Holy Moly Page 3

  Red wasn't much for reading the news, but he'd gotten a free newspaper subscription, along with a handful of cash, when he'd installed an illegal septic system at the editor's house. On his way up the driveway Red unfolded the newspaper, scanned the headline, and abruptly came to a halt. "Nuh-uh," he said out loud. "No way." This couldn't be right. He read the short article, then hustled back inside and said, "You ain't gonna believe this shit."

  "What?"

  " 'Member when Hollis Farley talked about sneaking us onto that job site to hunt pigs? Well, it ain't gonna happen." "Why not?"

  " 'Cause he's dead, is why not." Red enjoyed making dramatic announcements.

  Billy Don glanced over at him. "The hell're you talking about?"

  Red thumped the newspaper. "Some kind of accident. His backhoe flipped on him. Day before yesterday."

  Billy Don sat up. "Shit fire. We just saw him, what, Wednesday night?"

  "That don't make him any less dead. Poor son of a bitch."

  Billy Don scratched his head but didn't say anything. Red, too, was at a loss for words. The world was strange sometimes. You go drinking with a man one night, and he ends up flatter than roadkill the next day. Hollis had been in a hell of a mood, too, joking around, buying all the drinks, and he'd said something interesting to Red right at the end of the night. . .

  What was it? Some kind of secret? Red's memory was hazy. Too much beer that night. He figured it didn't matter now.

  "We sure coulda used the pork," Billy Don said.

  Red glared at him. "Shit, the man's dead, and you're worrying about yourself? Show some respect."

  Billy Don nodded somberly "Yeah, you're right. Sorry."

  "Okay, then," Red said, thinking, We sure coulda used the pork.

  In his cluttered garage, Jerry Strand stepped back and surveyed the box he'd just placed on an upper shelf. A large brown cardboard box sealed with gray duct tape. Nothing to draw attention

  to it. Could be old clothes in there, or family mementos. No reason for anybody—say, a nosy wife—to take a peek. He hoped.

  He'd had the box in his truck for safekeeping. But now, well, he figured it might be wise to find a better spot.

  He shook his head at the thought of Nadine happening upon the box and opening it up. That would not be good. It would, in fact, be a disaster. She had a curious streak, always poking around, asking questions, and it could ruin everything. So he rooted through his toolbox, found an old carpenter's pencil, then took the box down and scrawled HUNTING STUFF on the top of it. What would be less inviting to Nadine than a bunch of old wool socks and bottles of doe urine?

  He put the box back on the shelf—but he still wasn't satisfied. So he tugged a wooden knob at the end of a dangling rope and lowered the folding staircase that led to the attic. Then he hoisted the box up into the hot, stuffy space and slid it across the plywood floor, into a corner with a bunch of other boxes. Minor problem: The old boxes were covered with dust, but the new box was fresh and clean. Oh, well. It would have to do.

  He heard a car pull up in front of the house. Then a door closing. He froze, listening. The garage was separate from the house, with a breezeway in between, so he couldn't hear the doorbell. But thirty seconds later, he heard Nadine calling out, "Jerry? Where the heck are you?"

  He quickly backed down the steps to the garage floor, folded the staircase, and swung it back into place, just as Nadine came through the door.

  "Oh, there you are. What are you doing out here?"

  "Just cleaning up. Putting some things away." He noticed that the rope handle for the staircase was swinging lightly Nadine seemed to be watching it, scowling, and her eyes went to the ceiling. He needed to distract her. "We got company?"

  Her eyes came back to his, the attic forgotten. After all, it turned out, she had bigger fish to fry. "There's a deputy in the kitchen. Wants to talk to you again about Hollis."

  The previous November, while checking licenses at a deer camp, Marlin heard a grizzled old hunter remark that modern-day deer antlers weren't all that different from fake boobs. Once man started fiddling around with the situation, he said, there was really no limit to how large you could make them. "So what's the goddamn point of it?" he asked, plainly disgusted. Marlin laughed about it at the time, but he could appreciate the analogy, and he felt the same way himself.

