniture ’round in there. Boy’s clumsy. See, Mr. Slaton asked us to fix the place up a little. I figure, with him gone, it’s the least we can do. You know... in his memory.”

Marlin was fairly certain it wasn’t paint fumes that were affecting Red’s brain. The poacher was obviously nervous—the signs were easy to recognize—and Marlin figured Red and Billy Don had been smoking pot in the trailer. But Marlin didn’t care, as long as Red was willing to talk.

Garza asked a couple of questions about Sal Mameli: Had Red ever met him personally? What was he like? Had he ever heard Mameli threaten Emmett Slaton?

Red didn’t have much to say. Sure, he’d seen Mameli around a few of the bars in town, but he didn’t really know the guy. No—no threats, as far as he knew. Quick, short answers, with plenty of hemming and hawing in between.

Marlin decided to put him at ease. “Red, I’m not sure what y’all are doing in the trailer there, but we need you to concentrate on these questions. Whatever y’all are up to, don’t worry about it.”

Red gestured to himself with one hand, like,
Who, me?

Marlin smiled. “We’re not here to break up the party. Tell us what you know, then we’ll be gone and you can get back to your drinking or smoking or whatever you’ve been doing.”

Red glanced from Marlin to Garza. The sheriff nodded in agreement and opened a small notepad.

“I appreciate that,” Red said, and took a deep breath of relief. Suddenly, they saw a more confident, composed Red O’Brien. “The way I figger it,” he whispered, as if eavesdroppers were lurking nearby, “Mameli was pissed that Mr. Slaton wouldn’t sell, so he offed him. You ever met the guy? He’s kind of greasy, if you know what I mean.”

“How so?” Marlin asked.

“Seems like kind of a con man. Always talkin’ fast, tryin’ to get an edge.”

“But is there anything you can tell us, beyond just a hunch?” Garza asked.

Red looked puzzled. “You mean, like, uh, hard evidence?”

“Exactly.”

Red mulled it over. “Can’t think of nothin’.”

Garza abruptly flipped the notebook closed.

“Well, he is Eye-talian,” Red offered.

“Oh yeah?” Garza asked with exaggerated suspicion, as if he and Red could unravel this conspiracy together. Marlin had to stifle a laugh.

“Hell, yeah, he is,” Red said, happy to regain an audience. “And I don’t need to tell you how those people are.”

“No, Red, you really don’t,” Marlin said—before Red decided to share his thoughts on Hispanics and Asians, too.

A chirping sound filled the air, and Red flinched. “Take it easy,” Garza said. “Just my cell phone.”

Garza answered the phone, listened for a moment, then handed the phone to Marlin. “Your friend at the lab. He’s got some more news.”

Clements continued south on Highway 281, keeping it to the speed limit. When he left the city limits, he edged his speed up to seventy.

“We forgot to give him the standard warning about not leaving town,” Marlin joked.

They caught Clements stealing discreet glances into his rearview mirror, but he did nothing out of the ordinary. Six miles down the road, Clements pulled into a roadside picnic area and came to a stop, Garza and Marlin right behind him.

“What now?” Marlin asked.

“Let’s give him a few minutes.”

Clements continued to sit in his Cherokee, both hands on the wheel, staring out the windshield.

“I’d say the man is trying to make a decision,” Garza said.

“Sure looks that way.”

Garza swung his door open. “Reckon we ought to see if he needs any help with it?”

Marlin popped his own door open. “I’d say that’s the neighborly thing to do.”

Both men exited the cruiser and began walking slowly up to Clements’s vehicle. They could see him watching in the rearview mirror.

“Careful, John. He might be armed.” Garza’s hand was resting on his revolver.

Clements’s chin fell to his chest, like a man defeated. Then he lifted his head, shoved the Cherokee into reverse, and came screaming back toward them. Both men jumped out of the way and the Cherokee slammed into the front end of the cruiser. Clements shifted into DRIVE and burned rubber back onto the highway.

Thomas Peabody sat in his hiding spot in the woods and surveyed the house. It was a long time until nightfall—several hours before he could take action—but he had patience. Oh, yes, he was a patient man indeed. He had waited a painfully long time to be in this position, and he wasn’t going to ruin it by acting prematurely. His entire relationship with Inga was at stake. Soon he would be transformed in her eyes. Saving her from the attacker in the motel room had created a chink in her emotional armor—he had seen it in her eyes and felt it in her embrace. She was almost ready to become his soul mate; he was certain of it. Now he merely needed to define himself for her, once and for all. Then she would realize they were destined for each other.

As Marlin and Garza sprinted back to the cruiser, Marlin heard a hissing sound and noticed green fluid puddling under the front bumper. They hopped in and screeched onto the highway, lights flashing and siren blaring. Garza grabbed the mike and called for backup.

“He took out your radiator,” Marlin said, one hand braced against the dashboard as they gained speed.

“I saw,” Garza replied.

The speedometer was quickly up to ninety. A half-mile ahead, Clements’s Cherokee came into view—stuck behind several vehicles in the left lane and a semi carrying a mobile home in the right lane. Seconds later, Garza was on Clements’s bumper.

The drivers in the left lane began to drop their speed as they heard the siren... as did the driver of the big rig. Now the cruiser and the Cherokee were caught behind a cluster of traffic going fifty. Then Clements saw his chance: He nosed up mere inches from the semi and cut sharply left, almost clipping the front fender of a station wagon. The driver of the wagon tapped the brakes, slowing Garza, as Clements accelerated in the fast lane, gaining a few hundred yards on the cruiser. Finally, the wagon pulled to the right behind the semi, and Garza had a clear path.