Blanco County 03 - Flat Crazy Read Free Page A

early January. But this was Texas, where winter didn’t have much bite, and today the temperature was hovering around seventy. The interior of the vehicle, with the sun shining in, was probably at least eighty.
    “You planning on icing him down?” Marlin asked.
    This time, the passenger replied. He could have been the driver’s twin: middle-aged, wearing freshly creased camos and some sort of safari hat he had probably ordered off the Internet. “Think we need to?”
    “That depends. Where you headed?”
    “Back up to Dallas.”
    Marlin shook his head. Most hunters were knowledgeable, law-abiding, salt-of-the-earth types. In fact, Marlin would stack hunters, as a group, up against the general population any day. But occasionally he ran into a pair like this. Utterly clueless. It was a four-hour drive to Dallas, which meant the venison would have plenty of time to spoil.
    “When you shoot a deer,” Marlin said, “you wanna get the carcass cooled down as soon as possible. This thing would be better quartered and in an ice chest. You realize it’s a violation if you fail to keep the meat in edible condition?”
    “Yes, sir, I understand that,” the passenger replied. “I’ve hunted before.”
    Marlin examined the tag that was attached with twine to the animal’s ear. There were small abbreviations for each month, plus the numbers 1 through 31, running along the border of the tag. “Then you should know you’re supposed to cut the month and date out, rather than marking it with a pen,” Marlin said.
    “Well, uh, we were a little unclear on that,” the man said.
    Marlin glanced down at the Winchester he had noticed lying parallel to the deer. It wasn’t in a rifle case, but was left to slide around in the rear compartment as the vehicle moved. That was dangerous in itself, but the hunters had made an even bigger mistake. “Whose rifle?”
    “Mine,” said the passenger.
    “You mind?” Marlin asked, gesturing toward the rifle.
    “No, go ahead.”
    Marlin lifted the rifle and worked the bolt. It was unloaded, but that wasn’t what concerned him. Around the butt of the stock was an elastic band that was designed to hold bullets. This one was filled to the max.
    “Guess you didn’t do any shooting this weekend,” Marlin said.
    “I was waiting for a nice buck. Could have taken a couple of does.”
    “Good thing you didn’t. This rifle is a thirty-aught-six and you’re hunting with ammo for a three-oh-eight.”
    There was a brief pause as the hunters considered that fact.
    “I, uh—is that a problem? I kinda figured since they were nearly the same caliber…”
    “Thing probably would have blown up in your face,” Marlin said. He heard the driver mutter, “Glen, you dumbass” under his breath. Glen, grimacing with embarrassment, opted to remain quiet for the moment.
    Marlin was about to chastise the men further when he heard his unit number being called over his truck’s radio. “What I want you to do is get some ice on this deer, notch those numbers, and secure this rifle. Put it in a case or something.”
    Both men mumbled that they would, and Marlin told them to have a safe trip.
    Back in his state-issued Dodge Ram, Marlin keyed the radio mike and spoke his unit number. The reply was from Deputy Ernie Turpin: “Hey, John, can you swing over here to Flat Creek Road and take a look at something?”
    “What you got?”
    “Aw, we had a Mexican guy get hit by a truck earlier this morning. Garza was talking to him over at the hospital, and this guy was really freaking out. Said he saw some kind of weird animal chewing on a goat. Anyway, I found the goat, and I was wondering if you could take a look at it. I don’t know what the big deal is, but Garza was getting kind of worked up about it. I called Trey Sweeney, too, and he’s en route.”
    “No problem,” Marlin replied, somewhat puzzled. “Did Garza say what kind of animal this guy saw?” Bobby Garza was the Blanco County sheriff, the