Текст книги "The Forsaken"

Автор книги: Ace Atkins

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Diane noticed the old truck following her not two seconds after leaving the Jericho Farm & Ranch. Not that a beat-up white Chevy was strange, but it was clear to her the driver had been waiting. He’d been parked on the gravel, westbound on Cotton Road, and after she drove east, he made a U-turn and kept on her truck real close. She’d promised that these bastards wouldn’t spook her any. She’d decided just to pretend they weren’t even there unless they got too close and she’d call the sheriff to get them off her ass. She headed on to the town square, following up and around, and then spit out the other side of Cotton Road, toward Highway 45, following it past where the old Hollywood Video had been and the Dollar Store, coming up into the lot of the Piggly Wiggly. The storm had torn the ever-living shit out of the Pig, the metal roof of the store sucked into the tornado and most of the goods either taken or given away.

But now, it looked like the same old Pig that had been there since the late sixties. Diane parked in the lot, saw the white Chevy roll past her, up and around the lot, and park back toward the Shell station.

Diane would not let the bastards scare her or change her routine. She wanted to pick up some beef cuts, potatoes, and vegetables for a stew. If someone wanted to make something of it, she had a fully loaded .38 Taurus in her handbag.

Despite all the repairs to the roof and the foundation, not much had changed inside the Pig. They had the same old registers, the same manager’s box perched above the gumball machines, and a little café where they served fried chicken and biscuits. Diane started off in the produce, getting some red potatoes, carrots, onions, and some celery. She wished they had a good bakery in town, tired of all this crummy, tasteless white stuff they kept. She’d never made bread herself, but maybe she needed to learn.

Diane looked over her shoulder, not seeing anyone or anything, and kept on heading over to dairy. She loaded a jug of milk and butter into her cart. The speakers above her were as new as the ceiling, but the manager still played the same music, that soft elevator stuff of not-so-recent hits, an instrumental of Kenny and Dolly’s “Islands in the Stream.”

The butcher shop was along the far back wall and she searched through the plastic-wrapped packages for something cheap, but not too tough, that she could leave simmering in a Crock-Pot. A woman at her church once told her you could leave an old shoe in a Crock-Pot and make it soft. But that wasn’t altogether true. The meat was the base for everything and you might as well spend a little extra.

“Y’all having steaks tonight?” said a man behind her.

She turned to see a short, odd, crummy little guy in thin Liberty overalls wearing a trucker hat. He was somewhere in his seventies and had a nose that looked like a rhubarb.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “do I know you?”

“E. J. Royce,” the man said, smiling.

“Mr. Royce,” she said. “I apologize.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “It’s been a while. I switched over the Co-op on account of it being closer to my house.”

“So I see,” she said. Royce had on a Tibbehah County Co-op trucker’s cap.

“How your boys?”

“Moved away.”

“How old are they?”

Diane told him, and she placed the package of stew meat in her cart and started to turn away. “Good seeing you.”

“And your momma?”

“Not well,” she said. “She has Alzheimer’s.”

Royce edged his cart gently in front of Diane’s, cutting her off, the old man smiling, face chapped and worn. His flannel shirt so thin, it didn’t look like it could stand another washing. “Listen,” he said, “Miss Tull.”

Diane stared at the man. The music above them playing more instrumentals, “Always On My Mind” sounding as syrupy-sweet as possible. She backed away the cart but studied the old man’s face and the eager look in his faded blue eyes. “Did you just follow me?”

“Me?” he said. “No, ma’am. I just came in here to get me some of them Hungry-Man dinners. I swear to you, you don’t need to cook nothing. They make a hell of roast beef and potatoes. But their chicken and gravy is just like something your grandmomma might make.”

“Do you drive an old beat-up Chevy truck?”

“Ma’am,” Royce said, “I don’t want to take much of your time. I just seen you in here and thought to myself, ‘Yep, that’s Diane Tull.’ I was just talking about you the other day with some old buddies. You know, I used to be in law enforcement. I proudly retired after twenty-five years of commitment to this county.”

“What do you want?”

Royce removed his hat, showing he didn’t have hair except on the sides, and scratched his bald head. He didn’t have anything in his cart. She moved back her cart another few inches, wanting to get away but at the same time curious about why Royce was following her. A bearded young man on a motorcycle. And now this old coot. Maybe she just attracted the crazy folks like those bugs to her porch light.

He slid the hat back on his head, leaned his forearms on the cart’s basket, and looked in either direction. “I hear you gotten curious about some things might have happened after y’all had all that trouble.”

Diane Tull looked at Royce right in his cataracted eyes. “What of it.”

