Colby spoke up. “See that one small tree back there, directly behind the ladder? — I think it’s a mountain laurel. About a hundred yards past the blind?”
“Yep.”
“That looks like the right path to me.”
Marlin agreed, and they hiked to the mountain laurel. From there, they proceeded farther back into the brush, attempting to follow the path the bullet might have taken. It quickly became obvious that what Wylie had said was true: The area was just too heavily treed to expect success, no matter how accurately you calculated the trajectory. And, of course, the bullet had passed through Bert Gammel’s body, and there was no telling how that might have affected its flight.
Still, the men combed the woods for thirty minutes, but to no avail. No telltale sign of splintered wood or any gouge in the underlying soil.
“Strike two,” Colby muttered.
Marlin gave him a glare. “You’re doing wonderful things for my confidence.”
Colby shrugged. “Sorry, but it’d be a damn miracle if we found that round out here. Anyone tried a metal detector?”
Marlin blew out a heavy sigh. “Won’t find lead. The brass casing, sure, but not the round itself.”
“Okay, then. What’s next?”
Marlin nodded toward Gammel’s deer blind, and they walked to the towering structure. Like most blinds, it was simply a wooden box on metal legs, with a welded ladder that led to a small door on one side.
“Cover me, hoss, I’m going in,” Marlin deadpanned, and made his way up the twelve-foot ladder. He popped the eye-hook on the door and swung it open. He had expected to see at least a few of the items typically found in a deer blind: a chair, for starters, along with some empty soft-drink cans, a jug of water, perhaps some food wrappers, or maybe a couple of hunting magazines. But it was completely empty. Of course it is, Marlin thought, realizing his oversight. Everything that had been in there would have been taken to the crime lab, too. It appeared the deputies had even stripped the carpet from the floor of the blind, leaving a rough coat of dried adhesive on the plywood subfloor. Marlin didn’t even bother climbing into the blind, because there was simply nothing to inspect.
“See anything?” Colby called from below.
“Yeah, I got a severed head up here. Go get me a plastic bag, will ya?”
Colby chuckled. “I take that to mean ‘strike three.’”
“Would you shut up with the-”
“Okay, okay. We’ll call it a foul ball.”
Marlin descended, and they retreated to his truck, where they pulled soft drinks from a small ice chest Marlin had filled earlier in the morning. They lowered the tailgate and took a seat.
“This po-leece work sure gives a man a powerful thirst,” Colby said, and guzzled from a Dr Pepper.
“Don’t it?” Marlin replied. He sipped from his own drink and surveyed the woods around him. “You got any bright ideas?”
Colby cocked his head to one side, thinking. “You could always beat a confession out of him. That’s how some of those big-city cops do it on TV.”
“What if he didn’t do it?”
“Well, I guess you’d figure that out by the time you were finished, huh?”
Marlin rolled his eyes.
“Hey, man, I’m just kiddin’,” Colby said. “This thing sure has you uptight.”
“Something just isn’t right with all this,” Marlin said. “But I can’t figure out what the hell it is.” He finished his drink in silence, then stood and tossed the can into the interior of his truck. “Well, so much for this, then. You ready to head back?” he asked. Marlin had given it his best shot, tried to spot something that had eluded the deputies, but had come up with nothing. Probably because there was nothing to find. Jack Corey had shot Bert Gammel and was desperately trying to convince someone-anyone, really-that he hadn’t done it. It was typical behavior for a lawbreaker. No matter what the evidence suggested, guilty men would profess their innocence until the end. It was as if they believed their sacred word should override the forensic science that pointed an accusing finger their way.
Strangely, Marlin felt a sense of closure. He could report to Garza now, tell him that all avenues had been investigated, and then put all this bullshit behind him.
“Ready when you are,” Colby said, draining the last of his drink.
Both men were in the truck, Marlin about to turn the key, when they heard a familiar sound. It was the clattering of a deer feeder as it slung dried corn for three or four seconds, then went silent.
Marlin looked at Colby, who simply grinned. “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Marlin asked.
“That a cold beer sounds good?”
Marlin swatted Colby across the arm. “No, you dumb-ass. That nobody checked inside Gammel’s deer feeder.”
“Damn, I bet you’re right.”
Marlin maneuvered his truck through the brush and found the feeder in a small clearing fifty yards from Gammel’s deer blind. The ground beneath it had been worn grassless from the hooves, paws, and claws of all types of wildlife looking for an easy meal.
It was a fairly typical feeder: a battery-operated motor and spinning plate attached to the bottom of a 55-gallon barrel that rested on three metal legs. Eight feet tall, from top to bottom. A drum like that could hold six bags of deer corn weighing a total of three hundred pounds.
Marlin backed his truck up to the barrel, donned a pair of latex gloves, then stood on the rail of his truck bed. Judging by the dust on the feeder lid, Marlin guessed that it hadn’t been disturbed in quite some time. He removed the O-shaped locking ring that clamped the lid to the barrel, then removed the lid itself. He peered down into the feeder.
Deer corn has to be kept dry. If a little moisture builds up inside the feeder, a crusty cake of corn plugs the funnel at the bottom of the barrel. The spinning plate will rotate, but no corn will be thrown. That’s why feeders are designed to be watertight. The corn-and anything else in there-is fairly safe from the weather.
And there was more in this feeder than just corn. Looking down into the barrel, Marlin could see a small bit of clear plastic jutting out of the feed.
“I’ve got something here “
He reached down, grabbed the edge of the plastic, and gently pulled. Up came a large Ziploc bag. Inside the plastic bag was a lumpy manila envelope, a small one, maybe six inches by nine. On it, in ink, were the initials B.G.
Marlin hopped down onto the bed of his truck, went to one knee, and placed the plastic bag on the floor. As Colby watched over his shoulder, Marlin eased the Ziploc open, slid the envelope out, and lifted the unsealed flap. The envelope was filled with cash.
Marlin felt invigorated by his discovery-for about ten seconds. Then he realized it didn’t really change anything. They had an envelope with nearly three thousand dollars in it, but it didn’t tell Marlin where Bert Gammel had gotten the money or why he had been so secretive about it. And it didn’t bring Marlin any closer to proving-or disproving-Jack Corey’s guilt.
Back in the truck now, driving off the ranch, Colby said, “What ya think Garza’s gonna say?”
“I imagine he’ll be glad we found the cash… but we already knew it had to be tucked away somewhere. For all we know, Corey mighta known that Gammel kept his stash somewhere on the deer lease, but he just couldn’t find it after he killed him.”
“It was still pretty smart of you, if you want my opinion. You figured out something that nobody else had. Not Wylie Smith, that’s for sure.”
Marlin gazed out the window at the passing scenery, gently sloping hills thick with cedars, elms, and half a dozen different types of oak trees. “On the other hand,” Marlin added, buoyed by Colby’s remarks, “I can at least send this stuff to the lab in Austin and see if they can tell us anything. You never know-” Marlin stopped speaking in midsentence. Something on his police radio had caught his ear.
He turned up the volume and was startled to hear the voice of Jack Corey. Marlin remembered that Corey had the run of the sheriff’s office now, and was apparently broadcasting from the dispatcher’s radio. Marlin pulled to the side of the road as Corey’s plaintive drawl came over the airways: