Текст книги "The Forsaken"

And how’d that go?” Quinn asked.

“Terrible,” Lillie said. “Just god-awful. Am I getting overtime for this shit?”

“What’d he say?”

“Before or after he threw up?”

“Does it matter?” Quinn said.

They’d met up at the Sonic around eleven, the Sonic already closed, Lillie crawling up into the cab of the Big Green Machine. Quinn had the motor going, blowing the heat on high, while they talked. The snow had slowed. Not a single car passed them on the road into town. Everything as quiet as Christmas.

“He said the lynching hadn’t been his idea,” Lillie said. “He said it had all been Chains LeDoux and some fella named Big Doug. You ever heard that name?”

Quinn shook his head. He reached down into the console between them and grabbed his Thermos. He poured some into his cup and offered it to Lillie.

“Hell, I want to go to bed,” she said. “Last thing I need is some caffeine, with this all pinging around in my head. Hank Stillwell may be the saddest man I’ve ever witnessed. He said he’s felt bad the rest of his life for what they did to that poor fella. He admits to being with the gang when they went up into the hills and grabbed him. But when they decided on more than a beating, he took his motorcycle and drove off. He said he went down to Gulf Shores, Alabama, and stayed there for almost two years. Said he worked on fishing boats.”

“So who saw the lynching?”

“He named a lot of folks and I wrote them all down,” Lillie said. “But there was only one name that jumped out at me.”

“Yep.”

“Funny, how you can know a person.”

“Or not know a person,” Quinn said. “There’s a lot about my daddy I don’t know or care to know. I’m just surprised something like this happened in Tibbehah. I figured any bad shit would’ve happened on the West Coast. Why would he be so almighty stupid to fall in with some shitbirds like this? He’d already made a name for himself.”

Lillie and Quinn sat together in the truck, the scanner breaking up the silence with the voice of a new woman they had on nights. She was talking back and forth with Kenny, who was doing a wellness check on an old couple living in Dogtown.

“I’ve heard a lot of stories about Jason Colson,” Lillie said, “but not a single one about him being mean or having a temper.”

“I don’t think this was a usual situation,” Quinn said. “In times of stress, people come unglued. They don’t act themselves. This was right after a fourteen-year-old girl is murdered. Another is raped.”

“I asked why they targeted this man,” Lillie said. “I kept on wondering was it just because he was there? You know, the first black man they could find? But Stillwell said no. He said someone down in Sugar Ditch had named him. Said the son of a bitch was crazy as hell and had sold off the gold cross that had belonged to Lori. Stillwell said that over and over. ‘He had the cross.’”

“That’s pretty damning.”

“Turns out, this man had found her stuff, her purse, and some other personal items in the trash,” Lillie said. “Man was a drifter. He lived out of trash cans and dumpsters.”

Quinn drank some coffee, warming his hands on the cup. An 18-wheeler passed the Sonic, driving at a high rate of speed. If he hadn’t been busy, he might have chased the guy, told him this was a just a small town, but it was his town and did he mind taking it easy when he came to Jericho.

“So what was he doing at the Rebel?” Quinn asked. “With the stripper and Stagg?”

“I’m getting to that,” Lillie said. “Hold on.”

Quinn sipped on the black coffee, recalling a tin cup of instant being knocked out of his hand in a dry creek bed in the AFG. A sniper up in the rocky hills taking aim, thinking Quinn’s team was coming for him and the twenty insurgents hidden in a cave. No one knowing where to find the sonsabitches until they started shooting. The bullet had gone through the cup and off his breastplate. And then there had been a lot of smoke bombs, flash bangs, and nearly twenty-four hours of zigzagging up that craggy face until they got to the mouth of that cave and brought those boys out, one by one, each replacing the next, until there was nothing left but that cold wind.

“Johnny Stagg took his Road Runner,” Lillie said, “he didn’t just out-and-out steal it. But took the paper in exchange for a thousand dollars due in a month.”

“You got to hand it to Stagg,” Quinn said, “he is one prismatic son of a bitch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And the stripper was an incentive?”

“Nope,” Lillie said. “She was just giving him a ride home.”

“God bless her.”

“But when I found Stillwell, mind you, he was crashed out on the rug in his living room,” Lillie said. “I had to put the toe of my boot up under his chin a few times before he came to. He was a mess. He looked up at me and acted like I had caught him doing something. And so what do you do? I acted like I sure had caught him. He got to his knees—that’s when he threw up the first time. Good Lord, if vomiting was an Olympic sport . . .”

