Bone Dry bcm-2 Page 20

  Red nodded and scowled. “That’s what I been tellin’ ya, ain’t it? Now pass me a beer.” Billy Don dug into the ice chest on the floorboard and came up with a cold one. They had stopped by the grocery store earlier and stocked up on drinks, jerky, chips, donuts, and other snacks. Red figured it might be a long night, so he wanted to be prepared.

  Red was kind of pissed that Billy Don kept asking him that question: So, you think it was him? Well, damn, of course he did, and he had already listed all the reasons why.

  First, Sal Mameli had what the cops called a motive. That meant he had a reason to kill Mr. Slaton. Mameli had been trying to buy up all the brush-clearing businesses in Blanco County, Slaton’s included. But ol’ Emmett-from what Red had gathered-wasn’t playing ball. Red imagined that had pissed Sal off pretty good.

  Second, Red and Billy Don had seen Sal Mameli driving away from Slaton’s house in a huff, just a couple of days before Slaton disappeared. Coincidence? Hell no. So not only did Mameli have a motive, he seemed to be hacked off at Mr. Slaton, too. Red had mentioned all of this to that deputy named Wylie, the cocky son of a bitch, but the guy didn’t pay much attention.

  And fourth, Mameli just seemed like one of those… whatchamacallits-a wiseguy. A man that’s connected to the mob. No telling whether Mameli really was in the mob-and Red doubted it since the guy lived in Blanco County, about as far from mafia country as you can get. But that didn’t mean Mameli couldn’t be just one of your garden-variety criminals. And hell, everybody knew that your average Eye-talian American was nothing but a street thug. From what Red could tell, watching cable TV shows, the wops who made it into the mafia were just the ones with the biggest balls, the ones willing to take the biggest chances. But none of them-whether they were in the mob or not-could be trusted. Oh, sure, you had a few exceptions to the rule. Real Italian heroes, like Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger. But Sal Mameli wasn’t sophisticated like those guys. No, Mameli was a greaseball, and he practically had murderer written on his face. But it seemed like Red was the only person who had figured that out.

  Red cranked the ignition and looked over at Billy Don, who had already made a sizable dent in their food supply. “Goddamn, Billy Don, take it easy, will ya? That stuff might have to last awhile.”

  Billy Don belched and blew the expelled gas in Red’s direction. “What now, Red?”

  Red rolled down the window as he steered his truck out onto Highway 281. “Now we play a little cat and mouse.”

  Billy Don nodded seriously.

  Red said, “Hey, Billy Don. Who the hell is Jimmy Hoffa?”

  Sal Mameli had nothing to do with the death of the deer hunter, Bert Gammel. Smedley kept telling himself that as he munched a bag of honey-roasted peanuts. The sheriff had seemed confident that he had the right man, and that’s why the suspect had taken a hostage. It all made perfect sense. Right?

  Likewise, there was nothing to indicate that Mameli had anything to do with Emmett Slaton’s disappearance, either. But Smedley was having a tough time convincing himself of that, too. A quick background check had shown that Slaton owned a number of businesses, including the largest brush-clearing company in the county. And it wasn’t long ago that Sal had gone into that business himself. Way too much of a coincidence. It gave Smedley an uneasy feeling in his gut, worse than a large pizza with extra jalapenos.

  That’s why Smedley was once again sitting in his unmarked sedan, staking out the Mameli house. And that’s why he was considering talking to the higher-ups in Austin, asking for a wiretap. That would be a big step, but Smedley thought it was warranted. In spite of what Sal Mameli had accused the U.S. Marshals Service of in the past (mostly because he was a paranoid son of a bitch), they had never tapped his phone since he had joined the program. They had had no legal reason to do so. But now…

  Smedley’s train of thought was broken as he saw a flashlight bobbing down the Mameli driveway. It might be Angela coming to get the mail or something. He had seen her and Maria pull in about an hour ago, right at sunset. As the figure crossed the street and approached his car, Smedley got a lump in his throat. It was Maria! Smedley quickly ran his tongue over his teeth to remove the peanut residue.

  Maria leaned down to his window and said, “Hola.”

  “Hola, Maria,” Smedley replied, feeling like a freshman in Spanish class.

