Holy Moly Read online

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  ALSO BY BEN REHDER

  Gun Shy

  Guilt Trip

  Flat Crazy

  Bone Dry

  Buck Fever

  BEN REHDER

  ST. MARTIN'S MINOTAUR/NEW YORK

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I ASK A LOT of dumb questions, but helpful people continue to answer them for me.

  Special thanks to Lieutenant Tommy Blackwell (retired from the Travis County Sheriff's Office); Lampasas County Game Warden Jim Lindeman; Dr. Edward Theriot, director of the Texas Natural Science Center; and John Grace, assistant criminal district attorney, Civil Division, Lubbock County.

  Much appreciation also to Martin Grantham, Trey Carpenter, Cisco Hobbs, Carol Blackwell, Jim Haught, Kerry Hilton, Lloyd Bridges, Rob Cordes, and Mike Smith.

  I'm repeating myself, but thanks again to my early readers: Mary Summerall, Helen and Ed Fanick, and Stacia Hernstrom, and to my copy editor, India Cooper.

  Jane Chelius, Marc Resnick, Lauren Manzella, Sarah Lum-nah, Talia Ross, and the rest of the team: I appreciate everything you've done for the Blanco County series. I'd go poaching with you anytime.

  All errors or distortions of reality are my own.

  1

  FOUR DAYS BEFORE he died, a thirty-year-old backhoe operator named Hollis Farley drove thirty miles to the Wal-Mart Supercenter in Marble Falls, Texas, and purchased a four-thousand-dollar sixty-inch plasma television. It had a high-definition screen, of course, along with a built-in digital tuner, picture-in-picture, and, as the salesman put it, "a whole shitload of pixels." Whatever those were.

  All Hollis Farley knew, standing in the store, was that Jessica Simpson was spilling out of her Daisy Duke shorts in a manner that made him proud she was a fellow Texan. He couldn't sign the receipt fast enough.

  Back at home, Farley drank a six-pack to celebrate. Then he yanked his malfunctioning nineteen-incher loose from its moorings and heaved it directly out the back door, where it landed with a crash next to a rusting Hotpoint stove and a vermin-infested mattress with stains of dubious origin.

  Next, he set about hanging and connecting the new unit, an undertaking that, in Farley's semi-inebriated state, consumed the better part of the afternoon. The tricky part was climbing onto the sagging roof of his mobile home to replace the cables to his satellite dish; raccoons had gnawed through the old ones. Once he had everything hooked up, Farley grabbed the remote control and prepared to enjoy more than three hundred channels of jumbo-sized American entertainment.

  He thumbed the ON button with a child's sense of wonderment and anticipation. Everything worked perfectly, and even Farley, a tenth-grade dropout, recognized the irony when the first thing he saw was the smiling, progressively scanned visage of Peter Boothe.

  Or, as he was better known, Pastor Pete.

  Betty Jean Farley loved her little brother to pieces, even though he had half the sense of a cigar-store Indian, bless his heart. A good-looking boy, that's what all her friends said, but any dumber and you'd have to water him. That's why Betty Jean felt obliged to come over once or twice a month to check up on her only sibling and maybe do a little light cleaning, which wasn't a bad deal, since he usually mowed her lawn in return. Good thing she stopped in, too, because on this particular Sunday evening, she found that Hollis had completely lost his mind. There in one corner, under his prized ten-point mule deer, was a television the size of a picnic table.

  "Sweet Jesus, Hollis, when did you get that thing?" she asked.

  "This morning. Just finished hooking it up," he replied, distracted, his eyes glued to the set. He was lazing on the sofa, shirtless, wearing denim shorts and a CAT DIESEL cap, his unshaven face reflecting the blue light from the television. A sixteen-ounce Budweiser was tucked between his knees.

  "You gone 'round the bend or what?" Betty Jean asked.

  No reply. Hollis was watching a religious program, which should've set off warning bells. Betty Jean had only seen her brother pray once in his life, years back, during the Super Bowl, when Emmitt Smith was slow getting up from a tackle.

