Bone Dry

mocking face-and he slowly, discreetly drew his arm back to throw a punch.

It had been a long night. Smedley’s bones and joints burned. He was hungry. He had to go to the bathroom. And both his captors could benefit from switching to a new brand of deodorant. But the thing that bothered him most was the fact that GQ Todd would have a field day when he found out about all this. Smedley Allen Poindexter, U.S. Deputy Marshal, had been bushwhacked by a couple of rednecks.

Now it was obvious these guys weren’t hit men any more than Smedley was a fashion model. The shorter, skinny one-named Red, if they were using their real names-had told Smedley they were employees of Emmett Slaton’s, and they needed to find the body so the will could be read. I promise, just tell us where the body is. We’ll let ya go and won’t never say how we found it. Ya got my word. Sounded legitimate to Smedley. Unfortunately, Smedley didn’t have the answer. And it was obvious that Red was starting to lose patience. He had taken off in a huff earlier, leaving the big guy, Billy Don, in charge. Maybe Red wasn’t a hit man, but he didn’t necessarily seem like a choirboy, either. Who knew what he might do?

Smedley cursed himself for thinking that thought, because he heard Red’s truck pull up outside-almost as if the redneck had been drawn back to the trailer by Smedley’s ruminations. The truck door slammed, and a moment later Red stomped into the room, moving quickly and deliberately. He was carrying what looked like a DVD player, which he set on one of the desks. The big guy-Billy Don-followed with a large TV set. They started hooking the two components together.

Red glared at Smedley as he fumbled with some cables. “We got a sayin’ out here in the country, mister. ‘If you cain’t run with the big dogs, you better stay on the porch.’ Well, bubba, get ready, ’cause we’re ’bout to find out if you’re a big dog or a little dog.”

After Red and Billy Don had the electronics in place, they grabbed a chair from one of the desks and hoisted Smedley into it, three feet from the television. Red produced another roll of duct tape and made several loops around Smedley’s torso and legs, securing him to the chair. Then he slipped some headphones over Smedley’s ears and ran a few lengths of tape under his chin and over the crown of his head. Lastly, he placed one long strip over Smedley’s mouth.

Red stepped back and smiled at his handiwork. “Yessir, we’re gonna find out ’zackly what kind of man you are.” He turned and pushed the POWER button on the DVD. A freeze-frame image came onto the TV screen, one Smedley instantly recognized, even though he hadn’t seen it for at least twenty years. It was a scene from Hee Haw-a couple of hicks dressed in overalls, preparing to sing a song.

Red gave Smedley one last glance, a look of pure evil on his face. Then he pushed the PLAY button. The bumpkins on the screen began their little ditty.

“Where, oh where, are you tonight?”

Smedley thought this was very strange.

“Why did you leave me here all alone?”

Why on earth were they showing him this old clip?

“I searched the world over and thought I’d found true love.”

Hell, watching Hee Haw would be better than enduring Red’s questions for another eight agonizing hours.

“You met another and-pffft-you was gone.”

Might be kind of fun, actually. A way to break up the tedium.

Then something happened to the image on the screen. It froze for a moment, then returned to the starting point. The two men began singing again, wailing about lost love.

Smedley was hoping it was a malfunction with the DVD…but it happened again. The song ended, the disc backed up, then began again.

And again.

“Whaddaya think?” Billy Don asked.

Red removed his baseball cap and scratched his head. He could see Smedley reclining in the chair in the next room. “Hell, it should work. The CIA boys use this kind of technique all the time. Gets so where a song-even a great song like that one-can plumb drive a man crazy.”

Just as Marlin was about to come around with a surprise haymaker, he felt Bobby Garza’s hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go, John.” Marlin stood firmly for a moment, locking eyes with Vinnie, then allowed Garza to steer him out of the door to the den and down the hallway.

Outside, back in the cruiser, Garza asked, “What the hell was that all about? Some bad blood between you and that kid?”

Marlin asked Garza if he had heard about the assault on Inga earlier that morning. Garza had, of course, but he wasn’t clear on the specifics since he hadn’t seen the report yet.

Marlin said, “The guy that attacked Inga. He used the exact same phrase as our friend Vinnie in there: ‘You got a lot of balls.’”

“You sure about that?”

Marlin gave him a look that said he was sure. “You ever hear anybody using that phrase around here?”

Garza didn’t answer, just fired up the cruiser and left the Mameli property. Finally, he said, “You and this Inga…?”

Marlin knew what Garza was asking. “Just friends.”

Someone other than Garza might have given Marlin a smirk, a Come on, you can tell me look, but the sheriff concentrated on the road ahead. “Didn’t the perp take a pretty good whack in the head, with a lamp or something?”

Marlin nodded. “Yes, but he was wearing a ski mask, which might’ve softened the blow a little, or at least kept him from getting cut. Could’ve walked out of there with nothing more than a lump.”

Garza pointed toward the glove compartment. “Notepad in there. You better start writing an incident report. Jot down everything the Mamelis said. The entire conversation.”

Sal turned to Vinnie and growled, “They got nothin’ on us, right?” His son nodded at him.

“That’s right, Pop. They got dick.”

Sal trusted Vinnie, but this was no small thing. “You sure of dat? I mean abso-fuckin’-lutely, we’re not all going to prison for life sure?”

Vinnie smiled-a killer’s smile, like the one Sal used to have when he was young. “Yeah, Pop. If you only knew what-”

“I don’t wanna hear it! Just so long as everything’s taken care of.”

“We got nothing to worry about, Pop. Trust me.”

Sal wanted to. But what made him nervous was that he had to.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Hank Middleton had been hunting buddies with Frank Ross for twenty-five years. They were so inseparable during deer season, their names would run together when people referred to them. It would be: “I hear Hankenfrank got a nice ten-pointer this morning.” Or, “Looks like Hankenfrank are gonna win the big-buck contest again this year.” And it was true-not a season went by that one of them didn’t bag a fairly respectable trophy, and they always hauled the deer back to Frank’s house on the ATV. Hank knew every detail of that four-wheeler, from the dent in the gas tank down to the Dallas Cowboys sticker on the left rear mudguard. Now, as he exited the convenience store in Johnson City with a twelve-pack of Miller Lite, Hank saw a stranger at the gas pumps refueling Frank’s ATV. A scruffy-looking guy, who kept glancing around nervously. The man was wearing a camo jacket, but it didn’t sit on him right. Like one of those city boys who would come out to a deer lease and try to act country. Sizing him up a little more, Hank figured this guy wasn’t anybody that Frank would associate with. No sir.

So he sauntered casually over to the pumps and said, “Howdy.”

The man smiled back. He had finished with the ATV and was now filling a one-gallon gas can.

“Nice-looking ATV you got there,” Hank said.