“What’d he say?”

Another semi blew past the Sonic, not noticing the light bars on top of Quinn’s truck or any of the thirty-five-miles-an-hour signs posted. “Should we chase them down?” Lillie said. “Once you got kids, these fuckers really start to piss you off.”

“What’d he say?”

Lillie tilted her head, placed her hands on her thighs, and shook her head. “This wasn’t the first or only money he’d been taking from Stagg.”

Quinn waited. He reached for a dead cigar in his ashtray. Lillie reached out and touched his hands. “Wait until I leave,” she said, “OK?”

Quinn nodded.

“Stagg paid him two thousand dollars to talk to Diane Tull,” Lillie said. “Stagg told him to get her good and stoked and to go to the police about Lori. That piece of shit knew it wouldn’t take two steps before we’d get on to the lynching. That’s a man full of a lot of worry. He must have something real bad going with these Born Loser folks.”

“Did you ask Stillwell about it?”

“Yeah,” Lillie said. “And he was about to answer when his head dropped in the toilet. I had to drag him to the sofa, and even took off his boots. He could use a new pair of socks, every toe sticking out of a hole.”

•   •   •

Most mornings, before driving back to the farm, Quinn would check up on the progress of his mother’s house in town. The contractor got paid by the hour and, every time Quinn checked, the man was there right at 0600. He’d had a lot of work to do beyond just putting the roof back together. There was some bad structural damage to the brick walls, and a lot of plumbing, wiring, and flooring had to be restored. Today, the front door was unlocked and open, the contractor not there, as he’d finished two days before.

The house where Quinn had grown up was oddly empty and strange. They’d moved most of his mother’s furniture, appliances, and Elvis memorabilia into a storage unit. A good two-thirds of the house was pretty much the same, but the new section didn’t have the old blue carpet or the popcorn ceiling. The smell was different, of fresh-cut wood and glue, and the windows were different. Instead of the old wood frames, there was modern, energy-efficient vinyl.

Quinn missed the old windows. He was walking over to inspect the glass and casing when he saw a car pull into the drive. Jean Colson got out of the car, opened the hatch, and lifted out a box. Quinn met her in the driveway and helped her carry a few more boxes into the house.

“Looks like they haven’t finished the paint,” Quinn said, “just the primer.”

“I was coming to town anyway,” Jean said. “Figured I’d just bring back some pots, pans, and few cups and plates.”

“There’s no rush to leave the farm,” Quinn said. “That house is yours as much as mine. Hell, you grew up there.”

“I appreciate that,” Jean said. “But that old house hasn’t but one bathroom. I prefer having my own, thank you very much.”

Quinn shrugged as Jean walked through the rooms and stared up at the ceiling, the place where that ragged hole had been after the tornado and, for months after, a blue tarp. She walked back to her big empty bedroom and into the kitchen, where some new stainless steel appliances had been installed, the insurance paying out for all the storm damage.

“What do you think?” Quinn said.

“Looks good,” she said. “I still wouldn’t mind closing off that porch, maybe adding in screen.”

“There’s always time for additions,” Quinn said. “But you got a roof over your head, a new kitchen, and some new windows.”

“The windows don’t match.”

Quinn nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Are you doing all right?” she asked.

“I’ve been on duty all night, Momma,” Quinn said. “I just came by to make sure things were locked up.”

“I got a key yesterday,” she said, eyeing him. “There’s not much to steal.”

“Boom and I can help you when you’re ready,” Quinn said, “but I kind of got used to your cooking.”

Jean smiled. “You don’t need me,” she said. “You got Ophelia to do all that.”

“You ever eaten her food?”

“Bad?” Jean said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

Jean felt along the walls where the Sheetrock had been taped and mudded. Her heels clacked loudly in the open living room as she glanced around at all the space she’d have to fill again. She’d never mentioned it, but Quinn knew she was proud of the home for holding together during the storm. She and his father had bought the one-level ranch in 1982 and it was pretty much all he remembered. From time to time, Jason would still find some of Quinn’s buried G.I. Joes in the backyard, his and Caddy’s old play fort still up in some pine trees in the backyard.

“I might move to town,” Quinn said, “let Caddy and Jason have the farm until they get situated. She talked about using that old trailer at The River. But I don’t want Jason out there. She’ll get settled, but I don’t want her to rush.”

“Where will you go?”

