Inga shrugged. “She’s a nice lady.”
“Yeah, yeah, she is.”
“I’m going to go into to town for a while, let you two talk.”
“I appreciate it. You can come back for-”
Inga held up a hand. “Why don’t I call first? Okay?”
Marlin nodded, and Inga walked to her Volvo, climbed in, and drove away.
Marlin turned toward the house, and Becky was already standing on the front porch holding a box, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Hey, there,” he said softly.
Becky didn’t reply. She set the box down on the porch and took a seat in one of the two rocking chairs, looking straight ahead.
Marlin eased into the chair beside her.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said.
“I’m sorry….”
She shook her head, cutting him off, and Marlin saw a single tear run down her cheek. She stared down at her hands. “I am surprised at how quickly this happened, I will say that much.”
“That’s not fair,” Marlin replied, feeling a need to defend himself. “You haven’t really been here in four months…and I’m not talking physically, I’m talking about up here.” Marlin tapped his temple.
She leaned back in the rocking chair and finally looked him in the eye. “I know that. And I’m not sure how I could have changed it. With my mother… and the new job….”
Marlin wished there was something he could say to make the awful ache in his chest go away, but he knew words alone couldn’t do it. It would take time-for both of them. Finally, Becky laughed and said, “If I had known you had company, I would have put on some makeup.”
Marlin tried to grin, but it didn’t quite work out. “How’s your mom?”
“Actually, she’s doing okay-for the moment. The doctor says it could still be several weeks. I had to get out of there for a while.”
They sat for a time, letting the sun warm their faces, listening to the doves in nearby trees.
“Becky,” Marlin said, “I’ve told you before: You mean more to me than any woman I’ve ever met. I love you, and I only want you to be happy.”
Her face was a mottled red now, the tears flowing freely. “I know that.” She let one hand drift over and cover his-but it felt like anything but a lover’s gesture. “I love you, too.”
They rose, and Marlin helped Becky pack the rest of her things.
Thomas Peabody could see the BrushBusters from his vantage point-and it appeared that Emmett Slaton had owned a much larger fleet than Sal Mameli. Peabody counted eleven of the infernal machines. Surely the old man must have realized the irreparable damage he was inflicting on the ecosystem. Perhaps Slaton had disappeared because Mother Nature had smote him down, exacting punishment against those who would abuse her. Alas, someone else would come along and fill Slaton’s shoes. Those machines wouldn’t sit idle for long. Unless Peabody put them out of commission for good. It would be the piece de resistance of his entire campaign. A replay of last night, with an extra little encore at the end.
The two rednecks in the trailer posed a small problem, but Peabody couldn’t see how they could possibly disrupt his plan. It would all happen too quickly, and be too stunning, for them to react in time. He might need a few moments to hot-wire one of the BrushBusters, but he was certain he could accomplish it if he had to. He had learned all types of interesting skills from fellow activists. He had also learned that the men who ran these machines were often foolhardy enough to leave the keys in the ignition.
Afterward, Peabody’s work would be done here. The rednecked sapsucker would be saved. He would gather Inga, load up into the trusty Volvo, and ride off into the activist hall of fame.
It was seven o’clock before Bobby Garza finally got back to his office and logged on to one of the terminals connected to the Department of Public Safety’s computer network. After wrapping up the crime scene at Pedernales Reservoir-sending the body of Emmett Slaton to the M.E.’s office, and the Porsche, the guns, and the dead dog to the lab in Austin-he had left Bill Tatum in charge of the investigation. Then he went home and slept for four hours. The Jack Corey standoff had thoroughly wiped him out, and he was emotionally and physically exhausted. After his short break, though, he felt renewed enough to dive back into the Slaton case.
He had checked in with Bill Tatum, who told him that the body found under the dock was indeed T.J. Gibbs. Tatum was on his way back from Austin after informing the Gibbs family of T.J.’s death. He had spent an hour interviewing the family, but could not discover any link between T.J. and Slaton. He also reported that none of the deputies had run a check yet on either of the handguns found in the Porsche.
Garza was disappointed, but he didn’t quibble. His deputies had been stretched to the max in the last week, and they didn’t need to hear his complaints. Especially when he had just awakened from a midday slumber himself.
So now, sitting at his desk in his office, he accessed the DPS network. He entered the first serial number, the one from the.45 automatic. After a few seconds, the owner was identified as Emmett Howard Slaton. Interesting, but a little disheartening. Garza was afraid the second gun would come back as Slaton’s, too.
He typed in the second serial number and waited. This request took a little longer to process, but the results finally appeared on his screen. Garza frowned.
It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Who the hell is Roberto Ragusa?
Before he could figure it out, the phone on his desk rang. Someone was calling his direct line. Garza answered it. “Good evening, Sheriff, my name is Eugene Kramer. I’m an attorney in Austin.”
“How can I help you?”
“I believe you may know a client of mine. Sal Mameli.”
“Yeah, I know Sal,” Garza said, trying to put as much disapproval into his voice as possible. He expected the lawyer to protest his questioning of Sal about the bribery case. But Garza was in for a surprise.
The attorney said, “Mr. Mameli and I would like to arrange a meeting with you-as soon as possible. Vincent believes he might have some information regarding the murder of Emmett Slaton.”
Marlin was enjoying another wonderful meal prepared by Inga, but he was afraid he wasn’t very good company. He was preoccupied, replaying his conversation with Becky that afternoon.
“Great food,” Marlin said.
Inga smiled. Marlin knew she could sense his mood. He was about to apologize when the phone rang. It was Bobby Garza.
“Can you meet me at my office at eight-thirty?”
“I guess so,” Marlin said. “What’s going on?”
“Something interesting has come up, and I want you to sit in.”
Billy Don was happy to take a break and ride into town for supplies like Red asked. Shit, as far as Billy Don was concerned, this thing with Smedley was going nowhere. That’s because Red had it all wrong. Ain’t no way that guy worked for Sal Mameli. He was too damn nice for that. A couple of times, Billy Don had gone in and talked to him for a few minutes when Red was sleeping. Just another regular guy, friendly as can be. Billy Don hated the way Red was abusing him. In fact, Billy Don had snuck in and turned down the volume before he left, so poor old Smedley wouldn’t go completely cuckoo from listening to that Hee Haw song. As long as Red didn’t check the headphones, he’d never know.
Billy Don pulled into a convenience store and went inside. Just don’t go to that one owned by Ay-rabs, Red had said. Hell, Billy Don didn’t need Red to tell him that.
Inside, Billy Don began loading up a basket with potato chips, pretzels, Slim Jims, and little chocolate donuts. He even threw a package of Twinkies in for Smedley. Billy Don thought Smedley looked like the kind of guy who could appreciate a Twinkie now and again.