Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) (37 page)
Read Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Online
Authors: Ben Rehder
He gave it a good thirty minutes, then stuck his head into the bedroom. Angela was out cold.
He clomped down the hallway on his crutches and went out the back door. Good. There was still a light in Maria’s window. He followed the path to her cottage.
Thomas Peabody double-checked his supplies, found everything in order, and set off through the darkness. He moved slowly, painstakingly. Stealth was imperative now. One small error could mean disaster.
Maria was sitting cross-legged on the floor, meditating, feeling more at peace with the world than she had in years. At the center of it all was this wonderful man named Smedley. He had been a sensitive, caring lover... though his sudden departure had left her a little puzzled. But he
would
come back—she was certain of it. Why else would he have left behind his badge and his gun? She had not known Smedley was a police officer, but now that she knew, it made her feel protected. She would have felt uneasy being involved with a police officer back in Guatemala, for they were often corrupt and immoral. But here in the United States, it was known as an honorable and noble profession. Holding the badge in her hand, caressing its gentle curves, gave her a feeling of security. The gun, however, made Maria very nervous. She had even draped a towel over it to help her put it out of mind.
Maria meditated for ten more minutes and was just about to go to bed when there was a knock on the door. She was startled at first, and she instinctively flinched.
Just as she was wondering if perhaps Smedley had returned, she heard Mr. Mameli calling out to her. It had been seven days since Maria had been subjected to Mr. Mameli’s advances, and she had hoped he would no longer try to inflict his abuse. Obviously, though, Mr. Mameli had no intention of leaving her alone.
He knocked again, more firmly this time, and called her name once more.
Much to Maria’s surprise, the feeling of dread that normally accompanied the sound of her employer’s voice had vanished. In its place were anger and outrage and defiance. Her relationship with Smedley had somehow liberated her, transforming her meek submissiveness into a steely resolve.
Tonight,
she said to herself,
it will all end!
Maria Consuelo Garcia Rodriguez had had enough!
She made a move to lock the door but was not fast enough. The doorknob turned, and Mr. Mameli limped into the room on his crutches. He gave her a large, false smile, the type Americans were always giving.
“Go away!” she hissed at him. She suddenly remembered she was dressed in nothing but a long nightshirt that draped to her thighs—but instead of feeling a sense of vulnerability, she now felt empowered and strong. “You go now!” she hissed again.
He made a meaningless gesture with his hands. “Aw, come on, Maria. Don’t get all crazy on me,” he said, his eyes darting left and right. “I just need to get something from you.”
Maria knew exactly what that
something
was—and she vowed that he would never “get it” again.
Sal was relieved that the cat was nowhere to be seen—but Maria was the problem right now. She had it all wrong. All he wanted was the damn bullet shell from around her neck. He could see it now, plain as day, glistening on her necklace.
Peabody made his way to the first BrushBuster, one of six hunched together on the west side of Sal Mameli’s house. There was a structure on the east side of the residence—a cottage of some sort—but it was too far away to be of concern. He went to the closest tree-cutter and unscrewed the gas cap.
Mr. Mameli was blatantly staring at her chest now, and Maria responded by planting her feet squarely and giving him an icy stare. She was giddy with power, and she was delighted to see the fear in Mr. Mameli’s eyes.
He took another step forward on his crutches, asking her to calm down. Nonsense! She would never be calm again in the face of oppression!
He reached out toward her breasts and she swatted his hands away. He flinched, like a small child caught misbehaving. He reached again. And Maria was surprised by the harsh words she heard leaving her throat: “Go to hell!”
Peabody struck the match, touched it to the trail of gasoline on the ground, and sprinted like a jackrabbit back to the woods.
It was so close, just inches from his fingertips. If only Sal could make Maria understand. All he wanted was the shell—the goddamn shell. He reached for it again…and she cursed him! In a voice full of rage, the witch told him to go to hell! But it was more than her anger, it was the evil gleam in her eye that sent a shudder through his body and caused a tremble in his hands.
And at that moment, she fully unleashed her powers.
A series of deafening explosions ripped the night, and the earth rocked beneath Sal’s feet. He fell to the floor and curled into a fetal position, waiting for some hideous winged demon to pull him into a fiery eternity.
He peeked through his fingers. Maria was silhouetted against the window, the sky behind her glowing an eerie orange.
Marlin was lying in bed, Inga dozing beside him, when the phone rang. Ten-thirty. Could be a poaching call, but Marlin decided to let the machine get it. If it was important, he’d pick it up. He heard Bobby Garza’s voice...
“John, it’s Bobby. Just wanted to see if you were watching KHIL right now. Good news, buddy. Jack Corey has finally surrendered. He just came out about ten minutes ago and I wanted you to know. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. It’s gonna be a big day. I’ve got some guys coming from the Army Corps of Engineers to inspect the dam. Toby Gardner already has the floodgates open, and he says the reservoir should be down twenty feet in forty-eight hours. Just wanted to keep you posted. Good work, my man. Hell of a job.”
Marlin’s phone rang again at seven-thirty the next morning, rousing him from a deep slumber. It had been months since he’d slept so late. Beside him, Inga muttered something sleepily and pulled a pillow over her head.
He picked up the phone. “This is Marlin.”
It was Garza, breathless on the other end. “John, can you hear me? It’s Bobby.” The connection was weak and full of static, but there was no mistaking what Garza said next. “It looks like we found him, John. We found Emmett Slaton.”