  Maria said something else that Smedley couldn’t understand, but he was pretty sure he heard the word comida in there somewhere. He shrugged and said, “No comprendo.”

  In the moonlight, he could see Maria’s beautiful smile. She said, “You like dinner?”

  Ah, now he got it. Angela must have sent Maria out to invite Smedley to supper. Smedley nodded and extracted himself from the sedan.

  Unexpectedly, Maria grabbed his hand and began walking back up the driveway. Smedley tried not to read anything into it. Maybe hand-holding was just a common courtesy in Guatemala. He tried to focus instead on the wonderful evening. Crickets were chirping, there were plenty of stars in the sky, the temperature was in the upper sixties. But when Maria strolled right past the Mamelis’ house and continued to her small cottage behind the garage, Smedley broke into a sweat.

  Marlin picked up a hamburger in Dripping Springs on the way home from the lab in Austin. The lab technician, a quiet man named Richard Fanick, had promised to work overtime on the evidence Marlin had found. Fanick had said he might be able to pick up some latent prints on the plastic bag, but the manila envelope was a little more iffy because it had been sealed within the plastic bag. The humidity in the bag might have degraded any existing prints.

  Now all Marlin could do was wait.

  He had stopped by the sheriff’s office on the way out of town and nothing had changed: Jack Corey was still holed up with Wylie Smith and wasn’t coming out anytime soon. Garza had frowned when Marlin mentioned Corey’s on-air announcement earlier in the day. Marlin felt it was a clear indication that Wylie was to blame for the standoff; Garza wasn’t so sure.

  “For all we know, Corey might have been holding a gun to Wylie’s head this time,” Garza had said. “So that recording he made doesn’t prove anything.”

  Also, as Marlin had expected, Garza didn’t say much about the new evidence from Gammel’s deer feeder. “Helluva job, John,” Garza said. “Let’s just wait and see if it tells us anything.”

  Driving in the dark now, Marlin continued west on Highway 290 and turned right on 281. Six miles to the north, he approached the edges of Johnson City, where a sign proudly proclaimed: HOME TOWN OF LYNDON B. JOHNSON.

  A few hundred yards past the sign he passed a convenience store, where he saw a rusty yellow Volvo with its hood up. With all the hectic events in the past twenty-four hours, Marlin had nearly forgotten about Inga Mueller. He pulled in next to her car and saw Inga elbow-deep in the engine compartment. She was wearing snug blue jeans and a clingy green blouse. Marlin was surprised half the male population of Blanco County hadn’t already arrived to offer assistance.

  Marlin stuck his head out the window. “You need any help?”

  She looked his way and grinned. There was a streak of oil across her forehead. “Can I borrow your gun? I want to put this damn thing out of its misery.”

  Marlin hopped out of the truck and walked to the front of her car. He couldn’t remember ever seeing an engine actually appear tired, but this one was pulling it off. “I’m not sure we should waste a perfectly good bullet,” he replied.

  “Think they’d be mad if I just left it here? Maybe as a little gift from me to the county?”

  “Cops might write you up for littering.”

  Inga shook her head in frustration. “One minute it runs just fine, then it won’t start at all. Won’t even turn over.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  Inga climbed into the vehicle and turned the key. Marlin didn’t even hear a click from the starter. “You’re not getting any juice at all from the battery,” Marlin said. The symptoms reminded him of t
he problem he’d had with his truck the previous spring. He jiggled the Volvo’s battery cables and, sure enough, found one of the clamps to be loose. “Hold on a second.” Marlin retrieved a wrench from his truck and tightened the nuts on both clamps. “Try it now.”

  She turned the key and the car sputtered to life. “Wow,” she said over the engine noise. “You’re good.”

  “Lucky guess,” Marlin said. “You just want to keep an eye on those nuts and don’t let them get loose like that.”

  Inga killed the engine and stepped out of the car, wiping her hands on a rag. “Speaking of loose nuts, I want you to know that I’m really sorry about what Tommy did last night at my assembly. Getting in that fight… and then biting you like that…”

  “And then escaping from custody,” Marlin reminded her.

  “Yeah, that too. It’s just Tommy, you know? He gets all worked up about things and does some stupid stuff sometimes. He doesn’t mean any harm.”

