Half Past Dead

by Meryl Sawyer

Not all abuse is physical, she reminded herself.

  It took an unusually long time because her mother now moved so slowly, but she finally shuffled back in, her terry slippers scuffling across the wood floor. She handed Kat a tumbler of lemonade, then slowly and very carefully lowered herself onto the sofa. Kat took a sip and found it was even sweeter than she remembered. She didn’t want to insult her mother by putting it down, so she drank a little more.

  “So…talk.”

  She had so many questions, but she could see her mother was in pain. Beneath Kat’s anger was a bone-deep sense of sympathy. She’d seen too much in prison, witnessed too many degrading incidents not to recognize suffering when she saw it. And this was her mother, not some hardened con.

  “Why didn’t you help me when I was arrested?”

  Her mother looked at her from across the top of her glass. Her once vibrant green eyes had a milky caul to them now. “Why waste…good money?…You…disgraced us.”

  “I didn’t take the money.” Kat drank a little more lemonade and waited for her mother to answer.

  “They found…the cash…in…your purse.”

  “I was framed,” Kat replied, but she could see her mother didn’t believe her. Trouble was, her mother would be dead by the time she cleared her name.

  “Could you just explain to me why you didn’t love me—not even a little?”

  Her mother leaned back, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Her eyes had a detached look, as if her soul had already left her body. “It…doesn’t…matter.”

  Kat supposed she was right. What did it matter now? Nothing could be said or done to change the past. The gulf between them yawned wider than ever. Kat finished her lemonade and watched her mother fall asleep, the silence grating on her nerves.

  This reunion was nothing like what she’d imagined in prison. She’d thought talking to her mother, telling her how hateful she’d been, would make her feel better and help her put her life back together. She’d been wrong.

  Cancer had a timetable of its own. Loretta was going to slip away without Kat ever knowing exactly why her mother didn’t love her. It was difficult to overcome the feeling of being alone in the world. She battled an unexpected urge to cry.

  It’s too late for tears, she decided. The past was behind her, and there was nothing she could do to alter it. She had to get on with her life. Be strong enough to accept what’s happened—don’t allow yourself to slip into victim mentality. She was going to make the most of her future.

  Kat slipped out the door, forcing her mind away from her mother and thinking she had just enough time to make it to the Lucky Seven. The riverboat would be out trolling the Mississippi, but she was sure she could find the picnic table by the dock. She stood in the driveway and double checked her cell phone.

  Something in the bushes caught her attention. Flesh crept on the back of her neck as if a spider had wriggled across it. Heavy, hot air filled the darkness, silencing even the crickets that usually chirped. She thought she heard a noise but the dark, sweltering air muffled sounds.

  Walking very, very slowly, she waited for the noise to repeat. Nothing. Probably a cat, she decided. She reached into the bottom of her purse and found the roll of quarters. Special Agent Wilson wouldn’t allow her to have a gun—not that she knew how to use one—but he’d told her how to turn her hand into a deadly weapon.

  “Wrap your fist around a roll of quarters. Land a solid punch and it’s better than brass knuckles.”

  She was certain such a move would result in every finger being broken, but if need be, she would chance it. The impending meeting was making her jumpy. She climbed into the car. Despite the oppressive heat, she shut the windows, then locked the doors. She put the roll of quarters on the seat beside her purse.

  She slowly drove through the unincorporated area toward the Lucky Seven, concentrating on the pavement ahead. She’d rarely traveled the snaky road, then only in daylight. Unable to stand the suffocating heat, she lowered her window. A breeze off the Big Muddy, rank with the scent of decaying moss, stirred the trees along the road, but with no moon, the landscape was a pitch-dark expanse. The only illumination was the swath of her headlights on the pavement. She rounded a bend and swerved to avoid a fat skunk waddling across the road.

  A Mississippi Highway Patrol car blew by her, going in the same direction. A wave of hot air from the cruiser rocked her car. Where had he come from? she wondered. Why hadn’t she noticed his lights? Perhaps he’d pulled out of a side road. The area was riddled with hundreds of old logging trails. This was the sheriff’s jurisdiction, but apparently state troopers checked out the casino, too.

