Buck Fever (Blanco County Mysteries) (19 page)

ON SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 6, some of the biggest bucks in Blanco County history were harvested on the Circle S Ranch. The highlight was a twelve-point with eight-inch drop tines and a twenty-four-inch spread. By ten-thirty, all the hunters had returned and were now gathered at the butchering shed, exchanging excited handshakes, comparing deer and swapping tales from the morning hunt. Skip Farrell, the journalist, was making the rounds, asking the men to pose for publicity shots with their trophies. They were all happy to oblige. Many of the men were already enjoying the day's first Bloody Mary or cold beer.

Off to one side, apart from the hunters, stood John Marlin, Phil Colby, Becky Cameron, and another man who, from his dress, was obviously not a local. His name was Art Collison, Marlin's roommate from Southwest Texas State University, now an agent with the DEA.

“Seen Swank yet?” Marlin asked Colby.

He shook his head, eyeing the crowd.

Marlin turned to Collison. “I appreciate you coming up from Laredo on such short notice.”

“No problem, John. It was good to hear from you.”

“And thanks for not bringing the entire cavalry with you.”

“I thought about it, but I agreed with something you said on the phone.”

“What's that?”

“That you might be wrong.”

Marlin started to reply, but the crowd suddenly broke into applause.

Roy Swank was approaching from the main house, accompanied by a slender man in dark slacks and a golf shirt.

Several of the hunters called out to Swank in appreciation, telling Swank what a great hunt it had been. Swank raised his hands in a gracious gesture, as if he were receiving the Nobel Prize…but his smirk was nowhere as self-satisfied as Marlin would have normally expected. In fact, the man looked flat-out worried. He even shot a glare over at Marlin and his group.

As the hunters finished clapping, Swank said, “It's you gentlemen who deserve the applause. Just look at all the fine trophies you took this morning. I'm impressed. I want to talk to each one of you personally, to hear your thoughts about the herd I'm raising out here, but what say we head back to the bunkhouse so everyone can clean up and get ready for lunch?”

Before the crowd could start to dissipate, Marlin spoke up. “But Roy, don't you want to get some of these deer field-dressed…see what kind of weights we're talking about?”

Swank acted as if he had just noticed Marlin. “Well, hello there, John. Our local game warden, folks,” he said to the crowd. Several of the hunters turned to look. Swank continued, a small nervous tic now apparent on his face: “There will be plenty of time for that, John. I bet these men are tired and would like to grab a hot shower.”

But Marlin knew that the time was now. “I don't know, Roy. From my estimation, it looks like we could be looking at some county records here, if not state records. I know I'm curious. What about you?” Marlin said, addressing everyone but Swank.

Several of the men spoke up.

“Let's go ahead and dress ’em out, Roy!”

“I know I'd like to know.”

“Let's do it! Hell, we got a game warden right here to verify it all!”

Without waiting for Swank to answer, Cletus Hobbs stepped forward, unfolded his hunting knife, and walked over to the heaviest deer. He looked over at the hunter who had shot it. “Want me to do the honors?” he asked, knowing that most of these men had never gutted a deer in their lives. The hunter told him to go ahead.

The big buck was hanging spread-eagled by its hind legs. Cletus made the first incision, beginning at the pelvic bone, and expertly opened the deer up all the way to its sternum. As Cletus spread the abdomen open, preparing to split the sternum, a condomlike package fell to the ground. It was about the size of a golf ball and appeared to be filled with white powder.

“What the hell?” one of the hunters murmured.

Cletus, as intrigued as everyone else, opened the abdomen all the way. Dozens more packages cascaded to the ground.

Skip Farrell stepped closer and took a quick series of photographs.

“What in Christ's name is going on here?” Swank said, red-faced, as the crowd turned to look at him.

Marlin's old roommate stepped forward, flipping open his wallet. “I'm Art Collison, Mr. Swank. With the DEA. I think we need to have a little talk.”

“So you're telling us that you knew absolutely nothing about the drugs?” Marlin asked incredulously. It was an hour later and he was in Swank's den now with Collison, Swank, and the man in the golf shirt.

“That's what Mr. Swank is saying,” said the golfer. He had introduced himself as Buddy Geis, Roy Swank's attorney, right after Collison had approached Swank at the butchering shed. Geis had agreed to talk to Marlin and Collison—providing that Swank would not be arrested and booked at this point. Nothing but a bunch of misleading circumstances, Geis had insisted, things they could clear up in no time. “We're not refuting the existence of the drugs…or of the other men involved…or the fact that they kept you and Miss Cameron hostage. We truly regret the ordeal you went through.”

Marlin shot him a
Fuck you
look.