  Marlin tried to hold his tongue, but couldn’t. “Inga, I’m not gonna sit here and debate his good and bad points with you, but when it comes down to it, he’s a criminal. In a way, he’s even worse, because he breaks the law and pretends it’s okay since it’s all for a worthwhile cause. He hides behind this false nobility, and I think that’s total bullshit. He may have some sort of philosophical message he wants to deliver to the world, but he’s going about it the wrong way. Tommy’s taking the coward’s way out. Anyone can vandalize a bunch of tractors or drive spikes into trees that are marked for logging. But it takes someone with real dedication to try and change things through the proper channels.”

  When Marlin was done, Inga stared at him but didn’t reply.

  He eyed the sparse traffic passing on the highway and leaned against the fender of his truck. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have unloaded that on you. It’s Tommy that needs a lecture, not you.”

  “No, you’re right,” she said. “Tommy takes things a little too far. And the thing is, it can be contagious. Like me shooting Rodney Bauer’s truck. A few years ago, I never would have behaved that way. But Tommy has this way of getting me all worked up, of making me indignant about all the crappy ways people are mistreating our environment. But the other thing is, it’s gotten where I’m not sure Tommy even does all these things for”-she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers-“‘the cause.’ I think he does them at least partly because he thinks it’ll impress me. That makes me feel somewhat responsible for the things he’s done.” She reached out and caressed his bandaged forearm. “And I wanted to apologize for that.”

  Marlin nodded, feeling like he may have come down on her a little harshly. He also felt somewhat guilty for enjoying the touch of her hand on his arm. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen him?” he asked.

  “No, and I’m getting a little worried. After I heard the news about him escaping, I went straight to the motel and waited for him to show up. He never did.” She tilted her head to catch Marlin’s eye. “I was going to call the police if he showed up, you know.”

  Marlin held her gaze a moment longer than he meant to. “Maybe we can reform you yet.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Red woke with a start, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was: in the darkened cab of his truck, parked on an isolated county road fifty yards down from the Mamelis’ driveway. Next to him in the moonlight, Billy Don was snoring like a bloodhound with a sinus condition.

  So far, the plan wasn’t working. Here it was nearly two A.M. and there had been no activity whatsoever at the Mameli house. Nobody had come, nobody had gone. Maybe Red’s phone call hadn’t rattled Mameli as much as it had seemed. Or maybe Red’s theory was all wrong and Sal Mameli had nothing to hide. Shit. Depressing thought.

  The only strange thing Red had noticed was a gray sedan sitting on the gravel shoulder across from the Mamelis’ mailbox. Maybe they had house guests. Odd, though, because behind the trees that lined the street, it looked like the Mamelis owned four or five acres. Plenty of room for guests to park. The next driveway was another hundred yards beyond where Red was parked, so Red doubted the sedan belonged to neighbors.

  Red amused himself for a few minutes by toying with his Colt Anaconda. It was a huge handgun…forty-five caliber. Would stop everything but a crazed elephant in its tracks. He popped the cylinder open and gave it a spin. Fully loaded with hollow-point bullets. He shuddered to think what a round like that could do to a human being.

  After a while, though, he got bored. So he reached over and jostled Billy Don. “Wake up, goddammit.”

  A snore caught in Billy Don’s throat and he produced a couple of phlegmy coughs. “What the hell? Time to eat?” he muttered, half asleep. A string of drool hung from his lips to the front of his shirt.

  “You’re nappin’ on the job again,” Red snapped. “You ’spect me to stay up all night while you get your beauty sleep? Though I won’t say you don’t need it.”

  Billy Don stretched his thick arms and yawned. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Couple of trucks come by earlier. Probably poachers.”

  “Hell, that’s what we should be doin’, Red. Not wastin’ our time on this wild-goose chase. Besides, I’ve gotta take a big dump.”

  Red sighed, trying to remain patient. Billy Don was always so shortsighted. That’s the difference, Red thought. Why I’m vice president material, whereas guys like Billy Don end up digging ditches for a living. Red thought maybe Billy Don could learn something from this experience.

  “You ever hear of a guy named Garwin?” Red asked.

  “Steve Garwin? First baseman for the Dodgers back in the seventies?”