  In her rearview mirror she saw high beams coming up behind her. Not surprising. Even though the riverboat had left for its evening cruise, many people from Twin Oaks worked there and would have to prepare for the Lucky Seven’s return.

  A second later, the car was on her bumper, its lights blinding her. Sweat dampened her palms and made the steering wheel slip from her grip. She was afraid if she lost her concentration she would careen off the pavement into a tree. The idiot was driving as if he had a death wish, hanging on her license plate, not passing the way the highway patrolman had.

  She struggled to maneuver the car through another turn. The glare on her mirror disappeared. She double-checked and found the car had vanished. Evidently, she was overreacting. Some local must have turned off on a side road she hadn’t noticed.

  “Don’t be so jittery,” she said out loud. “You need your wits about you to deal with—”

  The blaring lights were back again. A second set appeared. Two cars? A third and fourth set of headlights. That many cars defied logic. Hunched over the steering wheel, she clutched it with all her might. What was going on?

  “Stay calm.”

  The cars hurtled closer and closer. She had to squint hard to avoid the high beam lights trained on her mirror. She shoved the mirror upward, deflecting the glare. The first prickle of true panic skittered through her.

  “Probably just kids,” she assured herself in a whisper.

  A spasm hit her colon and bile scorched the back of her throat. An odd sound like an avenging swarm of hornets buzzed in her head. The body dealing with raw fear, she decided. Why was she so terrified?

  She’d been through much, much worse in prison. Nothing had happened yet. A gurgling sound purled up from her throat. She veered right, her teeth chattering, her body trembling.

  Her front tire skidded on the soft shoulder beyond the pavement, spitting gravel and sending a rooster tail of dirt into the air. She ventured a quick glance behind her while she struggled to control the vehicle.

  More headlights. Dozens of them.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SON OF A BITCH! Things were whirling out of control. The Trib’s report had Twin Oaks buzzing. Radner had managed to identify Pequita Romero. Who the fuck had ratted? Could have been the beaner who worked with her making crystal meth. Could have been any of the beaners in town who knew Pequita and realized she’d vanished.

  It didn’t really matter, he thought with pride. None of them knew his identity except his partners, and they had too much at stake to squeal.

  He’d taken great pains to make sure the drug operation couldn’t be linked to him. What bothered him was that dickhead Radner—according to the paper—was going to push for more meth arrests. That would be a problem—big-time. Sheriff Parker had been paid to look the other way and not charge users, but that wasn’t going to work now.

  Radner’d had a tight-ass reputation when he’d been on the force in New Orleans. He swaggered around Twin Oaks like a fucking gunslinger. If Radner really started snooping into the meth problem, they would have to get rid of him. Translated it meant he would have to off Radner.

  A lawman’s murder might make the Trib suspicious. Never forget Noyes had won two Pulitzers for investigative reporting. And Kat Wells wasn’t helping. Despite her being an ex-con, people around town were praising the article on the dead
bitch.

  He told himself his lucrative operation wasn’t unraveling, but if he didn’t take steps, it could. Fortunately for all of them, he had a clever idea and had already put it in motion. Tomorrow, two of their enemies would be out of the way.

  Thanks to him.

  “Half past dead.” That’s what his grandpappy used to say about really old people who were too stubborn to die. They lived on and on, clinging to their money, forcing their kin to take care of them.

  He liked the saying. It was ominous, mysterious—but he didn’t think of it in terms of old people. No way. To him it described the people he’d marked for death. He allowed them to live until he chose to kill them. They walked around, not knowing they were going to die.

  He could have said “as good as dead” but “half past dead” sounded more ominous. And mysterious. It fit his personality.

  He wasn’t sure how many people he’d have to eliminate, or how long it would require, but more than one person in Twin Oaks was half past dead.

