Hank Middleton had been hunting buddies with Frank Ross for twenty-five years. They were so inseparable during deer season, their names would run together when people referred to them. It would be: “I hear Hankenfrank got a nice ten-pointer this morning.” Or, “Looks like Hankenfrank are gonna win the big-buck contest again this year.” And it was true-not a season went by that one of them didn’t bag a fairly respectable trophy, and they always hauled the deer back to Frank’s house on the ATV. Hank knew every detail of that four-wheeler, from the dent in the gas tank down to the Dallas Cowboys sticker on the left rear mudguard. Now, as he exited the convenience store in Johnson City with a twelve-pack of Miller Lite, Hank saw a stranger at the gas pumps refueling Frank’s ATV. A scruffy-looking guy, who kept glancing around nervously. The man was wearing a camo jacket, but it didn’t sit on him right. Like one of those city boys who would come out to a deer lease and try to act country. Sizing him up a little more, Hank figured this guy wasn’t anybody that Frank would associate with. No sir.
So he sauntered casually over to the pumps and said, “Howdy.”
The man smiled back. He had finished with the ATV and was now filling a one-gallon gas can.
“Nice-looking ATV you got there,” Hank said.
“Thank you,” the scruffy guy murmured, watching the traffic pass on Highway 281.
“Funny thing is,” Hank continued, “it looks just like the one my friend Frank owns. You got any idear why that is?”
The man bobbed his head several times, without making eye contact. “I purchased this vehicle from Frank just this morning. I can understand your confusion.”
Hank was stunned for a moment. Frank hadn’t said anything about selling his ATV-and Hank told the stranger as much.
“It was a spontaneous transaction on his part,” the stranger said. “I happened to see him riding it and realized it was the exact model I’ve been looking for. I made an offer that your friend was generous enough to accept.”
Now Hank was pretty certain something squirrelly was going on. He and Frank had bagged an eight-pointer on Thursday evening, and had celebrated by drinking late into the night at Frank’s place. Hank hadn’t seen Frank since then, because Frank had to work this weekend. That meant Frank would have been out at the job site since sunup this morning, installing some cabinets. He wouldn’t have been out riding his ATV.
Hank wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t the type for confrontation, but he couldn’t just let the guy go without checking it out, could he? “You happen to have the title on ya? Maybe a receipt?” Hank asked.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” The stranger lifted the gas nozzle out of the can and went to place it back into the slot in the pump. That’s when his sleeve slid down far enough for Hank to see the handcuff on his wrist. In an instant, Hank knew exactly who this guy was: the fellow who had escaped from John Marlin, the game warden.
The men locked eyes for a moment, both of them knowing the pretense was over. Hank was about to make a lunge for the keys in the ignition, when the stranger aimed the nozzle at Hank and hosed his chest down with gas. Hank dropped his twelve-pack onto the concrete.
“I advise you to remain quite civil,” the stranger said. In his hand he now held a disposable lighter. “At least until I’ve made my departure.”
Hank suddenly realized that Frank’s ATV wasn’t really that important. They could haul deer just as easily in the back of Hank’s truck. Hell, if Frank was caught in the same situation, Hank would say, Man, just let it go.
“Kindly take a few steps back,” the stranger said.
Hank did what he was told, keeping an eye on the lighter.
The scruffy guy strapped the gas can to the back of the ATV and straddled the seat. He turned the key and the motor sputtered to life.
“Please tell your friend I apologize for any inconvenience,” the stranger said. Then he put the ATV in gear and roared out of the parking lot.
“What next? Maynard Clements’s place?”
Garza nodded. “I guess so. Until we can find a way to get at Mameli. It’s gonna be tough if we have to go through his lawyer.”
Garza proceeded down Ladybird Lane and came to a wood-and-stone entry way that said RANCHER’S ESTATES. They found Maynard’s place-a well-kept home on Pitchfork Lane-and pulled in behind Clements’s dusty brown Jeep Cherokee. Maynard answered the door wearing sweatpants and a Texas A amp;M T-shirt.
“Hey, guys,” Maynard said. “What are y’all doing here?” Before they could answer, he gestured over his shoulder. “Game’s about to start. Come on in.”
Marlin and Garza followed Maynard in and took a seat on a vinyl sofa, while Maynard sank back into a worn recliner. Next to the recliner, a pitcher of orange juice and a large Big Gulp cup sat on a small table. Marlin thought he could smell some kind of liquor. Not even noon yet.
“Playing Oklahoma State today,” Maynard said. “Should be a good one. Can I get y’all anything?”
“No, that’s all right, Maynard,” Marlin said. “Sorry to interrupt….”
“Aw, no big deal. It’s nice to have company.” He looked at them suspiciously. “Y’all are Aggie fans, ain’t ya?”
