Hog Heaven Page 2

  “Now you got fifty-five minutes,” he said.

  “Sheesh. Relax. I just want you to look at something.” Red pulled the flyer from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Billy Don. The big man could usually read to at least a middle-school level, if you didn’t pressure him.

  So Red waited patiently, figuring it wouldn’t take long for Billy Don to get as excited as Red was about the four-legged gold mine roaming the hills.

  Sure, Red would be the first to admit that he’d had his fair share of wacky schemes and get-rich-quick ideas over the years. And, yes, Billy Don had grown weary of hearing the ideas, much less taking part in them. Couldn’t blame him, because none of the ideas had actually turned out so good, and some, to be honest, were disasters.

  But this was different. Easier. It wasn’t shooting fish in a barrel, but it was shooting pigs in a field. Or in a cedar break. Or off the side of the road.

  Billy Don looked at Red, then looked at the flyer again. “Wait. This is for real?”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars for a pig?”

  “Well, not just any pig. Gotta be the right pig. But I figure the odds are pretty good. I mean, how many pigs could there be in Blanco County?”

  “There’s something like two million in the entire state, so if you divide by—”

  “No reason to get bogged down in the details. Regardless of how many there are, does it matter? I mean, come on. This is right up our alley. We’re talking about big money for shooting a dadgum pig.”

  “Which is something we do on a reg’lar basis anyway.”

  “Exactly!” Red said. “It’s like when they give away prizes when you buy a bottle of sody pop. Heck, you’re gonna drink it anyway, so you might as well check under the cap and see if you won anything. Same deal here. We already shoot pigs, so we might as well check the ears for a tattoo.”

  Billy Don didn’t say anything.

  Red said, “Well?”

  Billy Don took a massive gulp of beer. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s there to know?”

  “My time is tight right now.”

  Red let out a sigh. “Really? You’re gonna use that lame excuse again?”

  Billy Don said, “Planning a wedding ain’t easy.”

  Red shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to it. It was like some big practical joke that just wouldn’t end. “I can tell you one thing. I sure never expected to hear those words come out of your mouth.”

  “Well, it’s only fair.”

  A couple of months earlier, after a lot of soul-searching and a case of Keystone, Billy Don had proposed to Betty Jean—and she had shown extremely poor judgment by saying yes. And then, a few weeks later, Billy Don mentioned to Red that Betty Jean had asked if he’d mind making the wedding arrangements.

  “You got to be kiddin’ me,” Red had said. “Plan a dadgum wedding? That’s woman’s work.”

  “Not if a man does it.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  Billy Don shrugged. “I ain’t got a problem with it, because she’s working steady right now, whereas my work is a little more, uh...”

  “Imaginary?” Red asked.

  “Hit and miss,” Billy Don said. “And you’re one to talk. When’s the last time you had a full day’s work?”

  Red didn’t have a snappy comeback, because it was true. Red was a jack of all trades—he was skilled at masonry, construction, plumbing, electrical, brush clearing, general ranch work, and just about anything that didn’t require a college diploma—but work had been slow lately, for both of them.

  So he said, “You’re actually gonna do it? Plan the wedding?”

  “Yep.”

  “Even so, how much time could that take? You just schedule a preacher and order some little finger sandwiches and maybe ask someone to play a harp. Twenty or thirty minutes and you’re done.”

  “What about a venue?”

  “A what?”

  “A place to actually have the wedding. Then you have to deal with the rings and the cakes and the license and the flowers and about a million other details.”

  “Like picking your best man,” Red said. That was the one detail he figured was a foregone conclusion. Billy Don didn’t have to make a decision, because the choice was obvious.

  “Exactly,” Billy Don said, and nothing more.

  Red waited. Still nothing.

  “Damn, Billy Don, I guess all this wedding stuff will hardly leave you any time get your nails done, or to have brunch with your girlfriends.”

  “Go ahead. Tease me all you want.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  “Maybe someday you’ll have a woman you love so much that you’d do the same thing.”