“I had an invite to move in with Ophelia,” Quinn said.

Jean smiled. “I wondered how long that would take.”

“No lectures on me living in sin?”

“Not from me,” Jean said. “Sin can sometimes be fun. But some people may not approve. Just don’t make a quick decision, with that election coming up.”

Quinn laughed and shook his head. “Hell, that doesn’t matter,” he said. “That thing’s lost. People around here think Lillie and I are guilty of murder. The DA in Oxford won’t dismiss charges or take things to the grand jury. They’re gonna hold things long enough to make sure my name means nothing.”

“Lots of folks believe in you,” Jean said. “Do you know how many people stop me on the street to thank me for all you’ve done? Or at church? Or the Rexall?”

“How many folks are going to walk up to my momma and tell her the worst?”

“Think about Ophelia,” she said. “That’s a nice thing for Caddy. But once I’ve moved out, she and Jason can take the whole upstairs till they get settled.”

Quinn nodded. He put his arm around his mother, light creeping into the front windows and across the new floors. He patted her back and she let out a long breath, smiling and settling into the thought of coming back home after nearly a near.

“Caddy told me you’re getting a lot of pressure to solve what happened to Diane Tull,” Jean said. “And that mess that came after.”

“Yep.”

“That’s why you wanted to know about your father and that gang.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Quinn said. “I know how hard it was to raise me and Caddy. You tried your best to keep him out of our lives and do the best you could for us. To bring him up was wrong.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“He’s a dishonorable man,” Quinn said. “Let’s not talk about him again.”

Jean stared up at Quinn. “If you could talk to him, what would you ask?”

“Just one thing,” Quinn said. “What did he see the night that man was lynched?”

“It won’t bother you to see him, not knowing why he left us?” Jean said. “I’m worried about you more than him if y’all came face-to-face.”

“Shit,” Quinn said, “I don’t give a damn. Lots of men leave their families. I was lucky to have you and Uncle Hamp. Y’all raised me. He doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“But it could help you,” Jean said, “with the DA’s office and the mess they got you in. If he’d tell you the truth.”

Quinn didn’t say anything. The morning light had crept over the floor and was moving up the walls. Jean stepped away from Quinn for a moment and walked the new hardwood. She put her arms around her waist and stared down as she paced. “I never wanted you to speak to him,” Jean said, “but I guess that’s my own selfishness.”

“What does it matter?” Quinn said. “He could be dead, for all we know.”

This time, Jean was silent. She met her son’s eye and tilted her head. “He’s not dead,” she said. “Not yet.”

Quinn nodded. “How do you know?”

“Because your Uncle Van goes to see him a few times a year,” Jean said. “He comes back and runs his mouth to me as if I give a shit.”

“Van lied to me, then.”

“He’s just protectin’ you.”

Quinn nodded, not buying it. “How’s Van afford to get out west?”

“Your father hasn’t been out west for almost ten years,” she said. “He’s been working at some horse farm in Hinds County, getting himself clean. Some little town called Pocahontas.”

Quinn put his right hand into his Levi’s front pocket, waiting, thoughts rushing through his head fast. He tried to breathe, slow it all down the best he could, the same way you did when aiming a rifle. Jean walked to her son and put a hand on Quinn’s face and said, “Don’t let the bastard get to you,” she said. “Get your questions answered and then get gone.”

Quinn nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Quinn took the Trace down to Highway 82 and then followed the interstate over into Hinds County. He’d been driving straight for about three hours before he found Pocahontas Road, which ran right past an old restaurant shaped like a teepee called, rightly so, Big Teepee Barbecue. He slowed, circled back, and drove into the gravel lot, finding a small building set apart from the teepee, a combo restaurant and convenience store. A sign on the door promised church services in the teepee every Sunday at ten a.m. A bald man with a short white beard came from a back office, wiping his hands on his apron, when he heard the bell. He came on up to the counter with a big smile on his face. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m looking for a man named Jason Colson,” Quinn said, wearing official shirt, badge, and gun on his hip. “Lives somewhere around here.”

The man’s smile dropped. He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s not wanted,” Quinn said.

“Why you looking for him, then?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

The man shook his head some more. “Sorry,” he said. “Cain’t help you.”

Quinn looked around the store, at the little red-and-white oilcloths over the tables and the rows and rows of bubble gum, snack cakes, pork rinds, and cleaning supplies. A big cooler lining a back wall filled with cold drinks, ice cream, and live bait. Behind the register was a fairly decent-sized model of Noah’s Ark.