“Don’t blame you,” he said. “You may not recall, but me and Sheriff Beckett were the first ones who got to you, after you walked a spell out on Jericho Road. That trucker seen you all bloody and called it in on his CB.”

“I remember.”

Royce nodded, all serious. “God help y’all for what you girls went through.”

“I just came here to make some stew,” she said. “I don’t need anyone laying their hands on me in the meat aisle. I don’t think Jesus makes visits to the Piggly Wiggly.”

“I just think you need to be more appreciative to those who took care of your troubles.”

“Come again?”

“You don’t need to embarrass the folks who looked out for you and Miss Stillwell when y’all needed them,” he said. “You weren’t in no shape to be put through a trial. Things got done that needed to be done.”

“I can’t believe it,” Diane said. “I can’t fucking believe it. You’ve followed me into town to tell me to shut my mouth about y’all hanging an innocent man.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Royce said. “You were nearly dead when they found you, bled-out.”

“I saw the man who did it,” she said. “I saw him six weeks after y’all hung that poor man from the big oak.”

Royce nodded, backing his cart away, showing a path for Diane to follow if she wished. He thumbed at his nose and said, “I think you’re misremembering some things. I think you need to know what was done was in y’all’s best interest.”

“Says who?” Diane said. “I never asked for any of that.”

A fat man on a scooter zipped down the aisle past them, cart loaded down with cookies, white bread, Little Debbie snack pies, and two liters of Diet Dr Pepper. “Good seeing you, ma’am,” Royce said, raising his voice a little, nodding.

“You need to stay away from me.”

“I’m just the messenger, ma’am,” he said. “Some fine folks did the right thing. Don’t go dragging names through the mud. Thank the Lord we had people in this county had the sand.”

Royce rolled the cart away, heading down the cereal aisle to the tune of “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.”

•   •   •

“You want a beer?” Lillie asked.

“Yep.”

“Aren’t you still on duty?” she said, walking into her kitchen.

Quinn loosed his tie and yanked it off his neck, tossing it onto a chair. “Kenny and Dave Cullison are on patrol,” he said. “They’ll call if they need us.”

“You want a Coors or a Bud?”

“Long as it’s cold,” Quinn said.

He sat in a chair in Lillie’s living room, her daughter Rose, now almost two, watching him with suspicion from a big overstuffed sofa. The little girl turned her head to Dora the Explorer, a personal favorite since the little girl found some kind of kinship with the character. They were both brown-skinned girls with brown hair and brown eyes who spoke Spanish. Lille had rescued her from a filthy trailer in north Mississippi in a human-trafficking case and later adopted her as an infant. It had been important to Lillie the girl learned her native language, along with some choice English expressions that were pure Lillie.

Lillie handed him a beer and sat down next to Rose. Lillie had a beer, too, and took a swig. It was nearly 1700. Quinn had to be at the county supervisors’ meeting in an hour to present the monthly crime stats and the budget for the New Year. He would’ve been more excited about a visit to a proctologist.

“When I came home, after my mom got sick, I told myself I’d never stay,” she said. “I had friends and a life in Memphis. This was a job and temporary. But then Sheriff Beckett died and you came home. And now there’s Rose.”

“Lots of ungrateful people.”

“I should have had Sonny Stevens cataloging everything in my home,” she said. “We should have tagged everything in the house so they couldn’t pull that shit.”

On TV, Dora had just befriended a magical talking llama. The llama was apparently also friends with a Spanish-speaking flute.

“They would’ve found another way,” Quinn said. “They would’ve searched the SO’s office and thrown it down there. They had the gun and would have made it work.”

Lillie put her hands over Rose’s ears. “So these goddamn shitbags,” she said, “are working with and knew that sniper.”

“Yep.”

“That sniper not only shot back at me, he was trying to punch your lights out, too.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “He continued to shoot after I got Caddy and Jason in the truck. He was there to tie up loose ends.”

“I hate this,” Lillie said. “But they sure got us beat.”

Lillie took her hands off Rose’s ears. Rose was so intent on the cartoon that she’d barely noticed they’d been talking. The evil Swiper, a bandito fox, lurked in some bushes, waiting for Dora, the magical llama, the flute, and Dora’s monkey.

“How’d you like to attend the county supervisors’ meeting with me?”

“That’s tonight?”

Quinn nodded. He drank some more beer. “Maybe if I keep on drinking for the next hour, I can show up drunk. And they can fire me.”

“They’re going to try and do that anyway.”

“They’re going to try and embarrass me tonight,” Quinn said. “You, too.”

“They may wait for the charges to come.”