  “Do you even hear yourself? You are getting gayer by the minute. Why don’t you show some balls and just tell her y’all are gonna elope to Vegas?”

  Just for a moment, there was a glimmer in Billy Don’s eyes, showing that he was tempted, and that he was actually considering it. But then he frowned and shook his head. “Betty Jean wouldn’t want to do it in Vegas. Too tacky.”

  Red had to laugh out loud. “Billy Don, the woman has eighteen different Christmas sweaters that require batteries. She eats up tacky by the truckload.”

  And then came the menacing glare—the unmistakable sign that Billy Don was on the verge of getting really angry. Red had edged right up to the line, but he hadn’t quite crossed it. Best to let the topic drop, at least for the moment.

  That was three weeks ago. And since then, not only had Billy Don failed to say anything to Red about being his best man, he still hadn’t come to his senses and told Betty Jean to plan the wedding herself, like any self-respecting woman should. As far as Red was concerned, a groom had only one responsibility, and that was to show up at the wedding on time, nearly sober, without any cops looking for him or strippers in tow.

  Besides, being practical, if Billy Don was tied up with wedding crap, what was Red supposed to do about the fifty-thousand-dollar pig? Hunt it by himself? That wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, and besides, two hunters working together would have a greater chance of success. They’d have to split the money, sure, but that was better than no money at all. Red figured he had one last card he could play in an attempt to get Billy Don on board.

  “Y’all figured out your honeymoon plans yet?” he asked, innocent as could be.

  “Hell, no. Betty Jean wanted to go on a cruise, but everything’s so damn ’spensive. We figure the wedding’ll just about leave us broke.” Billy Don was sounding downright glum.

  “That’s a damn shame, Billy Don. Sure is. Nobody wants to start married life like that. Creates all kinds of stress. On the other hand, now that I think about it... just imagine what kind of cruise you and Betty Jean could take with twenty-five-thousand dollars in cold, hard cash.”

  Billy Don guzzled the last half of his beer, then let out a deep belch.

  Red said, “In fact, I imagine you could take a world-class cruise for no more’n about four or five grand. That’d leave twenty grand in your pocket. And I seem to remember Betty Jean saying something about wanting to remodel her kitchen. Twenty thousand would cover that easy, with money left over to buy yourself a new deer rifle or a year’s supply of beef jerky. Think about it, Billy Don. You’d be her hero. Just for shooting one little pig. Seems like a pretty smart solution to me.”

  Billy Don didn’t say anything for the longest time, which meant he was thinking about it, or that he’d gotten distracted by the beef jerky comment. Finally he said, “Let me talk to her tonight. See what I can do.”

  CHAPTER 3

  John Marlin could vividly remember a time, several years earlier, when word had spread nationwide that a chupacabra was on the loose in Blanco County. Was that ridiculous or what? The chupacabra was supposed to be some sort of terrible reptile-like creature with razor-sharp claws, bulbous red eyes, and fangs. Some people said it looked like a monkey, while others
said it had spikes or quills running down its back. It was supposed to hop or leap or maybe even fly. “Chupacabra,” translated literally, meant “sucker of goats,” because the creature allegedly preyed on goats like a vampire. All nonsense, of course, but that didn’t stop hundreds of delusional chupacabra hunters from descending on Blanco County, hoping to trap or kill the beast and somehow make a fortune in the process.

  Would this pig bounty scheme dreamed up by Grady Beech create an even bigger uproar? It was possible. If the rumor was even true. So Marlin was making a trip out to the vineyard to see for himself.

  He drove his green state-issued truck over a cattle guard and onto the Double Eagle Ranch, past row after row of grapevine hanging from trellises, and up a long, gentle slope to the vineyard’s visitors center and tasting pavilion. He knew that was what they called it, because a large sign out front said VISITORS CENTER & TASTING PAVILION. A different sign reading WINERY pointed the way to a larger, more utilitarian building in the distance. Marlin had never really pondered the difference between a winery and a vineyard, but he figured there must be a distinction. He assumed a vineyard was where they grew the grapes and the winery was where they turned the grapes into wine.

