Bone Dry

put them out of commission for good. It would be the piece de resistance of his entire campaign. A replay of last night, with an extra little encore at the end.

The two rednecks in the trailer posed a small problem, but Peabody couldn’t see how they could possibly disrupt his plan. It would all happen too quickly, and be too stunning, for them to react in time. He might need a few moments to hot-wire one of the BrushBusters, but he was certain he could accomplish it if he had to. He had learned all types of interesting skills from fellow activists. He had also learned that the men who ran these machines were often foolhardy enough to leave the keys in the ignition.

Afterward, Peabody’s work would be done here. The rednecked sapsucker would be saved. He would gather Inga, load up into the trusty Volvo, and ride off into the activist hall of fame.

It was seven o’clock before Bobby Garza finally got back to his office and logged on to one of the terminals connected to the Department of Public Safety’s computer network. After wrapping up the crime scene at Pedernales Reservoir-sending the body of Emmett Slaton to the M.E.’s office, and the Porsche, the guns, and the dead dog to the lab in Austin-he had left Bill Tatum in charge of the investigation. Then he went home and slept for four hours. The Jack Corey standoff had thoroughly wiped him out, and he was emotionally and physically exhausted. After his short break, though, he felt renewed enough to dive back into the Slaton case.

He had checked in with Bill Tatum, who told him that the body found under the dock was indeed T.J. Gibbs. Tatum was on his way back from Austin after informing the Gibbs family of T.J.’s death. He had spent an hour interviewing the family, but could not discover any link between T.J. and Slaton. He also reported that none of the deputies had run a check yet on either of the handguns found in the Porsche.

Garza was disappointed, but he didn’t quibble. His deputies had been stretched to the max in the last week, and they didn’t need to hear his complaints. Especially when he had just awakened from a midday slumber himself.

So now, sitting at his desk in his office, he accessed the DPS network. He entered the first serial number, the one from the.45 automatic. After a few seconds, the owner was identified as Emmett Howard Slaton. Interesting, but a little disheartening. Garza was afraid the second gun would come back as Slaton’s, too.

He typed in the second serial number and waited. This request took a little longer to process, but the results finally appeared on his screen. Garza frowned.

It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Who the hell is Roberto Ragusa?

Before he could figure it out, the phone on his desk rang. Someone was calling his direct line. Garza answered it. “Good evening, Sheriff, my name is Eugene Kramer. I’m an attorney in Austin.”

“How can I help you?”

“I believe you may know a client of mine. Sal Mameli.”

“Yeah, I know Sal,” Garza said, trying to put as much disapproval into his voice as possible. He expected the lawyer to protest his questioning of Sal about the bribery case. But Garza was in for a surprise.

The attorney said, “Mr. Mameli and I would like to arrange a meeting with you-as soon as possible. Vincent believes he might have some information regarding the murder of Emmett Slaton.”

Marlin was enjoying another wonderful meal prepared by Inga, but he was afraid he wasn’t very good company. He was preoccupied, replaying his conversation with Becky that afternoon.

“Great food,” Marlin said.

Inga smiled. Marlin knew she could sense his mood. He was about to apologize when the phone rang. It was Bobby Garza.

“Can you meet me at my office at eight-thirty?”

“I guess so,” Marlin said. “What’s going on?”

“Something interesting has come up, and I want you to sit in.”

Billy Don was happy to take a break and ride into town for supplies like Red asked. Shit, as far as Billy Don was concerned, this thing with Smedley was going nowhere. That’s because Red had it all wrong. Ain’t no way that guy worked for Sal Mameli. He was too damn nice for that. A couple of times, Billy Don had gone in and talked to him for a few minutes when Red was sleeping. Just another regular guy, friendly as can be. Billy Don hated the way Red was abusing him. In fact, Billy Don had snuck in and turned down the volume before he left, so poor old Smedley wouldn’t go completely cuckoo from listening to that Hee Haw song. As long as Red didn’t check the headphones, he’d never know.

Billy Don pulled into a convenience store and went inside. Just don’t go to that one owned by Ay-rabs, Red had said. Hell, Billy Don didn’t need Red to tell him that.

Inside, Billy Don began loading up a basket with potato chips, pretzels, Slim Jims, and little chocolate donuts. He even threw a package of Twinkies in for Smedley. Billy Don thought Smedley looked like the kind of guy who could appreciate a Twinkie now and again.

Billy Don was making his way toward the counter when the front door opened and Kitty Katz, the TV reporter, walked in. Behind her was Darrell Bridges, the sheriff’s dispatcher. They were giggling about something. Billy Don instinctively turned and strolled casually to the far side of the store.

Kitty and Darrell walked in Billy Don’s direction but stopped at the soda fountain, where they began to fill some cups. Billy Don could tell from the way they were standing, brushing hips on occasion, that they had the hots for each other. It was quiet in the store, so Billy Don couldn’t help but overhear what they were saying.

“Aw, come on, Darrell. Just between you and me,” Kitty cooed.

Darrell glanced around the store and Billy Don pretended to be studying a quart of motor oil.

“All right,” Darrell whispered. “But off the record, okay?”

Billy Don couldn’t see, but Kitty must have batted her long lashes at the dispatcher.

“It was Emmett Slaton’s body in that car,” Darrell said.

Billy Don wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him.

“And there were a couple of guns in there with him,” Darrell went on to say. “A forty-five and a thirty-five. They’re running ballistics down at the lab.”

Billy Don quietly set his basket on the floor, took the long way around the store, and walked out the front door as quickly as he could.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

At precisely eight-thirty, Marlin watched Bobby Garza escort Sal Mameli, who was on crutches, his son Vinnie, and a third man-presumably Sal’s lawyer-into the interview room at the Sheriff’s Department. Marlin was sitting in an adjoining room, watching through a one-way mirror. Beside him were two deputies: Bill Tatum and Rachel Cowan. The lawyer, Kramer, had insisted that Garza conduct the interview alone. (But, Garza had said, he didn’t say anything about spectators.)

“I hear you had quite a commotion out here,” Kramer said, making small talk to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Word travels fast,” Garza replied.

All four men took a seat around the lone table, Sal and Vinnie surveying the room as if they expected cops to be hiding in the corners.

“Before we begin, I would like to lay down a few ground rules,” Kramer said.

Garza nodded.

“Mr. Mameli tells me that you paid him a visit yesterday on an unrelated matter. Considering that my clients are coming forth out of their own concern for the community, I will ask that you restrict your questions to the Slaton case alone. If any questions should stray from that topic, I will advise my clients not to answer. Are we clear on that?”

Marlin knew the lawyer was discouraging Garza from fishing for details about the bribery case. And possibly the attempted rape case, if Vinnie was involved.

Garza kept a poker face. “Agreed.”