Bone Dry

you are no doubt aware, they informed me that Mr. Slaton is missing.”

“Yessir, I was the one that discovered the problem. Called it in last night.”

“I see. In any case, in a situation such as this, I’ve been instructed to contact you regarding Mr. Slaton’s brush-removal business.”

Just then, there was a shot outside.

“Uh, everything all right over there? Was that a gunshot?” Cannon asked.

“Just the TV,” Red said. “Go on with what you were sayin’.”

“Well, Mr. Slaton had-or has, rather-confidence in your abilities to run the business. Several months ago, he instructed me, in the event that he is incapacitated, to appoint you as vice president of operations of the company.”

Red’s throat went dry. He reached for a beer on the bar and took a large swig.

“Are you there, Mr. O’Brien?”

“I’m here,” Red croaked.

“I know this is rather sudden, but I do have all the proper papers here in front of me. I can have them couriered out to you tomorrow, if you’d like. That is, if you’re interested in the position.”

Red’s mind was racing so fast, he could barely hear the voice on the other end. Me? Vice president of something? Vice presidents drove Cadillacs and smoked big cigars!

“Mr. O’Brien?”

“Well, hell yeah, I’m interested,” Red managed to blurt. “Now, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means you’d be responsible for lining up new customers, assigning projects to the work crews…just managing the day-to-day operations of the company in general.”

Red thought that over for a minute. “You mean I wouldn’t be runnin’ a BrushBuster myself?”

Cannon chuckled. “No, not as a vice president. I should also mention that the position includes a fifty-percent salary increase.”

Red’s knees buckled and he had to grab the bar for support.

Fifty percent! That was nearly one and a half times what he was making now! “That sounds fair,” Red said.

“Further, he has instructed me to inform you that, in the event of his demise, he has bequeathed the company to you.”

Now Red slumped to the floor, pulling the phone with him. He was having a hard time catching his breath. Suddenly, that fifty-percent raise seemed like small potatoes. He’d have to look up the word bequeath, but he was pretty sure it meant Mr. Slaton had left the company to Red in his will.

“Are you okay, Mr. O’Brien?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Red panted. “It’s just, with Mr. Slaton missin’ and all…”

“Yes, I understand. It’s a very difficult and sad time for us all.”

Red was thinking fast now, his mind buzzing. This all seemed too easy. Things didn’t just fall into your lap like this.

“Of course, for now, we all just have to wait and see what develops,” Cannon said.

There it was. Red knew there had to be a catch. “You mean, like, they haven’t declared him dead yet-”

“Well, no. Probably not until they find… well, to be direct, not until they find a body. Until they do, this matter could be tied up for months. Maybe even years.”

Red’s spirits dropped for a moment, but he consoled himself with the whopping promotion and raise he had just received.

Cannon said he would make arrangements to have the paperwork delivered to Red’s home, and then wished Red a good night.

Red hung up the phone, still sitting on the floor. Billy Don stepped through the screen-door frame carrying a large raccoon by the tail. “I got one, Red! A big sumbitch!”

Red rose from the floor and took the dead animal out of Billy Don’s hands. “Screw that coon,” Red said, tossing it back out the door. “Tonight we’re doin’ it up right.”

Billy Don’s eye grew large. “You mean…?”

“Hell, yeah,” Red said proudly. “We’re eatin’ at Dairy Queen.”

Marlin was slumped in a chair in front of his television set, exhausted by the events at the sheriff’s office. The adrenaline rush had finally subsided and left a bone-weary void in its place. He had stopped at Blanco County Hospital on the way home to have his bite wound treated, and now he was ready for a quiet night Marlin had the TV tuned to KHIL, a station that covered half a dozen counties in the Hill Country west of Austin. The situation at the sheriff’s office was, of course, the big story, and they had preempted regular programming to carry live coverage.

As the reporter droned on, Marlin wondered how long it would be before Garza decided to take action. Would he wait Corey out, or make a move of his own? Marlin had no idea what the experts advised in hostage situations. But he did know that it would be a fairly simple matter to knock down the wooden door and take Jack Corey out for good. Theoretically, Wylie would have sense enough to know something like that might be coming, and he’d stay hunkered on the floor, out of the line of fire.

If only Corey would give it up-just let Wylie walk out of there before things got even more out of hand-Marlin might feel a little better about it all. As it stood, Corey was under the impression that Marlin was planning to launch his own investigation into the murder of Bert Gammel. I flat-out lied to the guy, Marlin thought. But what the hell was I supposed to do? Bobby Garza had agreed that Marlin had handled it just right. When Marlin had told Garza what Corey wanted, Garza had simply shaken his head and said, I’d say we’ve got our man already, right in there. The thing was, Marlin was inclined to agree. He wanted to believe in Corey’s innocence, but there were just too many things stacked against him. The tire tracks. The muddy boots. The motive. If the DNA came back against him, it was Corey’s one-way ticket to Huntsville.

Marlin shook his head and tried to drive it all from his mind. Why the hell should I feel bad about all this? After all, the lie had gotten the results everyone wanted: They now knew that Wylie was stable, not in need of immediate medical attention. The deputy would probably need surgery on his hand, but there wasn’t any hope of reattaching the thumb because there wasn’t any thumb left to reattach.

Marlin fetched a beer from the fridge and settled back into the chair. Then the reporter-standing in a harsh circle of light, the sheriff’s office in the distant background-reminded Marlin of the other big screwup that was bothering him tonight. Glowering into the camera, the reporter said,

“As we mentioned earlier in our broadcast, the events at the sheriff’s station aren’t the only problems facing the local law-enforcement community tonight. We also have reports of a fugitive on the loose here in Blanco County. Earlier this evening, the area game warden arrested a man for assault and was transporting him to the jail for booking. According to Sheriff Bobby Garza, in the turmoil resulting from the hostage situation, the current fugitive-Thomas Collin Peabody-managed to free himself from the game warden’s vehicle and escape on foot. He is, however, handcuffed, and authorities do not consider him a danger to the community.”

Just great, Marlin thought, feeling like an idiot. While he had been inside the sheriff’s office with Corey, Marlin had completely forgotten about Peabody. He should have asked Garza to put a deputy on Peabody, but it had slipped his mind.

He hadn’t figured the guy as a flight risk-and on top of that, his hands were cuffed behind him. But the little scumbag had slipped away, probably just to spite Marlin. Normally, Marlin would have expected some good-natured ribbing from the deputies, but nobody had said a word. Probably because Marlin had just successfully negotiated with an armed gunman, a probable murderer.

Oh, well, Marlin thought. Too late to do anything about Peabody now. At least the damn reporter didn’t mention me by name.

“We have been unable to reach Game Warden John Marlin for comment.