  The problem was, many hunters were as mesmerized by those preternatural crowns of bone as they were by breasts. The bigger the better, most would say Especially the deer breeders, who were obsessed with size. Big racks meant big wealth, and that's why they raised their deer in the meticulous manner of a Kentucky aristocrat raising racehorses. Breeders weren't just ranchers anymore, they were part scientist and part geneticist.

  The deer were typically kept in high-fenced pens, and matings were carefully considered and orchestrated. Many breeders employed the latest scientific techniques, selling straws of semen that were used by other breeders for artificial insemination. The deer received the highest-quality veterinary care, including vaccinations and dewormers. They were fed a high-protein diet and mineral supplements to promote antler growth. They had ID tags in their ears or microchips under their hides. The does usually remained nameless, but the bucks were called Big Daddy and El Diablo and Goliath. They were sold at auction, or on the Internet, or in handshake deals between wealthy men who'd forgotten what hunting truly meant. Some of the biggest bucks were destined to live long, pampered lives as studs. The others would be shot by business executives who'd fly in for a weekend, pull the trigger, and write an enormous check.

  It was legal, unfortunately, but Marlin despised all of it. Sure, the breeders would argue that they were simply helping nature along, and giving the masses what they wanted. But Marlin longed for the old days, when all deer ran wild, back when there was still some mystery involved, because nobody really knew what sorts of behemoths might be roaming the woods. Back, too, when average Joes weren't getting squeezed out of the sport by high prices and high fences.

  Marlin's job required him to set those personal feelings aside when he dealt with breeders, and that's what he tried to remember as he drove through the entrance to Perry Grange's ranch, past a small sign that read NO TRESPASSING! ARMED RESPONSE!

  Grange owned six hundred acres, but no commercial hunting took place there. He considered himself a specialist, concentrating on a small segment of the market. He didn't sell mature bucks or does, nor did he turn them out for hunting. He didn't sell straws of semen. He sold nothing but buck fawns, supposedly from his herd's "champion bloodlines." It was nearly the perfect con, if Grange was in fact selling fawns he'd trapped in the wild. As long as Grange's herd remained safely tucked in their enclosures, Marlin had no way to gain a DNA sample legally.

  Tour time will come, he thought, as he navigated the curves and swells of Grange's long blacktopped driveway Nearing the house—a big lodge-style sandstone structure with a metal roof—he caught the glint of sunlight off glass. To the east, near the deer pens, a truck was parked in the sunshine. A blue quad-cab GMC. Grange's vehicle. Marlin pulled up next to it, killed the engine, and stepped out.

  "Hello?"

  He didn't see anybody, but thirty yards away, behind an eight-foot fence, half a dozen trophy bucks were staring in his direction. They were bedded beneath an oak tree, simply watching, waiting to see if perhaps it was dinnertime. Their eyes had the same dull gaze as cattle's. No wariness. No fear. Nothing wild left in there at all. Their antlers, freshly sprouted and growing rapidly, were sheathed in velvet, which the animals would scrape off in the fall, prior to the rut. At that point, the antlers would be sawed off, and each buck would be kept in a separate pen, to prevent them from injuring one another. "Well, well."

  Marlin hadn't heard him approach, but Perry Grange was suddenly standing right behind him, looking like a character out of Jeremiah Johnson. He wore fringed buckskin pants, which were tucked into moccasins that rose to his knees. His low-crowned broad-brimmed hat was crudely stit
ched from some type of bleached hide. He was shirtless, and the muscles across his chest and abdomen were well defined. On one hip was a large fixed-blade hunting knife; on the other, incongruous with the outfit, was a nine-millimeter automatic in a nylon holster. No antique revolvers for this guy, not when it came to protecting his hoofed assets. Grange had a thick black beard, and his face was as flat and ugly as an old skillet.

  "How you doing, Perry?"

  "You come to run me in?" He had a smirk on his face. His voice was deep and raspy, that of a longtime smoker. "What for?"

  "Hell, I don't know. I figure anytime a warden shows up at your house, it can't be good. Thought maybe you was here to hassle me some more."

  "Well, no, but I could make something up if you wanted."

  A quick laugh. "Yeah, I bet." An edge to his tone.

