As the reporter droned on, Marlin wondered how long it would be before Garza decided to take action. Would he wait Corey out, or make a move of his own? Marlin had no idea what the experts advised in hostage situations. But he did know that it would be a fairly simple matter to knock down the wooden door and take Jack Corey out for good. Theoretically, Wylie would have sense enough to know something like that might be coming, and he’d stay hunkered on the floor, out of the line of fire.
If only Corey would give it up-just let Wylie walk out of there before things got even more out of hand-Marlin might feel a little better about it all. As it stood, Corey was under the impression that Marlin was planning to launch his own investigation into the murder of Bert Gammel. I flat-out lied to the guy, Marlin thought. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Bobby Garza had agreed that Marlin had handled it just right. When Marlin had told Garza what Corey wanted, Garza had simply shaken his head and said, I’d say we’ve got our man already, right in there. The thing was, Marlin was inclined to agree. He wanted to believe in Corey’s innocence, but there were just too many things stacked against him. The tire tracks. The muddy boots. The motive. If the DNA came back against him, it was Corey’s one-way ticket to Huntsville.
Marlin shook his head and tried to drive it all from his mind. Why the hell should I feel bad about all this? After all, the lie had gotten the results everyone wanted: They now knew that Wylie was stable, not in need of immediate medical attention. The deputy would probably need surgery on his hand, but there wasn’t any hope of reattaching the thumb because there wasn’t any thumb left to reattach.
Marlin fetched a beer from the fridge and settled back into the chair. Then the reporter-standing in a harsh circle of light, the sheriff’s office in the distant background-reminded Marlin of the other big screwup that was bothering him tonight. Glowering into the camera, the reporter said,
“As we mentioned earlier in our broadcast, the events at the sheriff’s station aren’t the only problems facing the local law-enforcement community tonight. We also have reports of a fugitive on the loose here in Blanco County. Earlier this evening, the area game warden arrested a man for assault and was transporting him to the jail for booking. According to Sheriff Bobby Garza, in the turmoil resulting from the hostage situation, the current fugitive-Thomas Collin Peabody-managed to free himself from the game warden’s vehicle and escape on foot. He is, however, handcuffed, and authorities do not consider him a danger to the community.”
Just great, Marlin thought, feeling like an idiot. While he had been inside the sheriff’s office with Corey, Marlin had completely forgotten about Peabody. He should have asked Garza to put a deputy on Peabody, but it had slipped his mind.
He hadn’t figured the guy as a flight risk-and on top of that, his hands were cuffed behind him. But the little scumbag had slipped away, probably just to spite Marlin. Normally, Marlin would have expected some good-natured ribbing from the deputies, but nobody had said a word. Probably because Marlin had just successfully negotiated with an armed gunman, a probable murderer.
Oh, well, Marlin thought. Too late to do anything about Peabody now. At least the damn reporter didn’t mention me by name.
“We have been unable to reach Game Warden John Marlin for comment.
Marlin groaned and changed the channel. A rerun of Andy Griffith, with Barney doing something idiotic, as usual. Marlin could relate.
The ringing of the phone pulled him out of Mayberry. Answer it or no? Probably a reporter. He let the machine get it.
“This is Marlin. Leave a message.”
After a pause: “John, you there? It’s Becky.”
His heart leapt at the familiar voice and he rose to pick up the handset. “Hey, I’m here.”
“God, John, what in the world is going on down there?” she asked, concern in her voice. She said that Vicky-a nurse she had worked with at Blanco County Hospital-had been watching the news, including the earlier report of Peabody’s escape. Vicky had heard Marlin’s name and called Becky to let her know.
Marlin shook his head in disgust. “I can nail a dozen poachers in one night, but does that ever make the news?”
“You’re okay, though?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He told her a little about the murder of Bert Gammel and the hostage situation. From what Marlin had seen, the news report didn’t mention that he had been inside with Corey. He decided not to worry Becky with it. The conversation swung back around to Thomas Peabody. “Little bastard’s runnin’ around with cuffs on,” Marlin said, “so how far can he get?”
Becky giggled. “I remember those cuffs.”
Marlin smiled, but felt sad at the same time.
Becky noticed the silence and said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Hey, no big deal. How are things going up there? How’s Margaret?”
“About the same. She hates the chemo, and I think she’s wondering whether it’s worth it at this point.”
“What do you think?”
“If she wants to stop treatment, that’s what we’ll do.”
“I’m sure y’all will make the right decision.”
“Thanks, John. Listen, I better go. I’m calling from work right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“A bruised ego, as they say, but fine otherwise. Give your mom a hug for me.”
“I’ll do it. Talk to you later.”
The first thing Vinnie did when he got home was strip off all his clothes, including his shoes, and put them in a garbage bag. He’d get rid of it all tomorrow, maybe dump it in a trash barrel out on the highway. Couldn’t be too careful about shit like that. Sure, if it came down to it, he could argue that he had been in T.J.’s boat dozens of times, and that was why the fibers were there. But why let them find a specific shirt or pair of jeans that matches a specific fiber? Say maybe one of his fibers was wrapped up with one of the fibers from the clothes T.J. was wearing today. Then maybe they could link him to being in the boat when T.J. died.
And he had died, just like Vinnie thought he would.
Poor guy came sputtering to the surface, frothy blood spilling out of his mouth, trying to speak. Vinnie had had to stifle a fucking giggle, he was so pleased with himself, how his plan had worked out. A few minutes later, T.J.’s eyes rolled back and he floated facedown.
Now the Gibbs family boat was floating unmanned, T.J. bobbing in the water nearby, waiting to be discovered. Could be days, though. The reservoir wasn’t busy this time of year.
Vinnie had swum to shore in the chilly water, hopped in his car, then crushed the LoJack and scattered it along the roadside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It’s your own fault, ya know. You’re always pissing people off with your smart mouth. Why ya have to piss people off like that?”
Angela had been going on like that for about ten minutes. Or maybe it just seemed that way-who the hell knew? Sal was so stoned on painkillers, he really didn’t give a fuck about Angela, the doctors, the hospital, or his damn broken leg. The only thing he really felt-the one emotion that was eating away at the tattered edge of his slippery consciousness-was rage. That fucking tree-hugger. Smart-ass little bastard thought he was gonna shut Sal Mameli down? That’d be the day. Son of a bitch was lucky Sal hadn’t gotten a good hold of him. Goddamn cop-what was he, a game warden or some shit? — had stuck his nose in the middle of it.