  Marlin pulled in front of the tasting pavilion, which was a striking wood-and-glass structure with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided an impressive view down the slope to the vineyard, across McCall Creek, and to the rugged cedar-covered hills beyond. He parked next to a Chevy Avalanche, Grady’s truck, the only vehicle in the lot. Not surprising on a weekday morning.

  Marlin had been here a few times before—twice to discuss Grady’s pig problem with him, and once purely on pleasure, with Nicole. She liked the occasional glass of wine, so they’d stopped by one afternoon the previous fall to do some sampling. Ended up taking a case of wine home. A Viognier. Pretty good stuff.

  Marlin stepped through the front door and immediately saw Grady behind the serving counter, hanging wine glasses from an overhead rack.

  “Hey, there, John Marlin!” Grady called out. He was always an affable and outgoing guy. Richer than hell, but the kind who’d fit right in around a campfire, drinking beer and telling hunting stories. Here he was, trying to keep up a cheery countenance, despite the fact that his son had died a mere two months ago.

  “Hey, Grady,” Marlin replied, weaving his way through the small tables where visitors would sit and try the vineyard’s offerings. Or the winery’s offerings. “You doing all right?”

  Marlin reached the bar and the men shook hands.

  Grady said, “The creek looks great, doesn’t it? You know, when I bought this ranch, I had no idea it would be a damn good place to grow grapes. All the limestone-filtered water we need, and we got the eastern exposure, so the grapes can cool down from the heat. Got a dry breeze through the vineyard most of the time. Pretty nice set-up.”

  “You’ve really turned it into something.”

  “Hey, mostly Leigh Anne. She runs the place. I’m just the hired help. What brings you out? My guys doing too much late shooting?”

  “Nothing like that,” Marlin said.

  “You ready for some more Viognier?”

  “Nearly, but not quite yet.”

  “We’re running a two-for-one special at the moment. Gotta make room for some new stuff.”

  “Actually I came out to verify a rumor. Or hopefully to dismiss one. I heard something about you placing a bounty on a wild pig.” Grady was already starting to show a sheepish grin. “Please tell me I heard wrong.”

  “Wish I could, but...”

  “Aw, Grady...”

  “You don’t think it’s a brilliant idea? What we’re talking about is mass annihilation of an invasive species. A pest. A highly destructive pest.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “A dangerous pest.”

  “No argument there.”

  “What is it up to now? The population of wild pigs in Texas? Two million?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “Shouldn’t we be shooting every last one we see?”

  “Lot of people think so.”

  “Well, I figured this would make a pretty good dent. Maybe some other landowners around the state will follow my lead and do the same thing. Hell, we can turn it into a contest, like a bass fishing tournament, but with pigs. We could have teams and sponsors and trophies with—”

  “Grady.”

  Beech finally stopped talking.

  Marlin said, “Look, don’t get me wrong—I don’t blame you at all for wanting to do something like this. But, Grady, come on. This is the wrong way to go about it. You make an offer like that, all kinds of crazies are going to show up. It’s just asking for trouble.”

  “Am I breaking any laws?”

  “That depends. Where did you release the pig?”

  “On my own place, but outside the high fence. Not that the high fence stops them from going wherever they want.”

  “Okay, then technically, no, you aren’t breaking any laws. But all the people hoping to collect fifty grand? They’ll break some laws to do it. Besides, a lot of them are gonna figure out that you were required by law to release it on your own place, so it wouldn’t surprise me if you end up dealing with a bunch of trespassers, or worse.”

  Grady had been slowly wiping down the top of the bar with a white towel. Now he stopped. Didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he let out a sigh. “Maybe I shouldn’t act on ideas I have after drinking a full bottle of Syrah.”

