of his head.
Corey exploded toward him. “Don’t goddamn lie! At least be a man, own up to what you done!” Corey made a gesture with the gun, as if he was tempted to aim it at Wylie, but he pointed it back at the floor. Corey continued, his words nearly sobs now. “I thought it was all over, man! He was gonna shoot me and say I was tryin’ to escape or somethin’. So I spun around, grabbed for the gun, and it went off.”
Marlin held both hands up, palms out. “Take it easy, Corey. Settle down. I believe you.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, though. Marlin wasn’t sure what to believe at this point. It seemed to appease Corey, however, and he returned to the door.
“Now, I can see you’re awfully pissed off, Jack. And hell, I don’t blame you. You’ve really been through the wringer in the last twenty-four hours. But I gotta tell you, Wylie is gonna need some medical attention real soon.”
“Screw him.”
Marlin tried a small laugh. “I’ve felt that way many times myself. Let’s face it: The guy can be a real asshole.”
Corey nodded, wiping his sleeve across his nose.
Marlin said, “But are you gonna let an asshole ruin the rest of your life for you? You’re not in too deep yet, Jack. I mean, most people could understand what you’ve done so far. You’ve been under a lot of stress, you’re scared… and then, to have a gun at your head? Most people would do the same thing. And, like you say, if you had nothing to do with Bert Gammel, you could still come out of this okay.” Corey seemed to be listening, relieved that someone was finally taking his side. Now Marlin had to go for the big payoff. “But Jack, listen to me, man. You gotta let Wylie go. He needs a doctor.”
“Forget it.”
“But-”
On that point, Marlin couldn’t lie. It would be too obvious. Marlin reached into his shirt pocket and removed the package of Red Man he had been carrying. “Want that chew now?” He slid the package across the floor to Corey’s feet.
Corey eyed Marlin for a second, then slumped to a sitting position on the floor, his back still against the door. He opened the package and stuffed a wad into his mouth.
Corey chewed in silence for a few minutes, the ritual seeming to calm his nerves somewhat. He spat in the corner behind the door and said, “I didn’t call you in here to see about Wylie anyway. I asked for you because you’re the only one who seems to believe that I didn’t shoot Bert Gammel.”
Marlin tried to sound sincere. “If you say you didn’t do it, then as far as I’m concerned, you didn’t.”
“That’s why I need you to find out who did.”
“Do what?” Marlin was taken aback.
“Forget Wylie and the other deputies-I want
Marlin wrestled with his answer for a moment, wanting to choose the right words. “Jack, I appreciate your faith in me. I really do. But it’s not that easy. See, I’m not trained for this kind of investigation. But Wylie-”
“Forget Wylie! He’s the one who got me in this mess to begin with. He’s not leaving until we get this straightened out.” Both men glanced at Wylie, who glared back in contempt.
“Well, then,” Marlin said, “what about Bobby Garza? You trust him, don’t you? He’s a good man.”
Corey fidgeted with the package of Red Man. “Yeah, I guess he’s all right. But even he said that the evidence don’t look good.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, staring at the floor. He looked sad, defeated. In a quiet voice, he pleaded: “John, you gotta help me, man. You’re the only one who can do it. You’re like me, born around here. You know everybody, and you can find the guy who done it.”
Corey was giving Marlin an opening here, some leverage to negotiate. And Marlin intended to use it, even though he’d have to lie. “Tell you what. If you’ll let me come back in with some medical supplies, to fix Wylie up a little….”
Corey raised his eyes to meet Marlin’s. “Then you’ll do it? You’ll help me out?”
Marlin nodded. “I’ll do everything I can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Raccoon meat was a lot tastier than most people gave it credit for; Red knew that firsthand. Most people were just too uppity to try that kind of thing, though. Hell, back when Red was a boy, he’d wander the hills late at night, just him, a spotlight, and his rusty single-shot.22. If he was lucky, he’d come home with a couple of fat coons and his mother would make a big pot of stew the next day. Nowadays, Red liked his raccoon barbecued or chicken- fried.
He wasn’t quite the all-out hunter he used to be, either, preferring instead to let the coons come to him. He and Billy Don had worked out a pretty good system. They had a deer feeder set up in the oak trees about thirty yards behind Red’s mobile home, and the raccoons just couldn’t resist such an easy meal. They’d come ambling along just after dark and eat all the corn they could stuff into their greedy little faces.
So Red and Billy Don would sit on the back porch, an ice chest full of beer between them, Billy Don working the spotlight, Red doing the shooting because he was a much better shot, even if Billy Don wouldn’t admit it. They couldn’t do this more than once or twice a month, because the coons got gun-shy pretty darn quick. Plus, after you shot up the local population, it took awhile for other neighbor coons to come along and fill the gap.
On this particular evening, the hunting was pretty bad. They had seen only one coon, a big, fat bastard, and Red had missed it. They had resigned themselves to the fact that they’d have to eat store-bought food for dinner- Red wanting a frozen pizza, Billy Don arguing for burritos-when the phone rang inside.
Red rose to answer it. “Don’t be shining that light all over creation while I’m gone or you’ll scare ’em all away,” he said, as he opened the screen door. He always forgot that he didn’t need to open the door-the mesh screen had been missing for several months and he could just step right through the frame-but old habits die hard.
Red answered the phone as he always did: “Barney’s Whorehouse, home of the two-for-one special.” There was a moment of silence on the other end, and then: “Uh, Red O’Brien, please.”
“You got him. Who’s this?”
“Yes, Mr. O’Brien, my name is Harold Cannon. I’m an attorney in Austin.”
“An attorney? Zat the same as a lawyer?”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Well, then, whatever she’s sayin’, the kid ain’t mine.”
“Pardon me?”
Red chuckled. Some people just didn’t know a joke when they heard one. “I’m just funnin’ with ya, Harold.”
“Yes, I see. Sorry about that. Anyway, the reason I’m calling concerns Emmett Slaton, who is one of my clients.”
With that, Red’s smile slowly disappeared. It had been a full day now, and Mr. Slaton was still missing. Red had called the Sheriff’s Department earlier that afternoon, but they said there had been no progress on the case. It was the darnedest thing: Ever since last night, Red had had this strange feeling in his gut, something he couldn’t identify and had never experienced before. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might actually be concern for a fellow human being-or maybe gas pains.
“I’ve been trying to reach Mr. Slaton for the last twenty-four hours,” Cannon continued, “regarding some routine matters. But when my calls went unreturned, I got a little worried. See…how can I put this delicately? …Mr. Slaton has a medical condition, and I was afraid he might be having some trouble, all alone at his residence. This afternoon, I called the local police, just to have them stop by and make sure everything was okay. Unfortunately, as