  Red shook his head. “Naw, Charles Garwin. The guy what come up with the theory of revolution. See, his theory was pretty simple. Say you got two caveman hunters livin’ on the savannas of Asia. One of ’em can run real fast, and he’s good at chasin’ down antelope. He can throw his spear real hard and he hits anything he aims at, because he practices a lot. But now, the second guy, he’s kind of a slacker. He runs real slow and he don’t practice with his spear. He’s a damn lousy hunter, and he never tries to get any better. So tell me, which one of those guys is most likely to get eaten by bears?”

  “Shut up, Red!” Billy Don growled, looking out the window.

  Obviously, Billy Don didn’t enjoy being compared to a dumb, slow hunter. “Don’t get your panties in a wad,” Red shot back. “I was just askin’-”

  “Hush, I said! I heard something. Sounded like a car door.”

  Both men fell silent. In the distance, they heard the sound of a large engine roaring to life.

  Maria was sleeping, but Smedley was awake. A wide-eyed, heart-fluttering, spirit-soaring, I’ll-never-sleep-again kind of awake. He turned his head on the pillow and studied Maria’s tender face in the candlelight. Such a gentle, caring soul. Smedley had never dared imagine that such a woman existed. And yet, somehow, he had chanced upon an angel. He had found a woman who overlooked the flaws-both in his physique and his character-or perhaps didn’t see them at all.

  Dinner had been fantastic. An authentic south-of-the-border dish, similar to the enchiladas from Smedley’s favorite East Austin Mexican diner.

  Dessert was even better.

  She had taken his hand and led him to her bedroom. There, they joined together as naturally and seamlessly as a creek and the banks that it hugs. At first, she had seemed to understand his hesitance, his lack of confidence. And so she showed him the way. She guided his hands as he unbuttoned her dress, stroked his hair as he slipped her panties down her thighs. She then removed his clothes, slowly, with Smedley expecting her to pull back in disgust at any moment. But she never did.

  Naked, Smedley feeling a remarkable lack of self-consciousness, they moved as one. She eased back onto the bed, and he followed, his body just inches from hers, like a shadow.

  And Smedley was overcome with ecstasy as they began to make love.

  For Smedley, the fi
rst stage was over abruptly, as soon as he entered her. But he was amazed at his own endurance. He never lost his stiffness, but continued, unabated, for… for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Maria clenched his biceps with urgency, growled something beautiful in Spanish into his ear, moaned deeply, and then collapsed back onto the bedspread in exhaustion.

  Just before she had fallen off to sleep, she had said, “You are very sweet man.”

  Smedley had discovered that she spoke some English, though not much. He had hardly heard her speak more than a few words during his visits to the Mamelis’ house. As he lay in the dark, he was elated with the idea of learning Spanish. This wonderful creature was captivating enough, but imagine how close their bond could become when they could converse freely! It was almost more intoxicating than Smedley could bear.

  He glanced at the clock on her wall. Nearly two in the morning. Thankfully, tomorrow was Saturday, and he could lounge in bed with Maria for as long as she would allow him to stay.

  Smedley laid an arm across Maria’s breast, and she murmured approval in her sleep. He stroked the hollow of her throat, and then gently lifted and studied the necklace around her neck. Angela Mameli had once mentioned that Maria made her own jewelry and sold some of it to small boutiques in Blanco and Johnson City. Kitschy stuff, Angela had said. She takes all these throwaway items and makes them into something beautiful. This particular necklace featured a strand of stones, what appeared to be granite or marble. Maria had probably picked the stones up on trips around the Hill Country, then painstakingly ground and polished each nugget into a gem.

  There was something else hanging from the necklace, an object that had caught Smedley’s eye earlier in the evening. But the light had been dim, and he had been understandably preoccupied. Now, leaning for a closer look, he saw what it was.

  A spent shell from a handgun. That seemed odd.

  Squinting, he could see the inscription on the butt of the shell:.35 AUTO S amp;W. Smedley had never even seen a.35-caliber handgun before, but he seemed to remember that Sal owned one, an old family heirloom. Sal had mentioned it over dinner one night: His grandfather had bought it when he immigrated to the United States, his way of saying, There. Now I am an American. Maybe Maria had found an old shell lying around. He’d have to ask her about it in the morning. Or attempt to ask her about it, anyway. With her poor English, she might not-