  "Well, you're gonna have to take it back, that's all there is to it. I hope you saved the receipt."

  No answer. He often ignored Betty Jean when she griped at him, but this was different. Like he was in another world.

  She let out a sigh of impatience. "You hear me, Hollis? You can't afford it."

  Still no reaction.

  Betty Jean continued, saying, "Tell me you didn't put it on your credit card. You realize you're paying eighteen percent? Per annum." The words made her shudder with disgust. Eighteen percent was for suckers. People like Hollis, bless his heart.

  But Hollis didn't appear concerned in the least. All he said was, "You know who that is?"

  Betty Jean glanced at the TV, where a preacher in an expensive suit was addressing a massive audience, all of them dressed in their Sunday best. The preacher's face was aglow with passion.

  It's true, friends! Only God can deliver the life of abundance you deserve! Remember: "Wealth and riches shall be in his house, and his righteousness endureth forever." That means you are worthy of God's most gracious blessing! All you have to do is open your eyes and watch for it!

  Betty Jean shook her head in exasperation. Honestly, why did she even bother? Hollis was old enough to know better. On the other hand . . . she had to admit, the new TV had a heck of a picture.

  Speaking of watching don't forget that my latest DVD, Breaking Bread with Jesus, is now available for the low introductory price of only $19.95!

  Betty Jean reluctantly perched on the edge of the sofa, which groaned under her significant weight. She knew she shouldn't let up on her lecture; after all, Hollis needed new tires, new work clothes, and a whole bunch of stuff more important than a television set. But wow, she felt like she was in the middle row of a movie theater. It was that good. She could only imagine watching Grey's Anatomy on that screen. The dramatic tension would be unbelievable. It'd be like having Dr. McDreamy right in her living room. Now that she thought about it, she remembered that most stores had a thirty-day return policy She figured it wouldn't hurt to let Hollis keep his new toy for twenty-nine days. But the religious program stumped her. Why wasn't he

  watching sports?

  "That there's Peter Boothe," Hollis said quietly, as if he'd

  sensed her puzzlement.

  Betty Jean recognized the name, all right. Pastor Pete. Everybody in Blanco County had been hearing it lately Peter Boothe was tall and slender with a boyish face. A nice-looking man. Midforties. Big white teeth and curly brown hair. He had a twangy country accent and a soothing voice. Except. . . Betty Jean didn't know what it was, but there was something vaguely creepy about the man. Sort of a cross between Mr. Rogers and a used-car salesman. She glanced at Hollis and saw an expression of utter satisfaction on his face. She had to wonder: Has Hollis found God? Wouldn't that be a hoot? Little Hollis, born again.

  But there are times when you must also be a giver in life! Because you have the power to help spread the sacred word of Jesus Christ!

  The camera cut to an elderly woman in the audience, who was nodding vigorously.

  You can give your time! You can give your talents!

  Betty Jean suddenly had an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She knew what was coming next.

  Or you can make a financial contribution that will help me reach out with God's message of eternal hope.

  An address popped up on the screen, and Betty Jean said, "Hollis, you ain't planning to send
this guy any money, are you?" He seemed almost hypnotized. "Hollis?"

  Finally, he looked at her, and, to her relief, she saw the same old Hollis. Mischief in his eyes. This was the kid who'd turned a cow loose in the principal's office during his sophomore year. He grinned and said, "Hell, no. It's the other way around."

  "What the heck's that mean?" she asked. Hollis had a strange sense of humor sometimes.

  He made a face like he knew something she didn't, but he never answered. Which was a tragedy, because if he'd told her what was happening, or if Betty Jean had pressed a little harder, maybe things wouldn't have worked out the way they did. It wasn't but four days later that her baby brother—poor, overextended Hollis Farley—was gone. Died on his backhoe, just the way he'd have wanted it. Betty Jean hoped they didn't administer some kind of IQ test at the Pearly Gates, or Hollis would be stuck forever on the outside, looking in.

  Bless his heart.

  2

  PHIL COLBY, CHEWING on apiece of sausage, said, "You realize, of course, there's gotta be a bachelor party."

