He could see T.J. nodding in the moonlight. “Let’s do it!”
Vinnie folded himself into the small interior of the Porsche, and gunned the engine. A moment later, he felt a small bump as T.J. pulled the rope taut.
The whine of the boat’s engine began to climb as T.J. increased the throttle, pulling harder and harder, just waiting for Vinnie.
Vinnie raced the car’s engine, released the brake, and shot down the ramp into the water.
It worked like a charm.
The small car began to float immediately, and T.J. quickly towed it away from the bank.
Slowly the water was climbing higher on the body of the car. Vinnie could feel his feet getting wet now.
But they were fifty yards from shore now. Then seventy-five…and one hundred.
Finally, about a hundred and fifty yards out, the resistance was too much and the car could go no farther. Vinnie eased himself out of the driver’s window just seconds before the water came rushing in.
Vinnie swam quickly through the cool water to the boat, the engine quiet now.
Laughing hysterically, T.J. pulled Vinnie onboard. “Man, did you see that fucker sink? That was great!”
Vinnie smiled, wishing his dad could be here to praise his creativity. “Always glad to help my friends out of a jam,” he said. “I’m freezing my balls off. Pull that rope into the boat and let’s get the hell out of here.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning, John Marlin stripped off his warden’s uniform, pulled on some work clothes, and rolled a large toolbox out of the shed in his backyard. He stood in the sunlight and surveyed the framework of the room he was adding on to his house.
Last night, after writing his report on the death of Bert Gammel, he had gone on patrol until three in the morning. Chased down a couple of idiots spotlighting deer, but he couldn’t find a rifle in their truck. The men were out-of-towners, so Marlin had sent them on their way with a stern warning to watch their asses in Blanco County. Other than that, it had been pretty quiet. After a few hours of sleep, he had hit the roads again this morning, but it was a typically slow weekday. Most of the hunting camps were empty, except for a few retirees or serious hunters who had taken off work for the first week of the season.
Also, as Marlin had expected, Wylie Smith had not contacted him. It was likely Wylie was in the process of interviewing the other hunters on the Hawley Ranch, but Marlin hadn’t heard a word from the deputy. Fine, Marlin thought. Let him wade through that mess himself.
Now, in the midday lull, he could afford a little time to himself, a chance to indulge in the primitive therapy that carpentry seemed to offer. Something about working with his hands, seeing a structure slowly take shape from his own backbreaking labor, gave Marlin a release he found nowhere else, not even hunting. Over the years, he had built a large covered deck, a sunroom, and a carport for his state-issued Dodge truck.
But Marlin had more of an emotional investment in this particular project. Or, he used to. Last year, after Becky had moved in, she had commented that his place was awfully small. It was a casual remark, but it forced Marlin to do a little long-term thinking. His place was a simple ranch-style cabin. Two bedrooms, one bath. Small living room. Barely more than a thousand square feet, total. It had always been fine for him alone. But he realized that a man and a woman should have a little more space than his house provided.
So last spring he had begun adding a sixteen-by-twenty room to the back of his house. More than three hundred square feet, he had told Becky. That’ll open things up quite a bit, give us plenty of room.
His secret plan-something he had shared only with Phil Colby-was to propose to Becky as soon as he finished the addition.
But then Becky had gone to stay with her mother, and Marlin had put the project on hold for a while. He had been lonely when she was gone, and his heart simply wasn’t in it.
And now she was gone for good.
Oddly, though, now that he knew where things stood, Marlin had the urge to get back to it, to keep himself busy with some honest physical labor. He figured it would be better than moping around all day, thinking himself into a funk.
Marlin eyed the work he had done in the spring. The walls were framed. Now it was time to get the roof up before the weather took too much of a toll on the plywood subflooring he had installed five months ago.
Marlin strapped on a tool belt, pulled a tarp off a stack of two-by-eights, and got busy. Using his circular saw, he notched each rafter to rest on the top plate of the outer wall. Then he began hauling the rafters up the ladder and nailing them in place.
After two hours, the roof line was beginning to take shape. Marlin felt invigorated, his mind fresh, thinking of nothing but the task at hand. He took a break for a large tumbler of iced tea, then pulled his shirt off. Sixty degrees outside, but Marlin had worked up a good sweat wrestling those planks up the ladder.
At two-thirty, he hammered the last rafter into place and remained on the ladder for a moment, catching his breath. Then he heard a female voice say, “Ooo-whee! Check out the beefcake.”
He looked down and saw Inga Mueller grinning up at him. She was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, her hair in a ponytail. Marlin thought he had heard a car pull up. She must have heard the hammering and come around the side of the house.
Inga fanned herself with one hand and attempted a Southern accent, saying, “My, my, I do believe I’m getting weak in the knees,” then faked a swoon, leaning against the framework of the new room.
Marlin had to laugh. “You’re a real bashful one, aren’t you?” he said, climbing down the ladder. She tapped on one of the wall supports. “Well, at least there was a stud around to catch me.”
Marlin grabbed a rag and began wiping some of the grime off his hands. “So, you out of jail already?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at her.
She smiled. “Sure. Got out yesterday. Seems nobody’s pressing charges. Not Rodney Bauer, not Cecil Pritchard… and not you.”
The district attorney had called yesterday, a chuckle in his voice as he read the report and asked Marlin if he wanted to proceed with an assaulting-an-officer case against her. Marlin had declined. “What about Rodney’s truck?” Marlin asked. “Don’t tell me his insurance is going to cover it?”
She folded her arms and cocked a hip, like a young girl pouting. “Well, no. Those heartless ghouls said they would sue me for the damages.”
“Can you blame them?”
“No, not really. I’m going to pay Rodney back myself. In fact, I already did. Met him in Johnson City and wrote him a check. He told me where you live.”
Marlin nodded as he pulled his shirt on. “I was wondering about that.”
He stood there a moment, uncertain what to say, thinking Inga would announce the reason for her visit. Instead, she looked up at the roof joists and said, “What’re you building?”
Marlin hesitated for a second. “Aw, I’m just adding on another room. Wanted a little more space.”
“What is this, a two-bedroom? Three? What’s a single guy like you need all that space for?”
Marlin wondered how she knew he was single. There was the obvious sign that he didn’t wear a wedding ring, but not all married men did. Who had she been talking to?
Marlin simply shrugged, then grabbed his glass. “You want some tea?”
“You got any beer?”
“I do. What kind you like?”
“Cold.”
“My favorite flavor. Think you can refrain from throwing it on me?”
She put her hands up in an I surrender gesture. “I come in peace.”
Thomas Collin Peabody simply didn’t understand women. Not this one, anyway, this wild sprite, this forest nymph named Inga. Ah, what a fiasco. Here she was, mooning over a common man-a redneck, a hick, a yokel. Meanwhile, a man who truly loved her-a man of substance and values and compassion and humanity-sat outside in her rusting Volvo.