“But these men,” Geis continued, “had identified themselves as Mexican nationals—wealthy landowners with trophy white-tailed deer for sale. Mr. Swank had invited them up here to see his hunting operation, but he knew nothing about the drugs; he thought he was purchasing and importing nothing more than some valuable wild game. Granted, he may have called in a few favors to get as many deer imported as he did, but there's no way he could have possibly known what was in those deer. As far as the men who kept you hostage…to be frank, we're not even sure they are who they said they were. You may never be able to track them down.”

Marlin looked at Collison, who shook his head. “It was up to Swank to sell the deer,” Collison said to Geis. “The foreigners couldn't have known who he was selling them to, so how would they have gotten their drugs to their dealers in the States?”

“We're not certain about that,” Geis said. “All we can figure is that they had men working in the U.S. who tracked the deer down and removed the goods…maybe after the deer were sold, or maybe even while they were right here on this ranch, without Mr. Swank knowing. It really makes perfect sense, if you think about it. That way, they had an accomplice who didn't even know what he was in on. So they didn't have to cut him in.”

It was all an obvious pack of lies…but Marlin knew that a jury would probably buy it. It certainly sounded no crazier than smuggling drugs inside live animals.

Marlin glared at Swank, who leered smugly back at him.

“If you're so innocent, then why was your lawyer already here?” Marlin shot at him.

“I'm an avid hunter myself,” Geis said. “I simply came out because I wanted to see if the other hunters got any Bowie and Crockett deer this weekend.”

“It's
Boone
and Crockett,” Marlin growled. He could hear Collison stifling a laugh behind him.

“Uh, right,” Geis said. “That's what I meant.”

Marlin's anger was beginning to reach a boiling point. He stepped up close to Swank, towering over the shorter man. “This is the biggest bunch of bullshit I've ever heard.”

“Careful, Mr. Marlin,” Geis said. “You're coming awfully close to violating my client's rights.”

Marlin turned to leave, but decided to deliver one last shot. “We're gonna get you on this, Roy. Plus the bullshit you had going at the bank.”

Swank's eyes showed a trace of surprise.

“That's right,” Marlin went on. “I know all about your bribe to Claude Rundell. So you better enjoy this ranch while you can, because it won't be yours for long.”

Swank let out a long sigh and looked away from Marlin as if he were bored. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Marlin…now please go away.”

Collison had his hand on Marlin's shoulder, gently holding him, sensing that he was about to go after Swank.

Colby, who had been waiting outside at the lawyer's insistence, entered though the den door. “Hey, John…come out here for a minute. There's someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?” Marlin asked, not wanting to walk out without getting some satisfaction.

Colby locked eyes with Marlin and winked at him. “Come on out, John. These guys'll still be here in ten minutes.”

Marlin walked out with Colby into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Waiting for him was Deputy Bobby Garza.

“Where in the hell have you been?” Garza asked Marlin. “I was calling you all last night.”

Marlin wanted to fill Garza in on everything that had happened, but there wasn't time. He wanted to get to Swank now, while the lawyer was still talking. Get them to slip up on something they would have to contradict later. “We stayed at Chuck's Motel last night because we didn't feel safe at my place or Phil's,” Marlin told him. “It's a long story, Bobby, but everything I told you the other day seems to be true. I called in the DEA. Sorry, I didn't mean to go around you or the Sheriff's Department on this one, but you know how Mackey is, and…”

Garza shook his head. “Are you kidding? Don't worry about it. Those DEA guys will nail his nuts to the wall.”

“Don't be so sure. Swank's lawyer is in there slinging lies all over place. And with Swank's connections…you know how those scumbags cover each other's asses. Dammit! If he manages to slip out of this…”

“Relax, Marlin,” Garza smiled. “How would you like a confession?”

Marlin looked at Garza like,
Well, duh, I'd love one.

Garza held up a videotape and said, “Marlin, ol’ buddy. Don't say I never gave you nothin’.”

MARLIN WALKED BACK into the room, accompanied by Bobby Garza and Phil Colby. Swank looked a little surprised that Garza had appeared—probably wondering why Mackey wasn't here instead, Marlin thought—but Swank didn't say anything. Geis was finishing a call on his cell phone—confirming a tee time for later this afternoon, apparently. Marlin waited until he had both men's complete attention.

Geis hung up and Marlin waited for just a moment, savoring what was about to happen.

“Roy, I think Deputy Garza here needs to talk to you about an unrelated matter.”

“What are you talking about?” Swank demanded, glancing nervously over at his lawyer.

Geis started to speak, but Garza cut him off. “Nothing to be concerned about. But I do need to inform you that I think I've recovered some property that was stolen from you. Have you been burglarized recently?”

“No! This is ridiculous. This…this…” Swank stammered, unsure what Garza and Marlin were up to.

Marlin held up the videotape without exposing the label. “Deputy Garza made an arrest last night, and the two suspects confessed to stealing this from your residence. You might know them—Red O'Brien and Billy Don Craddock?”

Swank shook his head and shrunk in his seat. “No, I don't think…Wait, maybe I do know them.…I'm not sure.”

