“I hit something slick as goat shit,” Billy Don groaned. “My back feels like crap. Get me loose, will ya?”
Red stuck out both hands and hauled Billy Don to his feet.
“What the hell did I slip on?” Billy Don whined. “Shine the light up there.”
Red swept the light over the front porch and saw a smeared red streak where Billy Don had lost his footing. There were several other dark-red drops between the stairs and the front door.
Billy Don said, “That looks like blood.”
“I can see it.” Red stepped around the drops and knocked firmly on the door. They waited, but there was no answer.
Billy Don said, “Could be anything. Maybe he shot a deer and hauled it in through here.”
Red stooped and shined the light directly on one of the drops. Definitely blood. “Billy Don, if you shot a deer, would you drag it right into your goddamn living room?”
Billy Don started to answer, but Red cut him off, saying, “Forget I asked. Stupid question.”
Vinnie drove to a pay phone in Johnson City and made a call.
“Yo, T.J. what’s up?”
“Nothing, man. I been meaning to call you, but I was at work. I just got home.”
“Everything cool?”
“Man, I was so wasted last night, I can’t believe we did that.”
T.J.’s voice sounded shaky.
Vinnie licked his lips, getting a little nervous. “Don’t turn into a pussy now, dude. Everything will be solid. Did you call the cops yet, report it stolen?”
“That’s the thing, man. I started thinking about it, and I remembered something. The deal is, I got LoJack.”
The word meant nothing to Vinnie. “Shit, bring it over and we’ll smoke it.” He forced a laugh, but T.J. didn’t join in.
“Nah, man, I’m talking about one of those anti-theft deals, you know?”
“What, like a burglar alarm? Fuck, that’s no big deal. Your car is fifty feet underwater. If the thing goes off, it won’t bother nobody but the friggin’ fish.”
“Not an alarm system, it’s worse than that. Goddamn, I was so blitzed, I completely spaced. You’re gonna hate this.”
“What the hell’re you talking about, dude? Just fuckin’ say it.”
T.J. took a breath. “It’s a trackin’ device, you know, like a chip, with satellites and all that shit. So when a car gets stolen, the cops can just log on to a computer or something, and they know exactly where the goddamn car is. Soon as I call it in, they’ll find my car in about two seconds.”
Oh-my-fucking-Jesus-Mary-Mother-of-God! Vinnie was suddenly very hot. His heart began to pound, and his palms became damp. The earth began to shimmy and he grabbed the pay phone for support.
“You there, man?” T.J. was talking, but to Vinnie, the voice sounded distant, fuzzy, like a poor signal on an A.M. radio station.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Be cool… gotta think for a second.” Bowel-loosening fear was squirming into Vinnie’s guts, and he tried desperately to ignore it, to stay cool and think clearly. There had to be a way out of this fucking mess. There always was. “Did you call the cops yet?”
“No, man, you already asked me that.”
“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Good. Whatever you do, don’t call them yet!”
“Goddamn, Vinnie, I ain’t stupid.”
Vinnie felt a throbbing in his temples. He took a large breath, all that his lungs could hold. “It’s underwater, man. Gotta be fifty feet. You think it’s still working?”
“Yeah, dude. I checked the brochure that came with it. Fuckin’ thing’s watertight.”
“Okay, okay, no big deal. Where’s your old man?”
“Back in Austin. He left Monday.”
“Good. That means we’ve got some time. Nobody knows your car is gone but us.”
“Man, I been thinking. Even if they found the car in the lake, how would they know we did it? It coulda still been stolen and dumped there, you know? Cops’d think maybe some punks nabbed it, took it for a joyride, and just sunk it for kicks.”
Vinnie thought it over. T.J. was pretty smart, and he was probably right. But Vinnie had to convince him otherwise because of Slaton’s corpse. “Yeah, but all it would take is one goddamn witness to say he saw you in your boat last night, or saw me drivin’ the Porsche into the park. Then we’d be screwed, man, totally screwed. And what about fingerprints? If some kids stole it and dumped it, the cops would expect to find prints. No, we gotta make sure they don’t find it. It’s the only way to cover our asses for sure.”
“Yeah, I guess….”
“Listen to me, T.J. Don’t even think about callin’ it in. You don’t want to go to fuckin’ jail, do you?”
“Hell no!”
“Then just give me a little time, goddammit. I’ll think of something.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Thursday morning, Marlin was on patrol when he heard Wylie Smith calling for him over the radio. The deputy wanted to meet “to talk a few things over.” Fifteen minutes later, Marlin was waiting in the empty parking lot of a dance hall called the River Palace when Wylie wheeled up beside him, his driver’s door next to Marlin’s.
The first thing Marlin noticed was that Wylie had a black eye.
Marlin gave him a nod and Wylie, without a greeting, said, “D’you hear about the mess from last night?”
“No, what’s up?”
“Got a call from a man named Red O’Brien, said he worked for this old guy Emmett Slaton. Cutting down cedar. Anyway, so him and this other guy, Billy Don Craddock, stop by Slaton’s house last night and find blood all over the front porch.” Wylie gave Marlin a serious look, like, Welcome to the big city, boy. “Slaton’s truck’s gone, nobody’s home. The front door was unlocked, so O’Brien walks right into the house-all over my goddamn crime scene-and dials nine-one-one. What a dick.”
“And?” Marlin wondered why the deputy was telling him all this. It wasn’t like they were buddies.
Wylie shook his head. “More blood inside. All over the bed, inside the goddamn bathroom sink, on the carpet, a trail leading right out the front door. And by the time we get there, these two backward assholes have been tromping all over the place. They had plenty of their own wild theories about what had happened, too, like they were gonna solve the whole damn thing for me. I could barely shut this guy Red up. I swear, if being a redneck was against the law, those guys would get a life sentence.”
Marlin knew Wylie was expecting a smile on that line, but he didn’t give him one. The deputy was awfully talkative all of a sudden-with sort of a We’re in this thing together attitude.
“Anyway, Slaton’s nowhere in sight,” Wylie continued, “so I seal the house off and get to work. But other than the blood, I can’t find shit. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. I was up all night and didn’t get anywhere. The old man just vanished. The only thing: Curtis was on patrol last night and spotted Slaton’s truck in the Save-Mart parking lot, locked up tight. More blood in there, too, but nothing else to go on.”
Marlin had gotten to know Emmett Slaton over the years and had chalked him up as one of the good guys. Ornery old coot, but likable. And, of course, Marlin knew Red O’Brien and Billy Don Craddock well. Two of the worst poachers Marlin had ever come across: Worst-meaning not only did the two rednecks poach whenever they got a chance, but they were also exceedingly bad at it. No wits about them whatsoever. “Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,” Marlin said. It was obvious Wylie had a request to make, and Marlin wasn’t going to be the one to extend the olive branch.
“Yeah, which brings me around to this other thing-Bert Gammel from Tuesday.” Wylie bit his lip and stared out his windshield for a moment. “I talked to all the other hunters on the lease, and they all come across legit, except Jack Corey. Went out to his place first thing yesterday morning. Right off the bat he was giving me lip, telling me all kinds of stories but not really saying anything at all, you know? Guy’s got an anger-management problem, too.”