“No,” Quinn said. “It’s tonight. Boom heard a couple those sonsabitches conspiring at the County Barn. They have a quorum to ask me to step down until the investigation of us is completed.”

“They can’t do that.”

“Nope,” Quinn said. “But this is the official launch of the mudslinging.”

Lillie tipped back her beer. Her home was a small cottage with beaded-board walls and clean, spare rooms. She had a lot of antiques from her mother, lots of old photos of people who’d lived in Jericho a long time before Quinn and Lillie. Men with big mustaches and boiled shirts and women in thick, ruffled, uncomfortable-looking clothes and tall lace-up boots. On a side table was a framed picture of Lillie and some woman Quinn had never met, dressed-up and seated in some nice restaurant.

“They’re hoping you’ll turn,” Lillie said. “That’s what the talk of manslaughter is about. They want to get me for killing Leonard’s stooge, Burney, and probably try and make that convict my accessory.”

“That’s something,” Quinn said.

“How so?”

“That they are so goddamn stupid, they think I’d sell you out,” Quinn said. “I can’t imagine what they’re hoping to accomplish. What’s their objective here? Just to get us both gone?”

“That seems like a done deal.”

Lillie leaned back into the sofa and reached for a throw to cover Rose’s small body and bare feet. The girl was bright-eyed and beautiful. As she grew, her Indian features became more pronounced. The large black eyes, the nose and high cheekbones. She’d been a miracle for Lillie, even with the tantrums and the night terrors and the screaming that came out of nowhere and grew more intense. Sometimes, Lillie said, she seemed completely detached, trapped inside her own head. They had seen specialists from Jackson to Memphis, everyone realizing whatever abuse and trauma the girl had experienced, even as an infant, wasn’t done with her.

But now, in front of the television, cuddled with Lille and watching Dora, she was happy.

“I got to go,” Quinn said, rising.

Lillie looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, and said, “Give ’em hell.”

Johnny Stagg always hated having to conduct his business in public, once a month, center stage, in the Tibbehah County Building, spending hours talking about things already been decided. But this was the law, had been the law for a hundred years or more, and, as he looked out into the seats, he was surprised to see them filled. The Board of Supervisors meeting wasn’t exactly a hot ticket in Jericho unless you planned on getting your road paved or wanted to complain about logging traffic. Most of the time, folks just asked for an improvement in public utilities, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with them. But here they were, country-come-to-town, wanting to know just what was going to be done about their sheriff killing a fellow lawman in cold blood.

Stagg waited for things to begin, taking center seat on the dais, right next to that fat old Chuck McDougal, who represented District 3, and Mr. Dupuy, who represented District 4 down in Sugar Ditch. Sam Bishop, Jr., ran things within the city limits of Jericho and was the son of a Boy Scout troop leader. Bobby Pickens ran things out toward Drivers Flat, District 5, down into the bottomland that was white, all the way to the border with the Choctaw Nation. You couldn’t rely on Bishop or Pickens. Pickens’s mind could be swayed, but Bishop thought his opinion mattered two shits.

“Call to order,” Stagg said. “Glad to see so many interested faces with us tonight. Mr. McDougal, would you please lead us all in the pledge and a short prayer?”

Dupuy was on his cell phone, talking to some woman he was courting. McDougal had been clipping his fingernails under the dais straight onto the floor. His daddy had been the biggest crook this county had ever seen and he’d have been the same if he’d had half a brain.

McDougal stood, pig-eyed and porky, and put his hand to the American pin on his chest. He gave a lot of effect to saying “under God,” as that had always been his election platform. He told people in Tibbehah that the government wanted to take the Lord out of schools.

Stagg stood, hand on chest, spotting Quinn Colson in the center row. He was in uniform and sitting with the county coroner, a nice-looking piece of tail that the sheriff was fucking. He looked right at Stagg. Stagg nodded to him. Quinn’s expression did not change.

“Lord, please grant our nation’s leaders, in particular our president, some sense of wisdom and Christian values,” McDougal said. “To represent this great God-fearing nation in the ways of our forefathers and not just immigrants.”

Lord, if that boy was dumb as dirt, Stagg thought, he’d cover a few acres.

Stagg watched the Bundren girl lean into Quinn, whisper something, and Colson smile. He couldn’t blame them. McDougal was a Grade A moron.

“Any comments or questions should be held until the end of the agenda,” Stagg said. “We got lots to cover and a packed house. So y’all please bear with us tonight. We’ll go as quickly and efficiently as always.”