Covering all the bases,
Marlin thought.
Because he doesn't know what the hell we have.

“Why don't we take a look at this tape, Mr. Swank, then you can confirm whether it is your property or not.”

Without waiting for an answer, Marlin walked over to the entertainment center and plugged the tape into the VCR.

Geis looked at Swank, wondering what the hell was going on, but Swank just shrugged.

Marlin hit the
PLAY
button, and the men waited in silence for the tape to begin.

Then the first images came on the screen. A blonde porn star eating a banana in a very suggestive manner. Then the picture jumped and the quality changed. It looked like home video and the frame showed a slain doe, lying in the grass among some cedar trees.

“Oh my god,” Swank gasped. “Turn it off.”

“Hold on there, Roy,” Marlin answered, with a huge smile. “We're not even sure it's yours yet.”

On the screen, Roy Swank entered the frame—and began to dress the deer carcass in women's lingerie.

Geis looked over at Swank like the fat lobbyist had just farted. “Jesus, Roy, what the hell is this all about?”

“Turn it off!” Swank shouted, and rose to approach the VCR.

Garza stepped in his way.

Marlin said, with plenty of sarcasm, “Oh, so it
is
your property. Glad we got that cleared up.”

“Always nice to help out a victim such as yourself,” Garza said.

“Do something!” Swank yelled at Geis, who just shook his head.

Onscreen, Swank was beginning to strip off his clothes.

“Of course,” Marlin said, “this is evidence in a case, so Deputy Garza can't return it right away.”

Swank began to cry now, huge sobs that made the other men turn away in embarrassment. “For the love of Christ, stop it!” Swank bawled. “Just tell me what you want! What do you want?”

Marlin hit the
PAUSE
button, freezing the image of Swank with his pants down to his knees. “Let's see…Where do I begin?”

An hour later, a well-dressed Hispanic gentleman approached the main bridge in Laredo, intending to cross over into Mexico. He was driving a late-model Cadillac with a rental sticker on the bumper. Larry Blackwell, a border guard for seventeen years, decided to check it out. Too many stolen cars were crossing the border nowadays.

He motioned the driver over to the side and rapped on the driver's window.

The window came down and the driver gave Blackwell a big smile. “Yes sir, Officer?” he said with a thick accent.

“May I see some identification, please?”

The man handed him a passport. Humberto Moises Rivera, it said, and it appeared legitimate. A naturalized American citizen.

“Mr. Rivera, may I see your rental papers for this automobile?”

“Oh, yes sir,” Rivera said eagerly, handing the guard some additional papers.

Everything looked to be in order, Blackwell thought, but you could never tell, with computers and printers as advanced as they were these days.

Blackwell handed the documents back to the Hispanic man. “Where are you traveling today?” he asked.

“Going to see my family in Monterrey. Beeg family reunion.”

“Reunion, huh? That sounds nice. What are their names?” Blackwell asked.

“Perdóneme?”

“Your family members…what are their names.”

“Well, there ees my brothers, Javier, Rafael, and Raul. My sisters, Isadora and Maria…” The man noticed the guard had a pad out and was writing the names down.

“Any aunts and uncles there? Maybe some cousins?”

“Sure,” Rivera replied, and continued to list names. After he had provided a dozen or so, Blackwell motioned that he could stop.

“Please wait here for a moment, Mr. Rivera,” he said, and returned to the small guard station.

Blackwell simply sat for five minutes, drinking coffee. It was one of the oldest tricks in the book. Ask some questions, wait a while, then ask ’em again, see if the answers matched up.

Blackwell exited the guard station and approached the car again.

“Okay, Mr. Rivera, we're almost done here and then you can be on your way. Just tell me again…what are your brothers’ names?”

The man's smile evaporated. “Why for you ask this again? I have already given you those names.”

“The names, sir.”

The man looked through the windshield at the bridge ahead of him. “There is Javier…and…”

“Who else?”

“And…I am a busy man! I must be on my way!”

Blackwell placed his palm on the butt of his gun. Then he said, with an edge in his voice, “Step out of the car, sir. Right now.”

Moments later, Oscar stood to the side and watched in amusement as several men searched the interior of his car.
These fools,
he thought,
they will find nothing. There is nothing to find.
He had tossed his handgun out on the road many miles back. As far as his fictitious family, so what if he could not remember names on a list? In the U.S., they could not hold him for that. In Colombia, yes, but not here.

He watched as the one named Blackwell removed the keys from the ignition, walked to the rear of the car and popped the trunk.

In an instant, Oscar's world came crashing down. From ten feet away, Oscar could clearly see the contents of the trunk—and he realized with great despair that he had fallen victim once again to another man's incompetence. Tyler had not done what Oscar had asked. He had not disposed of the body of Barney Weaver, whose corpse grinned lifelessly up at the border guards.