Free Bone Dry (Blanco County Mysteries) by Ben Rehder Page A

Gonna cost you a hunnert bucks.”
     
    “Your box says it’s free.”
     
    “Yeah, they was free to the general pop’lation, but for assholes, they’s a hunnert bucks.”
     
    Slaton reached down to pick up the dog and the biker grabbed his arm in an alarmingly strong grip.
     
    Slaton brought the tire iron down fast and hard and felt the bones give way in the biker’s arm. “Son of a bitch!” the biker yelled and laid down in the bed of the truck, bringing his knees up to protect himself from another blow.
     
    “Now, there,” Slaton said. “That’s how you treat an animal.” He glanced over at the woman, who smiled coolly and exhaled a mouthful of cigarette smoke. She gestured at the dog. “He’s all yours.”
     
    Sitting on his front porch Tuesday afternoon, Slaton remembered that afternoon as if it were yesterday. He had nursed the puppy to good health, and it became a strong, confident dog. For five years, Patton had been his companion, his best buddy, right there by his side day and night. Slaton loved that ornery old mutt, even if he didn’t always come when he was called.
     
    Slaton was heartsick. He had hung around the house all morning, even canceling a doctor’s appointment in San Antonio, waiting to hear the familiar yip at the front door. But it never came. If Patton didn’t show up by sundown, Emmett Slaton just didn’t know what he was going to do.
     
    It was one o’clock now, and Slaton got into his truck to take a slow drive along the county road near his home.
     
    About goddamn time, Vinnie said to himself as Emmett Slaton pulled out of his driveway. Vinnie had been waiting and watching from the same cluster of cedar trees he had hidden in the night before. He grabbed the Hefty bag off the ground and proceeded toward the house. He couldn’t help but grin. His dad would love the poetic symbolism of the act Vinnie was planning. It was pure genius, that’s what it was.
     
    He tried the back door, found it unlocked, and quickly made his way to the master bedroom.
     
    Emmett Slaton returned from his drive feeling worse than ever. No sign of Patton. That damn dog was going to give him more gray hairs than he already had.
     
    Slaton went to the kitchen, hoping to find new messages on his answering machine. He had left word with area kennels, veterinarians, and the county dogcatcher—asking them all to be on the lookout—but the red light stubbornly refused to blink.
     
    Slaton fixed a bourbon on the rocks and went to his den. He flipped the TV on but couldn’t get interested in any of the programs.
     
    He decided to go take a little nap, to give himself plenty of energy to continue his search later that evening.
     
    At his bedroom doorway, he noticed the door was closed. Strange, he thought. He never shut that door because the room got too hot if he did.
     
    He swung the door open and cautiously flipped the light switch. Everything looked normal. Nothing out of place. “Getting paranoid,” he muttered. “Either that or Alzheimer’s.”
     
    He sat on the edge of the bed to pull his boots off, then stood and peeled off his shirt and jeans.
     
    He tugged the blanket back and came face-to-face with a bloody nightmare. He didn’t even realize he was screaming. There, in his bed, was the severed head of his beloved Patton.
     
    Slaton gingerly picked up the head and clutched it to his chest, his screams now subsided to a low moaning wail. He staggered into the bathroom—he didn’t really know why—and placed the head in the sink. He began rinsing it off, watching the blood swirl down the drain.
     
    Even in his grief, the gears in his mind were frantically spinning. The head in the bed—I’ve seen this before, he thought. What was it? A movie?
     
    Then he had it. The Godfather. The scene where the Hollywood producer wakes up in bed with the head of his prize stallion.
     
    The anger—the pure, unadulterated fury—built in Slaton’s heart as it never had before. This was