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Marlin was following the blood trail, moving through an area thick with cedars, when he spotted a dilapidated box blind tucked under a large oak tree. The blind was built from plywood, now warping, and coated with green paint that had faded over time. It had been here a long time—well before Darren Meyer had bought the place. Small horizontal windows on every side of the blind were open, allowing Marlin to see straight through the front of the blind and out the back. As far as he could tell, the blind was unoccupied, but the open windows made him think the blind had been used recently.
“State game warden!” he called again, with his .357 still in his hand.
No response.
Watching for movement inside the blind, Marlin slowly made a wide circle to the rear. The small door in back was open and it was clear by now that nobody was inside.
Marlin took a step closer and peered inside. He spotted a lighter and half a joint resting on a small shelf underneath the front window of the blind.
Any benefit of the doubt Marlin had been holding for this guy was quickly disappearing. Had the man been too stoned earlier to understand the situation? Or had he recognized that Marlin was a game warden but pointed the rifle because his judgment was impaired?
Marlin holstered his .357 and snapped several photos of the lighter and the joint, but he left the items where they were.
While he still had his phone out, he opened Google Maps and saw that he was no more than two hundred yards from the house, which was to the southwest. Not a surprise, because a worn path behind the blind led in that direction.
Marlin pulled his revolver again and followed the path slowly, stopping every few minutes to listen. He kept his eyes open, too, but the land was thickly wooded and he couldn’t see farther than thirty or forty yards in most places. When he was roughly one hundred yards from the house, he still hadn’t been able to spot it through the trees.
He pressed on, keenly aware that, with each step, he was moving farther away from Bobby Garza and his deputies.
When he was perhaps seventy yards from the house, he saw movement through the trees. Something brown or gray. A deer? Some other animal? The man with the rifle? It had been nothing more than a quick glimpse, and now it was gone.
Marlin took a few more steps, and then he heard the boom of a rifle shot from somewhere fairly close.
Marlin quickly ducked behind an oak tree and waited.
Was that a warning shot meant to scare him? Time to request backup.
Marlin reached for his microphone, and at the same time, he heard a vehicle door slamming, then the sound of an engine starting, followed by a flash of white visible through the trees. A Chevy truck was coming this way fast on the caliche driveway.
Marlin stepped into the roadway with his revolver in his hands.
Now the truck was thirty yards away and closing fast.
Marlin raised the revolver and yelled, “State game warden!”
The driver accelerated, slinging gravel as he gunned the engine.
Marlin’s finger tightened on the trigger, but there was too much glare off the windshield to see the driver. Marlin darted to his right, off the driveway, and the truck roared past him.
Marlin holstered his revolver again and began to run after the truck.
The Chevy rounded a bend and disappeared from view. Just a few seconds later, Marlin heard a loud crash.
He knew exactly what the noise was. The driver had just plowed through the locked gate.
“Problem is, I didn’t get a good look at the guy when he pointed the rifle at me,” Marlin said.
“That’ll shake you up, having a carbine aimed in your direction,” Bobby Garza said.
“Tell me about it. My hands are still shaking, but don’t tell anybody.”
“Our little secret,” Garza said. “Don’t want to ruin your reputation as the steel-nerved badass.”
Thirty minutes had passed since the white Chevy had burst through the gate, and deputies had already located the truck three miles south on a quiet county road. It had significant front-end damage and a busted radiator. But no driver. The license plate on the truck came back to Darren Meyer, so that was no help—not until they could talk to Meyer.
Right after the truck had fled, Marlin and Ernie Turpin approached Meyer’s house, guns drawn, but they hadn’t seen anybody else around. They weren’t able to search the house, because, despite the circumstances, they had no legal authority to enter. Could be someone inside. Or maybe not. They pounded on the door, but nobody responded. Marlin had called Meyer again and left another voicemail, stressing that it was urgent that they talk as soon as possible.
Now Marlin said, “He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, and it looked like he had a week’s worth of stubble or maybe a full beard. If he shaves that off and loses the cap and glasses, I don’t think I could pick him out. In fact, I know I couldn’t.”
“But you’re sure it wasn’t Darren Meyer?” Bobby Garza asked.
They were standing on the shoulder of the highway, not far from the destroyed gate.
“Yeah, it wasn’t him. This guy was younger. Too tall. Different build.”
“How tall?”
“I’d say six three,” Marlin said. “Not skinny, but slender.”
“That helps,” Garza said. “We can work with that.”
Marlin was skeptical. The sheriff was trying to be optimistic.
“I’m hoping Meyer knows who it was,” Marlin said.
If the man had been a trespassing poacher, it might prove impossible to identify him.
“Tell me about the shot through the trees,” Garza said.
“Didn’t see who fired it. I have no idea if it was a warning shot or what. I couldn’t see the shooter and I doubt he could see me, but I don’t know for sure.”
“How much time between the shot and sound of the truck starting?”
“Two or three seconds. And he came at me—the guy in the truck—I can’t say if it was the same guy who pointed the rifle. I didn’t get a good look. Glare on the windshield.”
They both knew they couldn’t just assume it was the same guy. It very well might be, but Marlin would need to back it up with evidence.
“What’s happening at the zoo?” Marlin asked.
“Lem just removed the body a few minutes ago,” Garza said, referring to Lem Tucker, the medical examiner. “He put the time of death at about four or five this morning, but he might tweak that estimate later, after the autopsy.”
“When will that be?”
“Tomorrow. I’m hoping he can figure out what caused the wound to the neck.”
“Gunshot?” Marlin asked.
“Maybe, but if it was, it didn’t exit.”
Marlin was interested in the details of Garza’s case, but right now, with adrenaline still pumping, he was focused on identifying the man who’d aimed the rifle at him, and determining whether the same man had tried to run him down.