There were grading projects, cell phone towers, and a new subdivision plot needed approving. All of them decided on weeks ago, kickbacks already divvied up. There were improvements requested to the old bridge over the Big Black. The Fire Department needed two new vehicles because of those damaged in the storm, and there was a reimbursement needed for the town clerk for prep and copying of tax rolls.

“And we got some property to remove?” Stagg said. “From the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Colson?”

Quinn approached the dais, ramrod straight, and read off a request to remove a Vertex handheld radio, whatever that was, and a 2007 Ford Crown Vic. Both would be headed to salvage.

“We’re also having issues at the SO building,” Colson said. “The roof repairs were patch jobs and have started to leak. We need to look to a permanent solution, along with the damage to two of our holding cells.”

“Fine by me,” Stagg said. “Does the board have any questions?”

Stagg leaned back, stifling a yawn. This was the part of the show that he enjoyed. Colson had his hands flat on the lectern, not showing any emotion in that buzz-cut head of his.

McDougal cleared his throat and leaned forward into his microphone. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I got a few things to discuss that ain’t on this matter but having to deal with sheriff’s business.”

Stagg covered a slight grin with his hand.

“I’ve spent a lot of time out in my district, as I always do, speaking with my constituents who are concerned about this ongoing legal matter with you and Chief Deputy Virgil,” he said, coughing more into his hand. “Have you heard any new information when this inquiry will be done? I’d like to pass on some comfort to my people up in the hills.”

Quinn did not shuffle or move. His eyes just shifted from Stagg to McDougal’s puffy face and reddened cheeks.

“We’ve met with investigators from the DA’s office,” Quinn said. “We’ve answered all their questions.”

McDougal smiled wide. He puckered his mouth and shifted his eyes over at Dupuy’s midnight-black ass. Dupuy dressed tonight like he was on his way to a Sunday fish fry, with a five-button green silk suit with yellow hankie in the pocket. “Mmm-hmm,” McDougal said. “I guess we’re getting some conflicting information. I just spoke to the DA’s office and they said you and Chief Deputy Virgil have been combative and unhelpful.”

“That’s a lie,” Colson said.

“Excuse me?” McDougal said. “Excuse me?”

“I said that’s a lie,” Colson said. “We have been cooperative in what was a justified shooting. If someone says different, they’re either uninformed or stupid.”

Dupuy jerked forward in his chair, eyes wide, Stagg enjoying a fine bit of old-time theater. “Come again, Sheriff? Come again? You don’t think y’all being investigated for killing Police Chief Chappell is important? You think this is some kind of joke? My people take it real serious. Mr. McDougal’s folks, too. I imagine you should know your place around here, Mr. Colson.”

As expected, Sam Bishop, Jr., and Bobby Pickens were silent. They were told to steer clear of things and that was exactly what they’d do if they wanted their projects to go through.

“Sheriff Colson?” Bobby Pickens said.

Stagg turned quick to look at that red-faced peckerhead. Pickens had his hands over his mouth, contemplating this dumb-shit move.

Colson stood there.

“Some on this board feel this investigation into the shooting last April is complicating your sheriff’s duties,” he said. “What do you say?”

“I can do my job the same,” Quinn said. “I stand behind my actions.”

“Yes, sir,” Pickens said.

That goddamn son of a bitch.

“At what point would you step down?” McDougal asked. “If you was arrested?”

From the crowd in the pews, Stagg saw that old drunk Sonny Stevens rise and walk down the aisle to stand with Quinn. God damn, this was fun. The only disappointment was Stevens seemed to be walking in a straight line. And when he started to speak, he didn’t slur his words. “This line of questioning is improper,” Stevens said, “and could and might be slanderous. Sheriff Colson has not been accused of a crime.”

McDougal leaned back into his padded leather seat and belched. Dupuy looked down at his cell phone, starting to text. Stagg nodded and nodded, knowing he was going to have to get through to the whole town, and county, what exactly was at stake. “We’re concerned, Sheriff,” Stagg said. “We are worried about how this affects our people and the county you serve. We’re not saying it has to be permanent, but perhaps until the investigation is completed, you and Deputy Virgil should step down.”

“And when will that be?” Quinn said.

“I guess nobody knows that.”

“Seems to me,” Quinn said, “you know a lot of things before they happen or before they can be found.”

“Sir?”

“I got a busted radio and a patrol car that need to be junked,” Quinn said. “There’s been two burglaries in the county, nine drug arrests, eighteen speeding tickets, and fourteen cases of assault since we last met. That information has been printed and handed out, as always. Are we finished?”

There was a mood in the room, a shifting nervous energy that Stagg could sense and feel and hoped Colson could as well. Lots of whispering and glares among the business owners, the players, and the busybodies in Tibbehah life. No one seemed satisfied with Colson’s answer. He was being put on notice and everyone knew it.

