Blanco County 04 - Guilt Trip Read Free Page A

minutes, he walked the perimeter of the property, five or six acres, working his flashlight, searching for victims—people who might have staggered from the house and then collapsed—or for evidence of what might have caused the explosion. He’d once seen a water heater with a faulty relief valve turn a garage into kindling. Gas leaks, too, were a major problem, so Marlin scanned the backyard to see if the house was fed by a propane tank. There wasn’t one, which was just as well. Now the only question was whether anybody had been trapped inside.
    Coming around the front, Marlin spotted Senior Deputy Bill Tatum near the road, finishing a conversation with the fire chief. Marlin walked over.
    “You bring the weenies?” Tatum asked, nodding toward the flames.
    Marlin grinned. Somebody always broke down and used that corny line. “Any word on Lucas?”
    “Nope. We called his friends, next of kin. Nobody knows where the hell he is.”
    There wasn’t much to say to that. Now it was a waiting game, and the firefighters would give them their answer in a day or two when they sifted through the extinguished rubble.
    “No cars,” Marlin said, noting the empty dirt driveway. There was no carport or garage. Lucas drove a crummy little import, and it was nowhere to be seen.
    Marlin could barely stand the irony. It would be even more of a tragedy if Lucas had died right when he was getting his life straightened out.
    Neither man spoke for several minutes, transfixed by the fire, listening to pine knots popping like fireworks, watching the firefighters do their job.
    Tatum said, “I heard you took a trip up to Dallas last weekend.”
    Sparks flew high as the west wall of the house buckled and collapsed inward.
    “Just visiting an old friend,” Marlin said, as fat marbles of rain began to fall.
    Senator Dylan Herzog was sitting in front of a rancher named Chuck Hamm, and he felt like a kid called to the principal’s office for shooting spitwads. Hamm was leaning back in a leather chair behind an obscenely large desk made from burnished walnut.
    “You know it’s a goddamn impossibility, don’t you?” Hamm said.
    Herzog nodded. He continued to stare at the calfskin rug on the floor. Sunday evening now, and his insides were still jelly. One phone call. Hard to believe that’s all it took to drop his life into a blender and hit PUREE . He’d been reluctant to take his troubles to Hamm, but Herzog hadn’t been able to think of any alternatives.
    Hamm said, “Even if we did what he’s asking—and we damn sure ain’t—it wouldn’t make no difference anyhow. Didn’t this moron realize that?”
    Herzog shook his head, noticing, of course, the rancher’s presumptuous use of “we” instead of “you.” “I tried to reason with him,” Herzog lied, “but he wouldn’t listen. You know how those guys are. Like rabid dogs.”
    Hamm grunted, a sound that befitted his personality. “I mean even you—the all-powerful senator—you can’t do it all on your own. Didn’t you point that out?”
    Herzog hated Hamm’s smug sarcasm. “I’m afraid this man couldn’t grasp the fundamentals of legislation.”
    “And you got no idea who he is?”
    “Unfortunately, no.”
    “Someone you know, maybe? Someone you met already?”
    “Could be, Chuck, I really don’t know. You have to understand, this fencing issue makes people angry as hell. I get letters, phone calls, e-mails.”
    “You think it was one of them?”
    “I guess it’s a possibility, but the point is, there are plenty of people it could be. That’s what makes this such a difficult problem.”
    “You didn’t get a number off your caller ID?”
    Herzog shook his head. “Came through as unavailable.”
    Hamm eyed Herzog over the rim of a bourbon glass. It made the senator squirm. Hamm was tall, like Herzog, but older and heavier. Most of the extra weight was stored in a belly that strained the lower buttons on Hamm’s shirts, but underneath the flab one could