  JUSTIN STOOD on the bank of the Mississippi, where the noodling contest had been held. His deputies had things under control now, but when he’d arrived, it had been a near-riot. The guys from Arkansas who finished in second place were in a down-and-dirty brawl with the hometown team who’d caught a catfish that was one inch longer. The Arkansas boys claimed their catch had been mismeasured and they were the rightful winners. The judge, a stone-Okie who’d moved to Twin Oaks, refused to remeasure.

  Justin had taken the first- and second-place catfish, measured them himself, then allowed one member of each team to measure. The Okie judge hadn’t made a mistake, and the boys simmered down.

  “Good work,” Filpo Johnson told him, respect evident in his dark eyes. “You handled the situation like a pro.”

  “Let’s hope,” he replied. “I’m having my men stick around tonight to keep a lid on things.”

  Because noodling was a misdemeanor—cruelty to animals—a few contestants had been arrested in other counties where the sport was illegal. In Twin Oaks they had a heyday doing what most of them did along the riverbanks where they lived.

  Most of the teams were from out of the area. They’d driven here in fifth wheels, campers, and motor homes to stay for the week-long event. They wouldn’t be pulling out until tomorrow morning. More noodling. More fighting.

  “I guess you’re here with the north side team?” Justin asked.

  “They’re my boys,” Filpo responded in a paternal tone. Justin knew Filpo had one son who was in law school at Tulane and the businessman was well known for helping out troubled teens in the north side. “We didn’t place last year but this year we took third. Next year, I’m betting we’ll win.”

  Justin managed a smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the rebel flag flying over a nearby campfire. In the distance he heard some guy playing “Dixie” on a harmonica. It was tradition to cut loose with a rebel yell when you’d bagged a catfish.

  Noodling was a redneck sport. The good ole boys wouldn’t take kindly to a black team winning. Not that Justin cared. Anyone who groped around in the mud and caught a slippery catfish with his bare hands deserved to win, but next year Justin would need to have extra deputies out here to see there wasn’t a riot.

  “Come on over to my motor home,” Filpo said. “We’re grilling steaks for the team.”

  Justin’s stomach rumbled at the word steaks and he accepted readily. It was late to be eating, but the contest had run over, then the fight broke out. He’d been planning on skipping dinner and finding Kat. He was going to use Maria as an excuse. Had she told Kat anything more that would help with the case? But he figured he’d better stick around here to make certain things remained calm.

  “Just let me get my dog,” he told Filpo. “It’s too hot for him in my pickup.”

  “We’re right over there.” Filpo pointed to a brand-new, gleaming red motor home.

  As Justin traipsed back to his pickup, he had an idea. Filpo owned a bank. Maybe he had some ideas about what had gone on at the Mercury Bank. He unlocked the door, and Redd hopped out. Tail between his legs, the dog looked uncertainly around at all the campfires and noisy guys. The nearest group was crunching beer cans on their foreheads. Justin doubted he’d need the shotgun on the rack behind the driver’s seat or the Glock on his hip, but you never knew. Testosterone and alcohol were often a deadly combination.

  “It’s okay. Stick with me.”

  They walked back to Filpo’s motor home, greeting the men at campfires he passed along the way. When the call had come into the station that the situation here was out-of-hand, Justin had quickly put on the khaki short-sleeved shirt from his uniform and pinned on his badge. He wanted the out-of-towners to know who he was and that he was monitoring the situation.

  The scent of burning pine wood and catfish frying in cornmeal filled the night air. The smell brought back memories of his mother in the trailer’s tiny kitchen, frying a catfish he’d caught. He’d never noodled, but he’d done his share of standing on the bank of the river in the cool shadows waiting for a nibble. He’d eaten too many catfish to ever want to eat another.

  “Hey, you!” You came out chew.

  Justin turned and saw Cooter skulking through the trees. In the flickering light from a nearby campfire, Justin could see liver spots like shrapnel on Cooter’s hands as he clutched a fishing rod.

  “Are you talking to me, Cooter?”

