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When Red was done sharing everything he had learned about Garrett, Billy Don said, “Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you’ve been acting like a jerk lately. More than normal. I figured maybe you just didn’t like him.”
“If I didn’t like him, he wouldn’t still be here.”
“So you do like him?”
“That don’t matter either way,” Red said. “The only real question is, did he shove his own dad off the roof?”
The water was still running in the bathroom.
“You think he’s got four hundred thousand bucks in insurance money?” Billy Don asked.
“Well, not on him, but yeah, in a bank somewhere, probably.”
“Why probably?”
“Because they might be holding that money back until the cops close the case.”
“So you don’t know if he’s got that money yet or not,” Billy Don said. “Or if he’ll ever get it.”
“No, but I’m damn sure a lot of people would kill someone for a shot at that much money.”
“Even their own daddy?”
“Things like that happen all the time. Just look in the news.”
“Know what else happens all the time?”
“Huh?”
“You come up with crazy ideas. Maybe his daddy slipped and that’s all there is to it.”
“Hey, I’m just following the facts,” Red said. “And there’s more. When y’all were gone for tacos—I mean, when I thought y’all were gone for tacos, but Garrett was walking around out back—I decided to take a little peek into his backpack and—”
“Jesus.”
“Know what I found?”
“You shouldn’ta looked, Red. That’s his own private property. Can’t believe you did that.”
“Wanna know what I found?”
“Not really.”
“Sure you do. Take a guess.”
Billy Don, trying to be funny, said, “A pair of women’s panties?”
Red started to say no, but then he thought about it and said, “Do they make men’s panties?”
“What?”
“You said it was women’s panties, which made me wonder if—never mind. It wasn’t any kind of panties, it was a gun. Looked like maybe a three-eighty.”
Billy Don shook his head but didn’t say anything.
“Why’s he got a gun?” Red asked.
“That ain’t so weird. You’d carry a gun if you was hitchhiking around the country.”
“Damn right I would, but it’s just the combination of everything in totalness—his dad died, and then Garrett ran away, and then he acted like money was tight, despite all that insurance money, and then I find out he’s got a gun.”
“I wouldn’t say he ran away.”
“He left town.”
“That ain’t running away.”
Red let out a big sigh. “I just knew you’d argue with me about this.”
“I ain’t arguing.”
“Now you’re arguing about arguing.”
“Am not.”
“It never stops.”
“Does too.”
“And what’re the odds he’d be right near that zoo when another dead body was found?” Red asked. He knew he should just drop it, but he couldn’t help himself. The fact that Billy Don thought he was wrong made Red more intent than ever on proving he was right.
“So now you’re thinking he had something to do with that?” Billy Don asked.
“I don’t know if he did or not. That’s the point.”
“What possible reason could he have for killing that guy?”
“Ain’t no way of knowing until we know who the dead guy is. Maybe it was somebody Garrett knew. Maybe they was traveling together. Maybe it was a stranger and Garrett killed him just for the thrill of it. Lot of sickos out there that would do exactly that. Most of the time, people say, ‘Oh, he was such a nice guy. I never figured he’d do something like that.’ Garrett could be like that. Maybe he got a thrill when he killed his dad and it turned him into some kind of psycho.”
“I think you’re letting your ’magination run away from you.”
“Maybe so, but it’s usually right.”
Billy Don opened his mouth to reply, but right then the shower cut off.
Red waved his hands, meaning it was time to shut up.
“You’re nuts,” Billy Don said quietly.
“Leave my nuts out of this,” Red said.
Marlin rounded a bend in the driveway and saw a brown dust-covered Chevy Tahoe parked in front of a singlewide mobile home that appeared fairly new. It had a covered wooden porch—a deck, essentially—that stretched at least twelve feet to each side of the front door. A nice place to hang out and enjoy a cool autumn evening.
You always hear about loners snapping and going on a killing spree. That’s the kind of guy he is.
That’s what Bryce Cauley had said about Trevor Larkin. Was it accurate?
Marlin knew from experience that the vast majority of people who appeared to pose a threat rarely did. Some of those people purposefully cultivated that sort of reputation. They wanted to appear tough or dangerous or unpredictable. Why? You’d have to ask a psychiatrist.
He tapped the brakes and stopped about forty yards from the trailer. Then he grabbed his radio microphone and let the county dispatcher know he’d be out for a few minutes at this address.
He saw no movement. Nobody outside. The trailer was tucked into a small open area surrounded by walls of towering old-growth cedar trees. Lots of privacy. A guy like Trevor Larkin could do just about anything he wanted out here, as long as he didn’t disturb the neighbors, the nearest of whom was roughly a quarter-mile away.
Marlin eased forward and parked his truck behind the Tahoe. He stepped out and closed the truck door firmly. He had no intention of sneaking up on Larkin. After all, he wasn’t serving a warrant or trying to catch him in the act of committing a crime. He was here merely to ask questions. Make Larkin give a statement and commit to a story. Had he been on Darren Meyer’s ranch yesterday morning? If not, where had he been? Who had he been with?
Marlin walked alongside the Tahoe’s driver’s-side window and looked inside. Cluttered and messy, but nothing unusual. Some beer cans on the passenger-side floorboard. Marlin took another step and placed his hand on the hood. Cold. This vehicle hadn’t moved today.
He moved toward the covered porch.
It was quiet out here—no dogs barking, no traffic noises—but as Marlin mounted the front steps, he heard muffled music through the thin walls of the trailer. Not loud. Nothing he recognized. Nothing catchy or commercial or even with any sort of discernible melody. He wasn’t sure how he would classify it, except that it wasn’t good. The lead singer should’ve looked into a different line of work.
Marlin stepped forward and knocked on the flimsy aluminum door.
The music continued, but he heard nothing else. If anyone moved around inside the trailer, he would almost certainly feel it and hear it.
The song ended, and for three seconds, there was nothing but the sound of a jet passing high overhead. Then another song began to play. Something familiar about the intro. Then a woman sang about liking dollars and diamonds and million dollar deals.
Marlin raised his hand and rapped again.
“State game warden!” he called out. “Trevor, you in there?”
No response. The music played on.
“Trevor Larkin!”
Ten seconds passed. Nothing. Marlin rapped even harder.
He waited a full minute, then moved to his left and looked through a window with slightly parted curtains. A nearly empty bedroom. Nothing in it except a group of stacked cardboard boxes and a padded armchair.
He moved to his right, to the window on the opposite side of the door. Same thing here—slightly parted curtains. He peered inside and saw a body facedown on the floor. A man. Couldn’t see his face. Wasn’t tall or slender enough to be Trevor Larkin. But he was wearing blue jeans and a purple T-shirt, which now had a large bloody spot on the back. And he had shaggy blond hair.
Marlin pulled his phone from his pocket and called it in.