  The bucks in the pen rose to a standing position, as if they were hoping to see a fistfight.

  "Actually," Marlin said, "I had a call about spotlighters on McCall Creek Road last night. Wondered if you'd seen anything."

  "No, sir. Doesn't mean they wasn't out there. Long as they don't come on my land, I don't pay much heed."

  Marlin caught the odor of alcohol on the breeze. Grange had been drinking, though he didn't appear intoxicated. Maybe he held it well. "So you haven't been having any trouble with poachers."

  "No, sir. Have you? I mean, really?"

  "Have I what?"

  Grange removed his hat and wiped sweat off his forehead. His hair was a bird's nest, as if he'd cut it himself. "I'm wondering what really brings you out. I'm thinking you want a look at my herd. Maybe count my bred does."

  Marlin laughed. "I think you're being a little paranoid."

  "Maybe so, but whoever turned me in this winter, they was lying to you. I run an honest outfit. Ain't much of an operation anymore. Business has gone in the shitter."

  That didn't take long Marlin thought. I'm here for two minutes, and already he's agitated. "Sorry to hear that," Marlin said, even though he wasn't. He wanted to keep Grange talking.

  "Thursday, I was hauling three yearlings up to Amarillo, but two of 'em died by the time I got there. Fifteen grand, right down the toilet."

  "This Thursday?"

  "Yeah, two days ago."

  "What time of day?"

  Grange glared at him. "What difference does that make?" "Well, if it got hot in the trailer . . ."

  "I left around noon, but it wasn't any goddamn heat that got 'em, it was shock. They couldn't handle getting trailered that far. But nobody 'round here wants my damn deer. Meanwhile, the state's giving me all kinds of bullshit about not renewing my license. Hell, if they want a battle, I'm gonna give 'em one. If that includes you, so be it."

  Marlin decided to push him. "You could've let me run the DNA tests. Cleared your name. You still could."

  Grange pointed a finger at him. "I wanna know what gives the government the right to invade my goddamn privacy Since when is a man guilty until proven innocent?"

  "You were never charged with anything."

  Grange shook his head and waved his hands, as if he'd had enough of the discussion.

  Marlin wanted to keep the conversation going. "Your bucks are looking good, Perry"

  No reply.

  "That one on the left is a monster," Marlin said.

  Grange couldn't resist it. "Only three years old. Wait'll next year." Grange couldn't keep the pride out of his voice. Like most breeders, he enjoyed bragging about his accomplishments.

  "What's it gonna score?"

  'About two-twenty. I call him Bull of the Woods." The woods, my ass, Marlin thought. That deer has never been outside this pen. He'd eat out of my hand.

  "I been thinking about it, you know," Grange said. 'About what?"

  "Letting you draw some blood. Prove I ain't lying." 'And?"

  "Well, shit, it just ain't right. Can't you see that?"

  When he got back to his office, Marlin called Garza's cell phone.

  "You get anything?" the sheriff asked. "He says he left town at noon on Thursday. Hauling some deer up to the Panhandle."

  "That's a good eight hours up there." "Yeah. If he's telling the truth, he's clear." "Easy enough to check."

  "Grange should've filed for a transport permit, which would list the customer in Amarillo. I'll look into it. How's it going over there?"

  "Just getting started. I'll let you know."

  5

  IN DOWNTOWN DALLAS, in the sixteen-story high-rise that housed the currently quiet offices of Boothe Ministries, a man named Alex Pringle rode the elevator down to the eleventh floor, which was occupied by the executive fitness center. He bypassed the steam room, the indoor pool, and the racquetball court and entered the vast workout room, which offered every type of torture device ever invented. The facility was empty, except for the only staff member who used the center on a regular basis.

  She was hard at work, assaulting some sort of stair-climbing machine, driving the cushioned foot pedals Up and down, up and down, accompanied by a soft hydraulic whoosh . .. whoosh. A Sheryl Crow number was playing on the sound system.

  The walls were mirrored, so the woman saw Pringle approaching, but she kept on with her regimen, gripping the handrails, frowning with exertion. He took a seat on a nearby weight bench, straightened his silk necktie, and simply watched.