  John Marlin, the game warden in Blanco County for more than twenty years, grinned. "You think?"

  "Hell, yeah," Colby said. "We're talking expensive dancing girls and cheap whiskey."

  Marlin played along. "What if I'd rather have cheap girls and expensive whiskey?"

  "Whatever you want, hoss. We'll do it up right. After all, how often is my best friend gonna get married?"

  "Just this once," Marlin said, cutting into a slab of brisket. "Unless you get me in serious trouble."

  They were having lunch, as they often did, at Ronnie's Ice

  House & Barbeque in Johnson City Outside, beyond the plate-glass windows, it was a beautiful late-May afternoon. The temperature was in the midseventies, and rainbows of wildflowers blanketed the rolling hills and highway medians of Central Texas: Indian paintbrushes and huisache daisies, winecups and black-eyed Susans. The bluebonnets were especially plentiful, thanks to the abundance of rain they'd received all spring.

  "The problem," Colby said thoughtfully, "will be finding strippers who aren't young enough to be our daughters."

  Marlin smiled again. "That could be a challenge."

  When it came down to it, he knew Colby was blowing smoke. The party would consist of a big group of lifelong friends who'd spend the night on Colby's ranch, cooking over a camp-fire, telling stories they'd all heard a thousand times. They'd attempt to drink beer until sunrise, getting lucky if they made it past midnight. But there'd be no girls, and that suited Marlin just fine. He was exactly seven weeks away from marrying the only woman he needed.

  "You realize we were sitting at this same table when you looked at diamond rings last summer?" Colby said. "Weird, huh?"

  Colby's girlfriend owned a thriving jewelry store in Austin, and she'd sent some specimens home with him to show to Marlin.

  "We always sit at this table," Marlin said.

  "Yeah, but back then, there wasn't a hot blonde checking you out from across the room."

  Marlin shook his head. Colby loved to be a wiseass. It was probably some elderly woman with astigmatism.

  "I'm not kidding. Over by the newspaper racks."

  Marlin didn't look right away. He took his time. But when he glanced to his left, sure enough, he locked eyes with an attractive young woman who was dining alone. She smiled, then looked down at her plate.

  Marlin went back to his own lunch. "Can't keep her eyes off you," Colby said. "Shut up."

  "I heard a theory once. Women know when a guy's getting married. Some kind of intuition. And boy they love a man who can commit."

  "You're full of crap, you know that?"

  Colby shrugged, obviously enjoying himself. "Better get used to it. Once you put a ring on, they'll be throwing themselves at you, like some kind of cheesy Cinemax movie."

  Marlin pushed his empty plate away and took a long drink of iced tea. He wouldn't look over at her again. It was silly "Remember, a week from tomorrow, we're getting fitted for tuxes."

  "I remember. We going with lavender?"

  Marlin ignored him. There was still a lot to do. The tuxes, the invitations, the limo. Nicole was working on the menu for the reception and ironing out details with the florist. She was keeping it together pretty well, though her nerves showed through on occasion. She was tired almost every night. Part of it was her new job. Plenty of stress all around. But in seven weeks—or seven weeks and one day—she could finally take a breath. They both could.

  "Baby blue is nice," Colby said.

  Without even thinking about it, Marlin looked again and caught the young blond girl staring at him. This time, Marlin had to look away first.

  "Damn," Colby said. "Wish I was getting married."

  She caught him in the parking lot, just as he reached his truck. "Mr. Marlin?"

  He turned, and she was four feet away. Phil Colby was right. She was gorgeous. Couldn't have been older than twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Dressed in white linen slacks and a pale blue blouse that matched the color of her eyes. Tall, too. Marlin was a shade over six-two, and her forehead was even with his jaw.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't want to disturb you during lunch," she said. "I'm Susan Kishner. Jason Wright's aunt."

  Suddenly it all made sense. She hadn't been leering at him at all. Marlin realized he was a little disappointed.

  "Oh, right, nice to meet you," he said, shaking her hand. "How's Jason doing?"

