Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) Page 22

  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 the 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 fe
ll 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 first 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&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—

  Smedley’s train of thought was broken by a noise outside. Sounded like a car door, but he couldn’t be sure. Then he heard the rumble of Vinnie’s Camaro, and there was no doubt.

  Where in the hell was Vinnie going at this hour of the night? Sure, Smedley might expect Vinnie to be coming home this late, but not leaving. With the recent events in Blanco County, Smedley realized he had no choice. He’d have to tail Vinnie and see what was up.

  In bed, Sal Mameli could barely open his eyes. Was that Vinnie’s car he heard? Could be. The kid was probably getting down to business, just like Sal had asked. Sal didn’t want to know how the kid took care of the problems, just as long as he took care of them. It was nice to have someone he could rely on, someone who didn’t question his orders.

  Sal hadn’t told Vinnie about the caller earlier in the evening, but wondered if he should have. Nah, probably better this way. He didn’t want Vinnie to think he was totally whacked-out on painkillers—or losing his edge, getting senile.

  I saw what you did with the body. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Sal himself hadn’t done anything with any body. Probably some asshole’s lame idea of a practical joke. Nothing new. Sal had received some weird looks and some occasional muttered comments over the years in Blanco County. Even gotten a couple of prank calls, someone whistling the theme to The Godfather. Jerk-offs. Fuck ’em. They didn’t know nothing. Sal had always been known for his nerves of steel, and he wasn’t about to freak out over a little harassment.

  Or what if I dreamed it all? Sal wondered as he fell back into a deep slumber.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Red had to make a decision. Would Sal Mameli be driving a souped-up black Camaro? Didn’t seem likely, but that was what had just pulled out of the driveway. A real nice car, sleek and shiny, with tricked-out rims and a throaty-sounding exhaust. Red remembered that Sal had mentioned a son named Vinnie a couple of times. Seemed a lot more like the kind of car a kid named Vinnie would drive. Then again, maybe the son was in on the murder and would lead them straight to Mr. Slaton’s body. Or it could be a trick. He and Billy Don would go hightailing after Vinnie, then Sal would take off a few minutes later, free to do his dirty business without any onlookers.

  “So what we gonna do, Red?” Billy Don asked as the Camaro’s taillights faded in the distance.

  “Let me think, dammit!” Red said, fidgeting with his keys. His entire future came down to this moment. He could wind up as a local hero by helping the cops find the corpse. And that, in turn, would make him the owner of Slaton Brush Removal, Incorporated. If there ever was a time when he needed to think like a vice president, this was it.

  “Better git if we’re gonna git,” Billy Don said.

  Red peered down the Mameli driveway, trying to see lights at the house. Was Sal waiting down there somewhere, watching to see if Red took the bait? All Red saw was darkness.

  He cranked the truck’s big engine and took off after the Camaro.

  Panting and already starting to sweat, Smedley trundled down the driveway as fast as he could, which really amounted to more of a fast walk. He could hear Vinnie’s car rumbling down the county road, and he knew he’d have a tough time catching him. Two miles to the west, the county road teed into Highway 281. If Smedley didn’t catch up before Vinnie reached that intersection, the kid would be long gone.

  Smedley struggled to slip his jacket on as he walked, his ample gut jiggling, wishing he hadn’t eaten so many of Maria’s enchiladas.

  Then he paused for a moment. What the hell was that? He thought he heard another engine. For a second he wondered if Vinnie was returning to the house. But no, he could tell it wasn’t Vinnie’s Camaro. It was a different vehicle, with an engine that sounded every bit as powerful—except that it needed a tune-up.

  Vinnie could already feel the fucking adrenaline pumping through his system. That was something he had discovered about being a stone-cold killer. You could control the rush. You could shape it and mold it and make it work for you. He’d done it when dealing with Emmett Slaton, and he’d done it when he’d handled T.J. That was what made him different from some of the cugines back home, weaklings who didn’t hav
e the balls to do what needed to be done.

  Prowling in the night like this, dressed in black, mentally prepping himself for action—it excited Vinnie, and his crotch stiffened as he contemplated his plan.

  Then he noticed headlights in his rearview mirror, another vehicle maybe a quarter-mile back, coming on quickly. Oh, shit, it was probably that damn Smedley. When Vinnie had pulled out of the driveway, he had seen the marshal’s car sitting on the shoulder of the road. But it had been empty when Vinnie’s headlights swept over it. Or maybe Smedley had been napping in the backseat. Who the hell knows? The marshals were pretty strange fuckers, showing up when you least expected it, just hanging around, watching. They said they were guarding their precious witness; but wasting tax dollars, that’s what it really was.

  Normally, Vinnie didn’t give a rat’s ass what Smedley did. Hell, he could follow Vinnie around for days, who gives a shit? But not tonight.