  As always, he marveled at how astoundingly beautiful she was. Granted, today in her flaming red Lycra shorts and exercise bra, she looked less like one of God's angels and more like one of Charlie's Angels. Yet somehow—maybe it was the long ponytail swinging to and fro with each step, or those big green eyes—she maintained the wholesome air of a minister's wife. This was, after all, the same woman who led the congregation in prayer at the beginning of every broadcast. The same woman who earnestly reminded female members that there was honor in running an efficient household, in rearing children, and in "recognizing that your husband has needs that come before your own."

  Her public persona aside, Alex Pringle wasn't surprised at all when Vanessa Boothe said, "Barry Grubbman is a two-bit cock-sucker."

  Pringle chuckled. "So you saw the interview."

  "Interview, hell, it was a goddamn ambush. Peter should've walked out." She was particularly snippy today More protective of her husband lately He could understand that.

  "I thought he held up pretty well. Besides, the show was live. How would that have looked?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Like he had balls, maybe?"

  Whoosh. Whoosh. The great thing about the stair-stepping machine, Pringle noticed, was that it caused Vanessa to hike her ass high in the air. And, oh, what an ass. As enticing as the sweetest Fredericksburg peach, and just as firm. Amazing for a woman of forty-one, even a former fashion model. No middle-age spread on this gal. No sags or droops, just a body that could make St. Paul commit a mortal sin.

  "I think he handled the interview just right," Pringle said. "We knew this would happen eventually. Hell, we planned for it. Better that shitty little show than Dateline or 60 Minutes. Now the big boys won't hassle him, because they'd look like copycats."

  Whoosh. Whoosh. Pringle watched a bead of perspiration trickle down her throat, between her clavicles, and down into her cleavage. He could feel an urgency in his loins.

  "How are the latest sales figures?" Her breathing was labored but steady The woman was a true specimen. The lungs of an Olympic athlete. Tremendous upper body strength. Hell, her thighs were impressive, too. Could probably deflate a basketball.

  "Too early to tell on the DVD, but the hardback's still on top of the nonfiction lists. We've moved half a million CDs."

  "Yeah, well, we might see a dip after this fiasco."

  "Tut, tut. Always the cynic. 'Trust in the Lord, my dear, and lean not on your own understanding.' "

  She glanced over long enough to glare at him but kept right on climbing the imaginary staircase. She hated when he quoted scripture.

  "You know what might make you feel better?" he
said. "If I were to take you into the dressing room and lick every drop of sweat from your body Just for old time's sake."

  The dressing room was a safe zone. No security cameras in there. A lock on the door. But he knew it wouldn't happen. Those days were long past. And she proved him right by ignoring the comment altogether. Fine. Damned if he was going to beg for it. He had more pride than that.

  She broke the awkward silence by saying, "I wished they hadn't mentioned Farley"

  Ah. So that was it. That explained her mood. The poor girl was worrying. "Me, too, but I don't think it's anything to get excited about."

  "You don't think? We've got a dead guy at the job site and you don't think it's a problem?"

  Sheryl Crow was replaced by another female singer. A song with a Latin feel to it. Shakira?

  "The cops think it was an accident," Pringle said, "and we're not in a position to correct them."

  Without breaking stride, she grabbed a water bottle from an attached cup holder and squirted a few ounces into her mouth, swished it around, then swallowed. But she didn't reply

  So Pringle said, 'Accidents are an unfortunate by-product of the construction industry, you know. Nationwide, there are more than a thousand fatalities every year. That's fifteen point two deaths for every hundred thousand workers." If it sounded like he was paraphrasing from a press release, he was. He'd written one that very morning, after doing some extensive research. Best to go into this thing well prepared.

  "Well," she reluctantly agreed, "I guess that's good news."

  Pringle checked himself in a mirror, and he liked what he saw. Perfectly groomed mustache. Thick, dark hair slicked back from his forehead. Immaculate double-breasted suit. "I'll be driving down there later today," he announced. "Community relations and all that. I'll probably stay until this blows over. But I wanted to remind you that Peter has a meeting with Ted on Monday"

  "What about?"