“Animal of some sort, but the tests don’t tell us which. They just show that the blood’s not human.”
“What do you make of that?”
Garza made a passive, palms-up gesture. “Got me. But I’m taking it as a good sign, for now. We never found his dog, so maybe it ran off injured and Slaton’s been looking for it. ’Course, that doesn’t explain Slaton’s truck at the Save-Mart. Anyway, we’ll see what the boys can come up with. All the deputies who aren’t here are either working on Slaton or looking for your boy Peabody.”
Marlin waited for a gibe that didn’t come.
“I’m pushing everybody to the limit as it is,” Garza said. “Everyone’s on the clock, and most of them have been on duty since yesterday morning. If something doesn’t shake loose pretty soon on that Slaton mess-and this one here-I’m gonna have to call in the Rangers.”
The Texas Rangers, a division of the Texas Department of Public Safety, were available to smaller law-enforcement entities on an as-needed basis. But Marlin knew Garza prided himself on running an independent department.
Marlin mentioned what he’d just learned from Joe Biggs about Bert Gammel. When he was done, Garza tilted his head to one side and blew out a breath. “That’s the first I’ve heard of that. A lot of cash, huh?”
“Enough to buy a Ford Explorer a couple years old, according to Joe.”
Garza gave Marlin a sidelong glance. “You up for playing detective a little longer?”
Marlin didn’t really know how he felt about it, but he knew the Sheriff’s Department already had its hands full. He’d have to make a few calls to game wardens in neighboring counties, asking them to help pick up the slack on poaching calls in Blanco County. “What the hell,” he finally said.
“That’s my boy,” Garza smiled.
They talked it over and agreed that Garza would secure subpoenas first thing in the morning so Marlin could check into Gammel’s financial affairs at the local banks. Apparently, a couple of deputies had already searched Gammel’s home-including the only financial records they could find: his checkbook-and nothing had raised a red flag. Marlin would have to look a little deeper.
“After the banks, you might want to talk to his friends and coworkers,” Garza said, with a pained look on his face. “Wylie obviously didn’t cover those bases very good.”
Marlin nodded.
Garza grinned and said, “Man, it would look so good.” He waved a hand across Marlin’s left biceps, as if reading an imaginary patch on his arm. “Blanco County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Here we go again,” Marlin said as he climbed out of the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Handcuffs were nothing new to Thomas Peabody. He had been shackled several times before, and had even managed to extricate himself from the infernal devices on a couple of occasions. Those were pleasant memories. It was always amusing to see the puzzled expressions on the officers’ faces (oppressive pigs!) when Peabody managed to slip his delicate hands free.
But this time, the cuffs were just too restrictive. Yes, he had been successful at “walking through” the cuffs backwards (the benefits of yoga were wonderful, indeed), so now his hands were cuffed in front of him. But there was simply no hope of slipping his hands through the metal manacles. The game warden had been too perturbed when he had clamped them on Peabody’s wrists, and Peabody could feel them biting into his skin ever since. Therefore, Peabody would have to be a bit more resourceful. In time, he’d find a way out of this puzzle, and then he could proceed with the more urgent task of shutting down Sal Mameli, just as he had threatened to do. In truth, Peabody regretted making such a bold statement in front of Inga. But he had, and now he must live up to it.
He surveyed his surroundings and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was in a stable, complete with a gassy old horse. The hayloft where he had slept last night was fairly comfortable, but the foul-and quite audible-emissions from the horse’s hind end had wreaked havoc with his sinuses. All things considered, however, he had been fortunate to stumble across a structure this accommodating. After all, he was a fugitive now. A wanted man. An escapee. He thought it sounded quite romantic, actually, and wondered if Inga, wherever she was at the moment, was impressed with his new status. Perhaps he would become a man of some renown, like Robin Hood or one of the Three Musketeers. A hero for the common man; a strident force for good in the battle against evil.
He let loose a violent sneeze, which brought him back to reality. He’d have to contemplate his place in folklore later, after he found a way out of his current predicament. He was filthy and hungry, a forlorn soul straight out of a Dickens novel.
Peabody carefully descended the ladder from the hayloft. The horse stared from its stall with unconcerned eyes and broke wind. Peabody scowled at the horse, got no noticeable response, and was thankful the neighboring stall was empty: Twice the gas would certainly make the stable uninhabitable.
The only other structure in the stable was a small closet in one corner. Peeking in, Peabody saw a saddle hanging on the wall and a pair of rough-woven blankets on a shelf. There were also a couple of brushes and several oddly shaped metal implements-items that had something to do with riding this malodorous beast, Peabody assumed. No hand tools to be seen.
Even if he found some sort of useful tool, how was he to operate it? This quandary would require quite a bit of thought, he knew. But never fear: The brain is the most powerful tool of all, and he owned a dexterous one.
Weighing his options, Peabody turned to the peculiar contraption squatting just inside the stable doors. It looked like a golf cart on steroids, with four large knobby tires and HONDA painted on what seemed to be the gas tank. Not quite a motorcycle, but related to one. Peabody had no experience with such vehicles. Unfortunately, it appeared that he would have to look elsewhere for salvation.
Peabody strode to the wooden double doors of the stable and peered outside. Just a few minutes past sunrise, he surmised. Forty yards away stood a shambling old house with a rusty truck parked in front.
Then he heard a noise, the low growl of a motor. A few seconds later, another truck, a newer model, bounced its way up the driveway and stopped next to the first. A lanky gentleman in overalls and no undershirt climbed out and proceeded into the house.
Peabody was nervous now. He eased the door closed and focused on the decision at hand: Should he try to slip away undetected, or wait until the occupants of the house left the vicinity? Peabody was pondering the possibilities when the choice was made for him.
He heard two voices coming his way-a man and a woman, giggling. Peabody quickly scrambled back up the ladder into the hayloft, finding refuge just as the door to the stable swung open.
“-and we could get caught,” the woman said. “Frank is sleeping right on the couch.”
“I got news for ya, sugar. He ain’t sleepin’, he’s passed out.”
“Well, we gotta be quiet, you hear?”
More giggling followed, finally replaced by a lustful moaning. Peabody chanced a cautious peek over a bale of hay and saw two figures-the man in overalls and a brunette in a long nightshirt-kissing passionately. Peabody watched as the man clumsily fondled the woman’s breasts through her nightshirt.
The woman pulled free, gave a coy smile, then tugged the shirt over her head. Well. She was quite naked now, and Peabody couldn’t help admiring the woman’s sturdy physique. She had the solid build of a Midwestern girl. Large hips, ample bosom.
Ogling the woman with all the subtlety of a dog eyeing a pork chop, the man let his overalls fall to his feet. “Come to Daddy,” he said.
Peabody almost chuckled out loud. Surely the woman would be offended by such a crass come-on. The woman responded by jumping into the man’s arms, her legs wrapped around his torso.