  Marlin laughed. “One of the drawbacks of your profession, I guess.”

  “Yeah, probably so. But here’s the problem: Even if I decided to put a stop to it, it’s too late.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Grady reached under the bar and came out with a piece of paper showing the layout of an advertisement—something produced by a graphic artist. The ad featured a small photo of a feral pig. Above that, a headline: REWARD! $50,000.

  Grady said, “That ad is running tomorrow in forty-three newspapers across Texas.”

  Just as Marlin started his truck, Leigh Anne Beech pulled up on his passenger side in her low-slung BMW with the top down. She gave him a quick little wave, then opened the driver’s door and swung both of her long legs out of the car. Wearing shorts this afternoon, because of the warm weather.

  Marlin needed to get back to the sheriff’s office, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he lowered his passenger-side window.

  “Hey, Leigh Anne.”

  “Well, hey there, you. I was wondering how long it would take for you to show up.”

  Her hair was a little different than the last time he’d seen her. Sort of a strawberry blond, rather than just blond. And now she had bangs. She really was lovely. She’d look right at home on a parade float, waving at her adoring fans.

  “You been doing all right?” Marlin asked.

  “Went shopping this morning in San Antonio. I love it down there. I go a couple of times a week.” Now she turned back toward her car and bent inside to retrieve a couple of Nordstrom bags from the passenger’s seat. When she emerged again, she said, “So... you mad at Grady?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it that way, but I wish he’d talked to me first. Maybe I could’ve talked him out of it.”

  “Doubtful. I tried that myself. That man is on a mission. Death to the pigs!”

  “You’ll probably want to keep your front gate locked up tight after sundown. Starting tomorrow night.”

  “What for?”

  “Poachers.”

  “Oh, God, I hadn’t even thought of that. Think we’ll have some around here?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. Listen, I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to you at the funeral, but I wanted to say I’m really sorry about Sammy.”

  “You’re sweet. I appreciate that.”

  “It was a real tragedy.”

  “I loved him like he was my own son. I miss him every day.”

  Marlin didn’t mean to be cynical, but she didn’t
look very mournful with a shopping bag in each hand.

  A few hours later, Marlin was kneading a raw egg and Worcestershire sauce into a pound of ground venison—preparing burgers for the grill—as he told Nicole about his visit with Grady Beech. She was leaning against the counter, dressed in yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, nursing a glass of the Viognier Grady had mentioned that afternoon. Geist, Marlin’s white pit bull, was also lingering nearby, hoping for a dropped morsel or scrap.

  “Sounds like he’s still pretty angry,” Nicole said.

  “At who?”

  “Just angry in general. Sorting through his grief. Maybe this contest will bring him some sense of closure.”

  That made Marlin feel a little cold-hearted. His first concern, when he’d heard about the pig bounty, was that it would bring a bunch of lawbreakers to the area. Nicole, on the other hand, immediately wondered whether the contest might help Grady get past the death of his son. Didn’t surprise Marlin a bit that she responded that way.

  They’d been married now for fourteen months, and Marlin had learned in that time that Nicole was perhaps the most compassionate person he’d ever known. She had worked for the Blanco County Sheriff’s Office when he’d met her—a stunner with long auburn hair and curves that were hard to ignore, even though she tried to disguise them with a loose uniform. She was also an excellent deputy, and she seemed to enjoy the work. But when the victim services coordinator for Blanco County had retired, she had surprised her co-workers by applying for the position.

  Since then, Nicole had positively thrived in that role. She’d fought for, and received, several federal grants to expand the victim services program, and the impact was undeniable. Victims of crime and tragedy in Blanco County now felt that they had a powerful, knowledgeable advocate who could help them cope with trauma and grief, navigate the judicial system, and provide many other types of emotional and legal support. Marlin was proud of her. She was a shining light in the life of just about everyone who came into contact with her.

  Marlin told her about the brief conversation he’d had with Leigh Anne outside the tasting pavilion.