Sal was on the couch, the television murmuring in the background, while he tried to recover from the hellish night he had had. He had almost pushed Maria too far, he knew that. Worse than that, he had gone about it all wrong, didn’t use his goddamn brain. The truth was, there was no need to confront Maria at all. All he had to do was wait until she wasn’t wearing the necklace, send her and Angela to the grocery store, then raid Maria’s room. It would be much easier that way, and he could avoid Maria’s wrath.
He thought about last night, and it made him shudder. After the explosions, when the cops had finally left and the firefighters cleared out, he had freaked out a little in front of Vinnie and Angela. He had had a moment of stupidity and tried to make them see that it was all Maria’s work, that she had used her powers to rain fire down upon him. But they had looked at him as if he was going fucking crazy and asked if he wanted to see a doctor. In the end, he had decided it was best to keep his knowledge about Maria’s powers to himself. He accepted the sleeping pill that Angela had offered in the middle of the night, and eventually fell into a fitful, horrifying slumber.
He had had a nightmare, one in which Maria had caused him to slice open his own bowels with a rusty knife. He was forced to watch in terror as a pack of goats with razor-sharp teeth began to feed on his entrails. He was starting to sweat now, just thinking about it.
He heard a noise behind as Vinnie came into the room. “You get any sleep, Pop?”
Sal grunted.
Vinnie came around and sat next to him. Sal picked up the newspaper and pretended to read. He didn’t feel like talking to anybody. Vinnie grabbed the remote and turned the sound up a little, surfing through the channels.
Sal could hear a news reporter babbling, but he wasn’t paying much attention.
Until Vinnie said, “Oh, shit!”
Sal lowered the paper to see what the fuss was about.
As Marlin drove to Pedernales Reservoir, he replayed in his mind the amazing tale Garza had recounted for him. The team from the Army Corps of Engineers had arrived just after sunrise. They had closed the floodgates temporarily, to allow a team of divers to inspect the underwater portion of the dam. The divers entered the water at the boat ramp, and as they swam toward the dam, one of the team members spotted something large and yellow at the bottom of the lake. Something he wouldn’t have seen if the water level hadn’t already dropped so rapidly. He swam lower, and realized it was a submerged car.
It turned out to be a Porsche owned by a local kid named T.J. Gibbs. Marlin remembered citing Gibbs and Vinnie Mameli for four-wheeling on park property. Marlin had had some other troubles with Gibbs in the past: hunting without a license, shooting a turkey out of season. Mostly minor stuff. Garza had said there were no clues as to how the car had gotten there. They had tried calling Gibbs and got no answer.
The diver went down a second time to get a closer look. According to Garza, “The guy came up white as a sheet, John—saying there was a body in the car.”
“Slaton?” Marlin asked, wondering what the rancher’s body would be doing in a car owned by a punk like T.J. Gibbs.
“We’re just now pulling the car out of the water,” Garza said. “The body’s in pretty bad shape, but from the description the diver’s giving, yeah, it sounds like Slaton.”
On the screen, Sal could see a tow truck pulling a car out of a lake. The lake looked like Pedernales Reservoir. And the car looked like T.J. Gibbs’s Porsche. “What the hell?” Sal said. “Ain’t that your friend’s car?”
Vinnie nodded, his eyes glued to the television.
The camera switched to a clip of the sheriff.
“We were conducting a routine inspection of the dam when one of the team members spotted the submerged automobile. It has apparently been underwater for several days. I’m sorry to confirm at this time that we did discover a body inside the car.”
Sal turned to Vinnie, thinking,
Poor kid, having to find out about his dead pal this way
. His son looked close to tears. “What the hell happened, Vinnie?” he asked gently. Vinnie didn’t answer.
“I am able to confirm at this time that the deceased was not the owner of the car, and we are presently making efforts to locate him.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Sal said, smiling, looking at Vinnie. But Vinnie looked far from relieved.
A reporter off-camera asked if the sheriff could reveal the identity of the deceased.
“I’m afraid I can’t make any comments at this time.”
The same reporter asked if the deceased was in fact, the missing rancher, Emmett Slaton.
“Emmett Slaton?” Sal said. “What the hell’s he got to do with dis?”
The sheriff paused. Way too long of a pause to suit Sal. A pause big enough to drive a fucking Cadillac through. Then he said:
“No comment.”
As Sal turned to Vinnie again, he felt himself hyperventilating. His head was spinning and his mouth was bone dry. He tried to laugh it off. “Tell me, Vinnie…tell me I got nothin’ to worry about.”
But Vinnie wouldn’t meet his eyes. He just kept looking at the screen, his face a mask of shock.
Sal twisted toward him, ignoring the pain in his broken leg. He spoke softly now, trying to control his rage. “Tell me you didn’t sink him in the goddamn water in dat goddamn Porsche.”
And Vinnie—his only son, a future
capo
with balls the size of cantaloupes, the boy who reminded Sal so much of himself when he was a kid—said the worst three words Sal had ever heard: “I’m sorry, Pop.”
Sal lunged at Vinnie, who squirmed away from his grasp. “You stupid son of a bitch!”
Vinnie leaped off the couch. “I screwed up, Pop! I’m sorry!”
Sal vaulted off after him, his lame leg buckling under him. “You lousy no-good bastard!”
Vinnie ran from the room, and Sal bucked and jerked on the floor, trying to climb to his feet. “You fuckin’ lamebrain cock-sucker!”
Marlin found Garza near the boat ramps, in a swarm of deputies and staff members from the Corps of Engineers. T.J. Gibbs’s ruined, muddy Porsche sat on the shores of the lake, surrounded by yellow crime scene tape that had been strung between county vehicles. A tow truck sat with its engine idling, the driver reeling in a dripping steel cable. The news-station vans were already back in full force, and Deputy Ernie Turpin was doing his best to keep the media back from the scene.