  She laughed. "Staying close to home, that's for sure."

  The previous weekend, two nine-year-olds had gotten lost in Pedernales Falls State Park. Marlin had organized a search party and found them in about thirty minutes, less than a mile from their campsite. They had never been in much danger, because the park just wasn't that large. Nonetheless, it had made the news in Austin. Must have been a slow day

  "I just wanted to say thank you," Susan Kishner said. "For saving his life."

  "Well, I appreciate that, but I wouldn't say I saved his—"

  "Oh, you're being modest. They could've been eaten by coyotes!" she said.

  She was putting him on. Maybe flirting? "Either that or polar bears," he said.

  "Oh, I know!" she said. "The polar bears are horrible this time of year! Especially if you forget your repellent."

  They both laughed, and Marlin said, "I was happy to help."

  She reached out and touched his arm. "You certainly had an effect on Jason. He says he wants to be a game warden when he grows up. Isn't that the coolest thing?"

  "Yeah, that's great. We can always use a good recruit."

  Through his open window, Marlin heard Darrell, the dispatcher, Blanco County to seventy-five-oh-eight...

  "Of course, he'll have to learn how to navigate in the woods," Susan Kishner said.

  "Hell, I'm lost half the time myself," Marlin said.

  She tilted her head to the side and studied him. "Somehow I doubt that. You look like you know your way around."

  Marlin was starting to squirm. "Listen, I really need to take that radio call..."

  She nodded. "Okay, I won't hold you up, I just wanted you to know we appreciate everything you did. You're a sweetheart."

  Before he knew it, she stepped forward and kissed him. Right on the mouth.

  "Take care, now," she said, and then she was walking to her car across the parking lot. Marlin's face suddenly felt hot. The scent of her perfume was lingering in the air.

  The radio squawked his unit number again.

  Marlin ducked into his state-issued Dodge Ram and grabbed the microphone. "Seventy-five-oh-eight, go ahead, County"

  "What's your ten-twenty?"

  "Ronnie's."

  "Can you meet with Bobby?" "When?" "Right now." "On my way"

  He started his truck and backed out, wondering if anyone inside the restaurant had seen what happened.

  On Saturday afternoon, television viewers were treated to a live interview of Pastor Peter Boothe. The piece was a segment on America's Talkin'
'Bout It, a lightweight feel-good news journal, and the interviewer was Barry Grubbman, a producer-turned-reporter who formerly worked for a show called Hard News Tonight, which was anything but.

  Grubbman, like all of the "journalists" on the show, had a reputation for lobbing softball questions designed to do nothing more than further the interviewee's agenda. What the audience didn't know was that the network had recently been acquired by a large Japanese conglomerate, and the new owners were determined to bring a trace of dignity back to American broadcasting. They'd decided that Talkin', in particular, needed a face-lift; it needed to tackle important issues head-on, in the tradition of Mike Wallace or, at the least, Geraldo Rivera. So the first question caught Peter Boothe, and 2.6 million viewers, off guard.

  "Pastor, is it true you own a twenty-thousand-dollar desk?"

  The slightest hint of a smile crossed Peter Boothe's face. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he said, "Interesting question."

  "Thank you. You do own a desk like that?" "Why, yes, I do."

  And the desk was built from St. Helena gumwood, which is one of the most endangered trees in the world."

  "Unfortunately, yes. I, uh, I didn't know that at the time. But I must say, it makes a beautiful piece of furniture. Truly one of God's most dazzling wonders. I'm praying the gumwood can make a comeback."

  "You also own a private jet."

  "God has asked me to deliver His word, and I see no reason to dally" Boothe grinned at his own levity

  "You own a second home in Carmel, California. Eight bedrooms. Nine thousand square feet. Right on the beach."

  Boothe's smile broadened, but those who knew him well might've detected a hint of nervousness. "It's where I write some of my best sermons. A magnificent stretch of Creation."

  "Your wife is a lovely woman."

  The abrupt change in questioning seemed to leave Boothe perplexed. "She most certainly is."