“You put that together?” Quinn asked.

The man craned his neck and scratched his cheek. “Took me three years,” he said. “It’s completely made of Popsicle sticks. Had me a guy come in last year and offer me five hundred dollars for it. You believe that? I told him I couldn’t take it. It brings too many people pleasure to see it and get to thinking about the wicked ways of the world. God could take our asses out again.”

“You bet.”

“I’m a preacher, too,” the man said. “We got services on Sunday. Figured the teepee would make people think on things. I became fully ordained through a course on the Internet. Only cost me fifty dollars.”

“Yes, sir.” Quinn nodded. “Worth every penny.”

The man wore a T-shirt had a big fishing hook printed on it and reading Hooked on Jesus. He had a large belly, with the shirt riding up above his blue jeans several inches and stained with barbecue sauce. “You from Jackson?”

“Jericho.”

“Where the hell’s that?”

Quinn jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the northeast. The man nodded back at him as if he knew exactly where Quinn was talking about.

“Now, who’s this guy again?”

“White man in his sixties, a little shorter than me,” Quinn said. “Other than that, I can’t tell you much. He might’ve told you that at one time he worked in Hollywood.”

“The stunt fella?” the man asked. “You’re looking for that old stunt fella? Hell, yeah. What’s his name?”

“Colson,” Quinn said. “Jason Colson.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know’d him,” the man said. “I think he rented a trailer from Mr. Birdsong. He’s got him some land down the road divided up in little lots. Ain’t much. But he don’t charge much, either.”

“Where?” Quinn asked.

“You say you’re some kind of kin?”

•   •   •

Quinn followed Pocahontas Road to a dirt road with the No Trespassing sign the good reverend had told him about. He followed the road for a quarter mile and soon found ten trailers huddled close together on a circular cut-in at the dead end. Quinn got out of his truck, chose the trailer that looked most promising out of ten trailers with little promise, and knocked on the door. The trailer was old and misshapen, with brittle wooden steps leading to it. Inside, a dog started to bark. No one came to the door. He knocked some more.

Nothing. The wind was cold, but the sun had started to cut through the clouds.

He tried two more trailers. At the third one, a skinny old white woman holding a cigarette came to the glass door but didn’t open it. She just stared at Quinn. He smiled back at her while she blew some smoke out from her lips and cracked the door. She was wearing a set of pink pajamas and tube socks. “I done paid that ticket.”

Quinn shook his head. “I’m looking for Jason Colson.”

The woman shrugged. Her eyes were shrunken and sallow, and she wiped her nose while she stood there and waited for Quinn to offer her something. She was skinny, her wrinkled skin just kind of sagged from the bone.

“He lives in one of these trailers,” Quinn said. “He’s not in any trouble. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Good,” she said. “Man don’t need no more.”

“How’s that?”

“He’s been keeping himself clean,” she said. “He paid off those mean men from Jackson. He don’t need no more trouble from the law.”

Quinn waited a few seconds. “It’s a personal matter,” he said.

“Why?”

“He’s a relative.”

“Oh, sure . . .” she said, smiling a row of yellowed and uneven teeth. “Just who are you to him?”

Quinn studied the wrinkled woman, holding herself in the wedge of the door, blowing smoke out into the cold air. The whole thing crazy as hell, that this woman would know more about his own father, feel like she’s got to be kind of protective of him. She couldn’t stop squinting at Quinn’s face. He couldn’t answer her.

“Mr. Jason don’t live here no more.”

Quinn nodded.

“He was living with that woman, Darlene, but they got into it one night and she left,” the woman said. “I think she stole his truck. He tossed all her shit out in the yard. She come back and got it, and that’s the last I seen of her. She was only with him till his money run out. She said she loved him, but she was just hanging on the man ’cause he used to be a big shot. But I figure you know about who he is, and all the folks he knowed, or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Burt Reynolds,” she said. “My Lord. Did you know Mr. Jason once broke a beer bottle off Terry Bradshaw’s head? You know, that old quarterback on TV?”

Quinn had heard the story.

“Where’d he go?” Quinn said.

She tiptoed outside the house, delicately, as if leaving her tin shell was going to make her too vulnerable. She smoked more of the cigarette, blowing a long stream into the air. Her voice was as gravelly and worn as a lifetime smoker’s should be. She nodded over toward a trailer up the hill on some eroded land. It wasn’t the worst on the lot, but it was close. The single-wide set up on concrete blocks, with a rusted roof and tinfoil in the windows. An old red Trans Am, with flat tires and half covered in a tarp, sat in the front yard. The window had been busted out, and the wind ruffled the tarp up over what probably had once been a fine car.

