Bone Dry

passed, Sal couldn’t help worrying that his former associates were closer to tracking him down.

And he knew the kind of justice they would exact if they found him.

After all, Sal used to be one of the guys in charge of dealing out punishment. That’s where he had gotten his nickname, “the Clipper.” He had done some nasty things to some nasty men, left bodies in the kind of condition that would make the most hardened medical examiner shudder. Sal knew what the horrifying possibilities were, and that’s why he kept a loaded.38 in his nightstand and a sawed-off twelve-gauge under the front seat of his Lincoln. Every noise in the hallway at two A.M. could be a goon with a garrote, instead of his son, Vinnie, making a trip to the john, or his wife, Angela, sitting like a zombie in front of late-night TV, a bottle of vodka by her side.

But then, just six months ago, things had begun to look brighter. Opportunity had pounded firmly on Sal’s door, as it had done so many times in the past. For some reason-a drought, a low aquifer, or who the hell knows why-residents all over Blanco County had begun clearing their lands of cedar trees and other brush. At first, Sal had barely glanced at the newspaper articles addressing the situation. Then, on a drive through the country with Angela, Sal noticed the tractorlike machines that were used to clear brush. They seemed to be everywhere, rumbling over ranchland like so many Sherman tanks.

After doing a little research, finding out precisely what this land-clearing was all about, Sal realized there was an enormous amount of money to be made in the brush-removal business. This, Sal thought, could be exactly what I’ve been looking for.

Hell, he had run a successful concrete company back in Jersey, and had even taken on several juicy projects here, before the water issue brought new construction to a screeching halt. And this brush-removal business, how hard could it be? The concrete business required large machines; cedar-clearing required large machines. All you needed was some operating capital and some big, dumb guys to run the equipment. Piece of cake.

So Sal had jumped right into the brush-removal business with only two things in mind: Number one-stashing away some serious cash. Number two-buying a one-way ticket to some off-the-map Caribbean island where nobody asked questions, checked for proper papers, or cared who the hell you had been in a past life. Sal could almost smell the salty breeze and the coconut oil. He could picture a tanned, nubile body-definitely not his wife’s-lounging in the chair next to him.

Sal had noticed something else in the last few months: The Feds seemed to be loosening their grip a little. He no longer had a team of deputies on his tail every time he left the house, no longer heard strange clicks on the line during every phone call. There was still a plain vanilla sedan outside his home on occasion, government plates, but the fat putz inside was easy to handle.

It made Sal laugh to think they actually trusted him.

On the other hand, he had been their star witness half a dozen times already, and they seemed to think he was a man of his word, that he’d stick around to the end. With more freedom than he had had in three years, now was the time to make a break for it. Or at least get the plan in the works.

With his new business in full swing, the money starting to pour in, Sal was consumed around the clock by thoughts of flight. That’s why, on this particular morning, as Sal was getting a piece of tail, his heart really wasn’t in it. He had too much to think about, including tomorrow’s meeting. Sal was getting together with a rich old bastard named Emmett Slaton, Sal’s largest brush-removal competitor. Sal was going to offer Slaton twice what his business was worth. Hell of a deal, most people would say. Of course, the “deal” consisted of a reasonable down payment now, and a balloon payment next year that, in reality, poor old Emmett would never see. It was the same arrangement Sal had with several other area business owners. Better yet, Sal had secured the down payments via a small-business loan at a local bank, another obligation he had no intention of fulfilling. The idea was to have as much money as possible coming in, and as little as possible going out. Then, when the time was right, he’d skip the country, leaving his creditors holding the bag.

If he tried the same stunt back home, he’d wind up with his throat cut and his body tossed in the Hudson River. But down here? Shit-who was gonna stop him?

At ten o’clock Saturday morning, Susannah Branson, senior reporter for the Blanco County Record, wheeled her Toyota into Big Joe’s Restaurant in Johnson City. There was a scattering of vehicles in the parking lot, including John Marlin’s cruiser-a green Dodge Ram pickup issued by the state.

She checked her makeup in the rearview mirror and fluffed her wavy brunette hair. Susannah had been looking forward to the interview with the county game warden for several days. Rumor had it that John Marlin would soon be back on the singles market, and Susannah had had her eye on him for a long time. Ever since high school, actually. He was just her type: a big, strapping guy, with broad shoulders, dark hair, and dark eyes. No sense in wasting time, Susannah thought, and unsnapped one more button on her blouse.

She entered the small cafe and spotted Marlin at a booth, sipping coffee. He rose to greet her. “’Morning, Susannah.”

“John, thanks so much for meeting me,” she said with a smile. She gave him an appraising look. “Have you lost weight?”

“Tapeworm,” Marlin replied.

“Oh, uh, well,” Susannah stammered, unsure whether to laugh. After all, the man was a game warden. Who knew what he might pick up out in the woods? “I know you’re busy today, with opening day and everything, so I won’t take up much of your time.”

“I appreciate that, but this is important stuff. Don’t rush on my account.” Marlin gestured toward the booth and they took a seat.

A waitress quickly took Susannah’s order-coffee only-and scooted away.

Susannah ran her hands through her hair and said, “What we’re working on is a piece that addresses the environmental effects of clearing brush. Any possible effects on wildlife, livestock, et cetera. I figured you’d be the best man to talk to-especially with Trey Sweeney in the shape he’s in.”

Trey Sweeney was the county wildlife biologist-an ace in his field, but somewhat eccentric. Sweeney had recently returned from a vacation in Brazil, where he had contracted a mean case of dengue fever. His health was much better now, but Trey had been acting a little more strangely than usual lately. The previous Saturday night, a deputy had found Trey at the high school football stadium, rooting wildly for the home team. Unfortunately, the football game had been played the night before.

Marlin nodded at Susannah. “I’m glad you called. I think it’s important that the ranchers and other landowners hear the other side of the brush-clearing story.”

Six months ago, with Blanco County in the middle of a severe drought, county commissioners had recommended that residents remove as much brush from their land as possible. After all, brush-chiefly small scrub cedar trees-consumed an enormous amount of surface and ground water. By removing it, residents hoped to replenish the aquifer and pump life back into sluggish wells.

Residents had responded by conducting an all-out assault on cedar trees. Across the countryside, the buzz of chainsaws became as persistent as the droning of summertime cicadas. Huge mounds of cut cedar waited to be burned on every ranch, deer lease, and rural homesite in the county. To date, officials estimated that ten percent of the cedar had been removed. To John Marlin and other wildlife officials, this was cause for alarm. They knew that a drastic change to the ecosystem-like clearing every cedar in the county-could have less visible long-term implications.

Susannah removed a small tape recorder from her satchel. “You mind if I tape this?” she asked. “Helps me get all the quotes right.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Well, Mr. Marlin,” Susannah said with false formality-something she herself found rather charming-“tell me what you think about all this cedar-clearing.”

Marlin paused for a moment and took a sip of coffee. “Let me start by saying that it’s not necessarily a bad idea. But it might not be a good idea, either. We obviously have a water problem, as we’ve all known for some time. Seems like every year we hear about how it’s getting worse. Wells run dry, springs and creeks quit flowing, and Pedernales Reservoir is at a record low, even though we haven’t opened a floodgate since the dam was built. And just looking at the face of it, clearing cedar seems like a good way to attack the problem.”

“But…” Susannah prompted him.