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Details were sketchy as every available unit headed toward Blanco.
Marlin was in his state truck, following Lauren’s marked county SUV, as they flew south on Highway 281 at ninety miles per hour, lights flashing, goosing the siren occasionally to move any slow-reacting motorists out of the way. Fortunately, traffic was sparse and the roads were dry. Unfortunately, the four-lane divided highway would narrow to a single lane in each direction as they got closer to Blanco.
Ernie Turpin—who’d remained behind to assume command of the crime scene at Trevor Larkin’s trailer—had told them that a young woman, still unidentified, had been shot, possibly in the hand or forearm. Rodney Bauer had also been injured, possibly shot in the shoulder or rib cage as he had rushed the shooter, according to witnesses.
The same witnesses said the shooter was Trevor Larkin, currently on the run.
To make matters worse, Trevor had taken a hostage with him—the young woman named Caitlin from the Dairy Queen. The same young woman who had answered Marlin’s call earlier that afternoon.
As Marlin drove, he had to wonder what Bryce Cauley had been doing at Trevor’s place. Cauley was supposed to be at work. And he’d said he had been avoiding Trevor lately. Was any of that accurate, or had Bryce managed to tell Marlin a good story to divert suspicion from himself?
Marlin had to set that question aside and focus on radio traffic, which was indicating that a search helicopter was en route from DPS headquarters in Austin. Meanwhile, deputies already in Blanco were combing the area, but they hadn’t spotted Trevor’s Tahoe yet.
Wait a second.
Marlin grabbed his microphone and said, “Did you say a Tahoe?”
“Brown Chevy Tahoe,” a voice replied. It was Callie Young, the new deputy. “Witnesses said the subject stated that he was parked next door to the Dairy Queen.”
Marlin said, “His Tahoe was still parked in front of his trailer. I think we need to keep an eye out for a blue Ford Ranger. It’ll have a silver toolbox mounted in the back.”
Bryce Cauley’s truck hadn’t been parked in front of Trevor’s trailer, so Trevor must’ve taken it. It was just a guess, but it made sense, considering that Bryce had probably driven to Trevor’s place. Maybe the Ranger had been parked behind the Tahoe, and Trevor had been in a hurry after killing Bryce.
“I saw one earlier,” said Bobby Garza, who had gotten a head start on Marlin and Lauren from Johnson City and was already in Blanco. “Edge of town, heading north on 281, but that was at least six or seven minutes ago. Can’t confirm the toolbox.”
Marlin and Lauren were passing the T intersection of Highway 290 and Highway 281, about eight miles north of Blanco. If that Ranger had continued north—
Right then, Lauren hit her brakes hard, so Marlin did, too.
“Got my eyes on a blue Ranger northbound on 281,” Lauren said, and now Marlin saw the truck coming this way, going at least eighty.
Lauren took a hard left, jumping her SUV over the curb and onto the grassy median, and Marlin followed right behind her.
The Ranger zoomed past.
Three weeks before things went so wrong at the Dairy Queen, Renee had mentioned to Caitlin and some of the other girls that her grandmother had been moved to an assisted-living facility in Dripping Springs the previous weekend, and since the girls were talking near the kitchen, Trevor could hear it all.
“She didn’t really want to go, but Daddy says she’ll like it after she’s been there a while,” Renee said. “He says it’s a nice place with a lot of activities, but I haven’t been there yet.”
“What’s wrong with her?” Caitlin asked. “I mean, like, physically?”
“She can’t get around very good. And she can’t see much anymore. She hasn’t been able to drive for about a year, so I’ve been doing a lot of her errands, which is a total pain in the ass, to be honest. Not that I mind doing it.”
Trevor thought Renee didn’t sound sympathetic at all.
“What are your parents gonna do with the house and all that land?” Caitlin asked.
“They don’t know yet. Daddy said he might sell it, but that would be sometime next year. He grew up in that house, so I think it’s gonna be hard for him. Plus, there’s so much stuff to get rid of first. We have to go through it all. Some of it will have to go to the thrift store or wherever.”
“That’s so sad.”
“He’s wanting me to go through all her clothes and decide what to toss. She won’t need much stuff at the nursing home. A lot of it is like a hundred years old and completely out of style.”
Caitlin said, “If you need any help, let me know.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I mean it, though. It’d be easier if you had a friend there with you. We could order pizza or something. Have a little party. I bet she has some cool old stuff.”
Maybe thirty minutes later, when Renee was picking up an order from the pass-through counter, Trevor said, “Sorry about your grandma.”
Renee gave him a weird disgusted look, like Were you listening to our private conversation? How creepy are you? Finally, she said, “Thanks,” but Trevor could tell she didn’t mean it at all.
The blue Ford Ranger took the feeder lane onto Highway 290, heading east toward Austin.
Lauren bounced off the median and back onto the pavement, and Marlin stayed with her, just catching a glimpse of the Ranger as it rounded the curve and disappeared from view. If the truck had a silver toolbox, he hadn’t seen it.
Lauren gunned it and quickly began to pull ahead. Marlin’s truck simply wasn’t fast enough to keep up. She swooped onto Highway 290 and gained even more ground.
“Lauren, you see a toolbox?” Marlin said over the radio as he made the curve and straightened out onto 290. She was sixty or seventy yards ahead of him, and the Ranger was at least that far ahead of her, but that wouldn’t last long.
“Not yet,” Lauren said.
Marlin’s truck began to build up a head of speed now, reaching nearly ninety again, and likewise Lauren was quickly gaining on the Ranger.
“You sure about that toolbox?” she asked. “Not seeing one.”
“I’m sure,” Marlin replied.
“He could’ve removed it,” Lauren said.
That didn’t seem likely to Marlin.
“How many occupants?” he asked.
“Looks like one, but the rear window is pretty dark,” she said.
Marlin was fairly certain that none of the windows in Bryce Cauley’s truck had been tinted, but before he could say anything more, Lauren spoke again, addressing the dispatcher and all units listening in.
“Got a break in traffic in both directions, so I’m initiating a stop on this Ranger—possible suspect in the shooting in Blanco. We’re on 290 toward Austin, approximately half a mile east of 281.”
Now she turned her siren on and Marlin did the same.
She recited the license plate number, then said, “Ranger is pulling over on the shoulder.”
They followed the standard procedures for a felony stop.
Lauren stopped behind the truck, but slightly angled to the left, so her engine compartment would provide cover. Marlin angled his truck to the right, so he could cover the passenger side.
They got out of their vehicles, both armed with their M4 rifles. From this distance, it appeared to Marlin that there was only one person in the truck. If there was another person, he or she was either very short or had slid low in the passenger seat.
Lauren used her microphone and PA system to order the driver of the Ranger to stick his hands out the window with the keys and drop them to the pavement. The driver complied.
Lauren instructed the driver to open the door from the outside and exit the vehicle. The driver complied. A beer can fell to the pavement as he stepped out.
There wasn’t any letdown or disappointment, because Marlin had already concluded that it wasn’t the same Ranger, and Trevor Larkin wasn’t driving it. He was right.
The driver was a shirtless Hispanic man in his fifties with a potbelly and a walrus mustache. He was unsteady on his feet and had his hands raised halfway.
“I didn’t do nuthin’!” he called out.
Marlin heard Lauren mutter, “Damn it.”