On the screen, the Aggie band built to a crescendo as A amp;M kicked off.
“I just wanted to talk to you a little bit more about Bert Gammel,” Marlin said.
Maynard turned the volume down a tad, but kept his eyes on the set. “Figured as much, but I’m not sure what else I can tell ya.”
“Well,” Garza chimed in, “we were just wondering what you know about Salvatore Mameli. I believe he’s had some dealings with your department.”
“Oh, sure, I know Sal,” Maynard said. “Nice guy-for a Yankee.” Maynard chuckled, then got distracted by the happenings on the field. “Aw, damn! What the hell was the defensive end doing on that play? You see him miss that tackle?”
Oklahoma State was marching downfield.
“You ever know Mameli to do anything dishonest, like maybe try to pass some cash under the table?” Garza asked.
Maynard shook his head, but remained focused on the game. “Hate to shoot you down, but me and John been through this already. Seriously, that kinda thing just doesn’t go on out here. At least not in my experience. I can’t speak for Bert, but he was about as honest as they come. I’m tellin’ ya, there ain’t no way he’d take a bribe. And if someone offered one, he’d tell me about it. I guarantee it.”
Garza and Marlin both asked a few more questions, but discovered nothing new. Finally Marlin described finding Gammel’s cash supply in the deer feeder.
“Well, yeah,” Clements said, “that does seem like a strange place to keep your cash, but that doesn’t mean it was dirty money.”
“No, I guess you’re right,” Garza said. “The odd thing was, we found your fingerprints on the envelope.”
Maynard narrowed his eyes, but didn’t seem rattled. “What kinda envelope?”
“Standard manila.”
The project manager smiled. “Like you’d find in an office, I guess?”
Marlin nodded.
Maynard stood and walked over to a small hutch that was buried with paperwork. He extracted several manila envelopes from the pile. “Look like these?”
Marlin said that it did.
“Come on down to my office if you want. We got hundreds of these lying around. Betcha that’s where Bert got it. Hell, he mighta grabbed one off my desk.”
Garza stood. “Yeah, that’s what we were thinking, Maynard. Just had to check it out.”
But Clements wasn’t listening. The Oklahoma State quarterback had found a wide-open receiver in the end zone. Clements groaned and let loose with a string of profanities. He grinned at the two men. “Could be another rebuilding year, I guess.”
“He seem nervous at all to you?” Garza asked, back in the cruiser.
“Not at all,” Marlin replied, wondering whether he should be disappointed or encouraged. “Actually, I guess that makes things easier. Now we can concentrate on Mameli.”
“Right now, I say we concentrate on lunch. You hungry?”
Marlin was surprised. He figured Garza would have wanted to go straight back to the sheriff’s office to monitor the standoff. “Lead the way.”
Garza radioed Darrell Bridges and told the dispatcher where he and Marlin would be for the next hour. Back in Johnson City, Garza pulled into Big Joe’s Restaurant, and the men found a quiet booth in the back. Over chicken-fried steak, they went through the Bert Gammel and Emmett Slaton cases from the beginning, analyzing every detail.
“Still thinking the cases are tied together somehow?” Marlin asked.
“Mameli’s face sure got red when I mentioned Slaton, and he seems to have links to both Slaton and Gammel. Problem is, we’re awful short on motive for either case at the moment. Yeah, the bribery thing seems like a strong possibility, but we need to keep digging.”
“Where?”
Garza gulped some iced tea, then offered a plan. “I’d say we need to reinterview all of the men on the work crews, both Mameli’s and Slaton’s. Especially Red O’Brien and Billy Don Craddock. They work for Slaton, and they were first at the scene at Slaton’s house. Plus, Wylie said they were offering some wild theories about Sal Mameli.”
“Yeah, and Wylie blew ’em off,” Marlin reminded him.
“I know, I know,” Garza said. “Don’t get started on Wylie again. Poor guy’s in bad enough shape as it is.” Garza grabbed the check and glanced at his wristwatch. “Let’s start with Red and see where it gets us. Meanwhile, I’ll send a couple of deputies out to interview some of the others.”
Smedley was slowly going insane. He was sure of it. And if he managed to come out of this with a few marbles still intact, he knew he’d have nightmares about singing farmers for years to come.
Earlier, he’d made an attempt to free himself, but all he’d done was topple the chair with him in it. Now he was lying on his right side, still facing the TV, the headphones still cradling his head. The two rednecks had come in, laughed at his predicament, and left him where he was.
He wondered about his car. Surely it was too damaged to drive. These two goobers must have left it where it was, and, if Smedley had any kind of luck, a cop would spot it and start nosing around.
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.”