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.
Marlin ducked under the tape and made his way toward Garza, who nodded him toward one of the patrol cars. They climbed inside and closed the doors. “Yeah, it’s Slaton. Looks like he was shot several times. Lem’s doing an autopsy later today,” Garza said, referring to the county medical examiner.
“Any word from T.J. Gibbs?”
Garza gritted his teeth. “Someone called an hour ago, about an unmanned boat floating around. Before we could check into it, a guy across the lake called. Found a young white male floating, stuck underneath his boat dock. Gotta be Gibbs. And get this: He was wearing a scuba suit.”
Marlin shook his head. He didn’t even know what to say.
Garza rubbed his hands over his face. “What in the world’s going on out here, John? It’s like all hell’s broke loose this week. I’ve never seen anything like it. You hear about the trouble at Sal Mameli’s place?”
Marlin shook his head. “What now?”
“Somebody vandalized some of his machines last night-more like they blew ’em up, right there by his house. A miracle that nobody got killed. No leads on who did it, but my money’s on Thomas Peabody.”
Hearing that, Marlin was relieved nobody had gotten hurt. Marlin knew that if he’d been more careful with Peabody, the little jerk wouldn’t be running loose.
Garza read Marlin’s mind. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch him. Just a matter of time. He would have walked on bail anyway, even if he hadn’t slipped away from you. So don’t blame yourself for the mess at Mameli’s place.”
“Thanks.” Marlin wanted to hear more about the present situation. “So what’s the story on the Porsche?”
“Slaton was in there, along with his dog. In two pieces: It had been decapitated.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Some sick shit, I’m telling you. That probably explains the blood on Slaton’s porch. Plus, we found two guns in the car, a forty-five and a thirty-five.”
“A thirty-five? I didn’t even know there was such a thing.”
Garza nodded, getting excited. “That’s our ace in the hole. There was only one model ever made-by Smith and Wesson, from 1913 to 1921. There was only something like eight thousand of them produced, so it’s something you might see at a gun show. But at a crime scene? We’re running the serial number, but don’t hold your breath on that. We’ll check for prints, too, but being underwater that long….”
“Any kind of connection between T.J. and Slaton?”
“We’re looking into it.” Garza must have seen a look of concern on Marlin’s face. “I know what you’re thinking: Just yesterday, we were speculating on whether Sal Mameli mighta had something to do with both Gammel and Slaton. Now we find Slaton in a car owned by one of Vinnie Mameli’s runnin’ buddies.”
Marlin nodded. He didn’t want his anger toward Vinnie Mameli to cause him to jump to any conclusions, but he felt it was an angle worth exploring.
Garza said, “I’m gonna take this real slow, John. One step at a time, with no screwups. If either Vinnie or Sal was involved, we’re not gonna let them slip through the net, I promise you that.”
Marlin asked about Jack Corey and Wylie Smith. “They’re fine,” Garza replied. “Both in the hospital getting checked out. One other thing: This isn’t out yet, so you gotta keep it under your hat….”
Marlin nodded.
“I saw Wylie late last night.” Garza paused-and Marlin knew the sheriff didn’t want to say what he was about to say. “He admitted to holding a gun to Corey’s head. Just flat-out confessed to it. So, between you and me, he’s a goner. Unofficially, he’s already off the force-only he doesn’t know it yet. Probably be some criminal charges.”
Oddly, Marlin’s spirits sank when he heard the news. He had never liked Wylie, but it was heartbreaking when a fellow law-enforcement officer strayed the way Wylie had. It was obvious Garza was bitterly disappointed that one of his deputies had nearly wrecked the life of an innocent man.
Garza continued, with a grim face: “Now I gotta figure out what to do about Corey. He’s clear on the Gammel charge, and we can’t really hold him accountable for the standoff.”
“Hell, the county’ll be lucky if he doesn’t sue.”
“Yeah, I can’t say I’d blame him.” Garza glanced out the window. “Listen,” Garza said, “I’ve still got a lot of work to do around here. You can hang around and see how it plays out, or take off and I’ll keep you posted.”
Marlin reached for the door handle. “Think I’ll go for a drive,” he said. “Take a break for a while.”
“I don’t blame you.”
The twin stories of Jack Corey’s surrender and the discovery of Emmett Slaton’s body were big news, justifying sporadic live updates on KHIL for the remainder of the day.
Unfortunately for Smedley Poindexter, the only thing playing on the television set in the headquarters of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated, was Hee Haw. The same clip. Over and over.
Smedley tried valiantly to hang on to his dignity. But within hours, he was a blubbering, pathetic wreck.