“Y’all are kin.”

“Why you say that?”

“You look damn-near just like him.”

Quinn nodded, still looking at that relic of a car.

“He works down the road at that big horse barn,” the woman said.

“How far?”

“Not far,” she said. “You can’t miss the place. Biggest goddamn barn I ever seen in my life. He’s been working for those rich folks for a while. I hear he’s been living up there, too. Real nice, when he’s not drinking. Something awful wrong with him. To hear the things come out of that trailer up there . . . That woman Darlene was the devil. She beat him down to nothing.”

•   •   •

The barn was fashioned out of river stone and large cypress beams and stood as large as a couple aircraft hangars joined end to end. It had been built high on a hill overlooking hundreds of acres of rolling farmland where horses grazed among Black Angus cattle. Quinn followed a private road that twisted past an endless lake, a big stone mansion, and through the pasture, until he turned uphill and saw the stables and two large open corrals, where some kind of training was happening. The sun was setting over the pasture and turned the air a bright orange through the kicked-up dust.

A group of young kids in thick coats, western wear, and cowboy boots sat on a fence as a man and a young woman stood near a young boy on the back of a small spotted horse. They were talking to the kids, showing them the basic tack, handing over the reins to the kid in the saddle. The man rubbing the horse’s forehead between the eyes. The man wore a hat low across his eyes, but as Quinn walked closer, studying him, he could see the guy wasn’t much older than himself. He was telling the kids about the right kind of pull on the reins when they were ready to go and when they were ready to stop. He talked about being gentle to the animal and that a kick in the ribs could be firm without hurting the animal.

Quinn recalled a horse that had belonged to his father, a palomino named Bandit. There was a strange feeling as Quinn walked, a little bit of light-headedness with the copper-colored air and the reddening skies. The laughter of the children sitting on the rail. The woman who was helping with the instruction was pretty and blond and smiled right at Quinn as he made his way to the railing and leaned his forearms across the top rung. The girl let go of the horse and came over to where he stood. She had a slow, easy walk, with her boots, tight jeans, fitted Sherpa coat, and feathered hair.

“Looking for Jason Colson,” he said.

She smiled some more at Quinn, strangely, as if should she know him, and pointed to the mouth of the barn. Quinn tipped his ball cap and walked toward the door, the feeling of being uneasy and unsettled something very unfamiliar. Before he walked into the big open cavern, he spit into dirt and clenched his teeth.

The floors of the barn were red brick and the ceiling was cathedral-tall, with thick cypress beams crossing overhead. The big sliding doors were open at the opposite side of the barn, hundreds of meters away, and above them was a circular window of stained glass showing two horses grazing in a green meadow. Its colored light shone down onto the bricks.

Quinn followed a lot of empty stalls, nicer than many homes in Tibbehah County, and on through the big central space, its brickwork laid in Byzantine patterns and different colors. Above was one of the tall spires he’d spotted on the drive from the main gates.

Quinn kept walking. Not seeing anyone, not even a horse, only hearing the sound of a radio playing down among the stalls. He followed the music, recognizing the song, “Choctaw Bingo,” this one sounding like Ray Wylie Hubbard and not James McMurtry. More reverb and twang through the barn.

His arms and legs felt funny and loose as he spotted a man leaning into a stall over a half door. The man wore Wrangler’s and beaten boots, a tight green-checked snap-button shirt and no hat. The man’s hair was longish, more gray than blond, his skin the color of stained wood. He had a graying mustache and goatee and he was laughing.

Quinn stopped walking. He just stood there, watching the man, and then a horse leaned its big head out of the stall. The man popped open a beer, the horse taking it from his hand and shaking it all loose from the can, throwing his head back in pleasure. The man laughed and laughed, taking the empty and tossing it. He rubbed the forehead of the horse, walking away from the stall, eyes down, smirk on his face, and then raised them and looked at Quinn.

Quinn just stared.

The man stopped walking, hands on his hips. Something familiar but off about the face. The lines were different. He had a big scar on his cheek, white and zagging, different from the burnt skin. The man took in all of Quinn, eyes and mouth serious as hell, finally just shaking his head and saying, “Well, god damn, ain’t you got big.”