  Cooter jerked his head, motioning for Justin to come into the trees where the old man was standing. Justin hadn’t spotted the trailer park manager out here, but he wasn’t surprised. Cooter claimed to have won the noodling contest forty-some years ago. When Justin had been in high school, Cooter’s arthritis had gotten the better of him, and the old man had given up noodling for a rod and reel.

  Justin walked toward Cooter, asking, “What do you want?”

  “I sees things, I do.” Cooter wielded the fishing pole like a scepter and pointed it skyward. “Thar’s a bad moon rising.”

  “Cooter, it’s the dark of the moon.”

  “Thass what I’ma tellin’ ya. When the moon rises, someone is gonna die.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. That’s an old wives’ tale.” He turned to leave, wondering if Cooter was still all there.

  “This here’s the truth. Lass time a still shut down, the beaner was killed.”

  Justin stopped, and Redd leaned against his calf. He dropped his hand to pet the dog. “What are you talking about?”

  “The still out Shady Hook way. It jist shut ’bout when the woman died.”

  The still? Okay, an old-timer like Cooter might mistake the big vats in the meth shack for a moonshine operation. He wasn’t surprised that Cooter had stumbled upon the shack. When he wasn’t scavenging off the denizens of Shady Acres Trailer Park, he was tromping through the woods, shooting game for food. He had an old freezer in his carport where he kept enough squirrels, rabbit, and roadkill to see him through the winter.

  Once when they’d been desperate, Justin’s mother had asked Cooter to give her a squirrel. He’d handed over a squirrel that must have died of starvation. In exchange, Justin had to chop a cord of wood for the old geezer.

  “Have other stills shut down?” Justin asked. His theory—and it was only a theory at this point—was the meth labs were deliberately moved with some frequency to avoid law enforcement.

  “None a my bidness but a still out by Fox Holler is cattywumpus. Same as Fork Crik.”

  Fork Creek and Fox Hollow were deep in the woods. True, there were logging trails in the area, but it seemed a stretch to think of hauling supplies out so far. The protection it offered might be worth the effort, though.

  “Did you see any people around the stills?” Justin asked.

  “Nah, jist beaners.”

  Justin doubted there was anyone more prejudiced in Twin Oaks than Cooter. “Thanks for the tip, Cooter. I’ll check out Fox Hollow and Fork Creek.”

  “Too late. Won’t find nuthi
n’.”

  “Okay.” Justin thought of a way to get some information. “If you see another still in operation, don’t say anything to anyone. Just let me know.”

  Cooter shrugged noncommittally, but Justin could tell he was pleased to be asked for help. Funny, Justin had been a “worthless bastard” when he’d returned home and wandered through the trailer park.

  He walked slowly toward Filpo’s motor home, thinking about the types of people who didn’t talk to authorities. In New Orleans, it had been criminals with something to hide or drug users fearful of losing their source. In Twin Oaks, it was people like the Latinos who were terrified of being deported and distrustful hollow folks like Cooter who lived off the land. Their “bidness” was private, no concern of the law. More than one of those men roamed the backwoods and might have seen something, but they weren’t coming to him. He would have to seek them out, but it would be worth it to bust the meth ring operating in the backwoods.

  Filpo was sitting in a lawn chair not too far from a huge grill where six or seven teenage boys were tending steaks, when Justin returned. “Steaks and barbecue beans. Pretty simple.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Justin took the seat beside Filpo, and Redd curled up as close as he could get. Nearby a tree frog let out a deep-throated “ribbit.”

  “Do you ever have any dealings with Mercury National Bank?”

  Filpo smiled, his white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Nah. My people are on the north side. Mercury’s never wanted to lend to any of them, so I have a lock on their business.”

  “Mercury does pretty good, right? They’re the only other bank in town.”

  One of the kids came over with an armful of sodas. They both took one. Filpo popped the lid, saying, “They’ve cornered the local white business—especially loans.”

  “What about checking accounts and credit cards?”

  “Mercury is too small to make much from credit cards. I offer one, but it’s allied with a bigger bank in Memphis. Unlike Mercury’s customers, my people can’t get a credit card anywhere else.”