Old Sonny Stevens leaned into Quinn, whispered into his ear. The young man and the old man walked out together. His girlfriend remained alone in the center seat, giving Stagg an Eat shit and die look. Damn, she had a fine little red mouth.

•   •   •

It was early night, darkness at 1930, as Quinn stepped out into the parking lot and saw the Big Green Machine parked sideways and off toward the main road. He and Sonny had parted at the back door, Sonny wanting him to come to his office first thing and work on some strategies to keep the coyotes at bay. “Best thing is to stay focused on the job,” Sonny had said. “That way, when the shitstorm is over, you can hold your head high and stroll through the cannon smoke.”

Boom had done a fine job on the used F-250, Quinn making damn sure to furnish his own vehicle rather than take the tricked-out truck Stagg and the Board of Supervisors had offered when he first took office. This one had a big engine, dually pipes, a roll bar, KC lights, and no strings attached. The Army-green paint gleamed in the fluorescent light from a recent waxing. He hit the unlock button in his coat pocket, his breath coming out in cloud bursts, and got halfway there when he spotted Stagg’s man standing close to his vehicle.

“Cold night, ain’t it?” the man called Ringold said.

Quinn nodded, maintaining eye contact, and opened the door. Hondo was inside, sleeping in the back on a horse blanket. Hondo stirred, yawned, and got to his feet.

“Mr. Stagg would like you and him to meet,” Ringold said.

“What’d you call that in there?”

“In private.”

“If Stagg wants a meet,” Quinn said, “tell him to call Mary Alice at the SO. I’m off duty.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a fresh La Gloria Cubana. He punched the bottom, lit the end, and propped a boot on the truck’s running board.

“It would be in y’all’s best interests.”

“How do you figure?” Quinn said, smoke filling the air.

“Mr. Stagg has a proposition.”

“Should have said it tonight,” Quinn said. “I don’t make deals in back of a jerk shack.”

“You’re a hard one, Ranger,” Ringold said. He grinned a little, wearing a snug-fit denim jacket, Carhartt khakis, and tan combat boots. He kept a chrome Sig Sauer on his belt, as was his right. There was no doubt the man had a permit, but he’d check anyway.

“Good night,” Quinn said.

“Which battalion?”

“Third Batt,” Quinn said. “Fort Benning.”

Ringold nodded. “I knew some of you,” he said. “You know Ricardo Perez?”

“I do,” Quinn said, hanging there, door open. Hondo moved up to the driver’s seat and stood there, poised, growling nice and low.

“I figured,” he said. “I knew him at Fort Bragg.”

Quinn nodded. Ringold waited a beat, like he wanted Quinn to ask him about Bragg and the Special Forces, but Quinn stayed silent, staring at him. Quinn had heard Ringold had been 82nd Airborne and then Special Forces, but him knowing Ricardo was the first proof of it. Ringold brought it up because he wanted Quinn to know who he was dealing with.

“Can I ask you something, Sheriff Colson?”

Quinn nodded.

“Ain’t it hard to slow down?” Ringold said. “Some days, I feel like I’m just itching out of my skin for a little action.”

“What you do now is your call.”

“And what is it that I do?” Ringold said, a streetlight shining off his bald head. He rubbed the stubble on his beard and grinned.

“You walk behind Stagg,” Quinn said.

“Sure,” Ringold said. “But not too far, Sergeant.”

Quinn shrugged. The man was compact and hard, short and muscled, still dressing as if he were on patrol in Kandahar. His eyes were very light, with a strange intensity that was either high intelligence or batshit crazy.

“So you’re saying no to a meet?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mr. Stagg is a man of compromise.”

“We could sit here for the rest of the night and debate what Mr. Stagg is a man of,” Quinn said. “But I’ve got better plans.”

From the reflection in his truck’s side mirror, Quinn saw Ophelia Bundren wandering out of the county building, speaking with Sam Bishop, Jr., and Betty Jo Mize of the Tibbehah Monitor. The old woman leaned into Ophelia, whispered in her ear, and Ophelia walked away with a smile. She joined Quinn at his truck and he opened the passenger door, helping her up into the seat of the tall truck.

Ringold nodded to Quinn as Quinn passed him at the front bumper, neither man moving out of the way, Ringold closing in on Quinn’s personal space. Ringold just stood in Quinn’s headlights, flat-footed and immobile, as he backed out and turned out of the lot and onto the road.

“Just what was that all about?” Ophelia said, staring.

“He wanted to give himself a proper introduction,” Quinn said.