by Ace Atkins
Quinn could turn and head home, but something kept on drawing him south toward Perfect Circle Road and the trailer of Miss Dana Ray. The night he’d been shot, Quinn had responded to a domestic at the woman’s home. She’d told dispatch that her sometimes boyfriend Bradley Wayne threatened her and was coming for his damn shit. Only Quinn didn’t find Bradley Wayne, but a gathering of part-time militia men in tactical gear and military-grade weapons lying in wait. They’d surrounded Quinn and beaten the hell out of him, the night ending with four slugs shattering two ribs, a shoulder blade, and puncturing his lung. If it hadn’t been for Boom scattering those boys and scaring off the shooter, Quinn would have bled out in a shallow creek.
Quinn had to see it. He had to go back.
The state folks had charged three of the men with attempted murder. They’d lawyered up with a high-powered firm in Jackson and were out on bond. But the shooter, the one who’d actually shot Quinn in the back, was still somewhere out there. About all he could recall was a face that seemed like a photo from a book on the Old West, a weathered and worn Native American, goddamn Geronimo, coming from the afterlife to call Quinn home. The Watchmen had tried to teach him a damn lesson and had left him for dead. The Indian didn’t fit that crew, falling more in line with a description of the man who’d killed Wes Taggart and E. J. Royce for the Syndicate. Taggart was about to flip on Fannie Hathcock after his arrest, and Royce, a racist old deputy, had tried to shake down Governor Vardaman. Before all that, Quinn had never figured the Syndicate and the Watchmen played on the same team.
Quinn stopped in front of the trailer. It was a single-wide up on blocks, with the frayed curtains drawn and no vehicle in sight.
He knew Dana Ray was long gone. She’d disappeared after that night. No one had been able to find her. But Quinn damn well knew who’d told her to make that call. Didn’t take too much to draw a direct line between her and her employer, Miss Fannie Hathcock. Quinn was still not sure why Fannie would’ve wanted him dead, as they’d pretty much settled on a direct relationship over the years.
Quinn walked toward the gaping gash of the creek, the cottonwoods barely clinging to the eroded earth, the creek bed completely dry. Nothing but sand and tiny smooth rocks. The night they’d come for him, the water had flowed, cold and gray and ankle-deep. He’d hidden right around the bend under a large root ball and taken out two of the Watchmen. There were still ruts at the hard turn of the creek where Boom had sacrificed himself and his old GMC to save Quinn’s ass.
He headed toward the edge, looking for something. Trying to make sense of what happened. Maybe some brass casings, some kind of relic of that night. Nothing. There was no wind, only the goddamn heat on his back, neck, and ears. Everything that had been collected had already been processed, including the .22 slugs taken out of his back. The Watchmen admitted they’d been there but agreed there had been another shooter that had killed one of their own men and then tried to kill Quinn. Quinn wasn’t really sure what to believe.
He walked back toward Dana Ray’s trailer. The cicadas whirred into the tree line up behind the clearing. He tried the door, but it was locked. Quinn stepped back and kicked it in, moving into the dark, dank space. The air hot and moist, the rooms filled with overturned furniture, bare mattresses, and empty chests with open drawers. Quinn went from room to room, checking and rechecking, but found only clothes, empty beer cans, and ashtrays full of cigarette butts. A pair of thong underwear reading IT AIN’T GONNA LICK ITSELF hung from a ceiling fan.
He left and closed the door behind him.
Quinn wandered down to the road and found Dana Ray’s old blue mailbox overflowing with bills and junk. He tossed everything onto the passenger seat of the truck, got behind the wheel, and sifted through the mail. Plenty of unpaid electric and water bills, but what interested him most was a whole mess of statements from a Discover card. He worked through several statements until he found one that ended last month. Dana Ray was still using the card, the last batch of charges from several places around Corinth.
Son of a bitch. Nobody was looking for the best witness they knew about. No one gave a damn if they found her or knew who the hell had shot Quinn that night. He stuffed the bills into the console and wadded up the junk, tossing it into an empty oil barrel by the roadside before heading back to the farm.
On the highway, speeding north, he picked up his cell and dialed the number of Lillie Virgil, U.S. Marshal.
“Lil,” he said. “Got something for you.”
8
Donnie had spent most of the day at The River helping Caddy Colson sort and bag supplies for all those homeless Mexicans. Damn. He’d never known a woman or man more determined to get a job done. Caddy was like some kind of cross between Loretta Lynn and Mother Teresa. Ready to take the hand of some flaky leper or go straight to Fist City. Quinn’s little sister always had a smart little mouth and plenty of attitude, the kind of girl whose smile would light up your soul while she kicked you right in the damn nuts. But this new woman made you step back and take notice. Not just on account of her looks, although it was hard not to admire those sunburned shoulders and cute upturned nose, but more with her sense of purpose.
Caddy didn’t just study on these things. She damn well lived it. Jesus on the mainline down in Tibbehah.
As he drove back to the Magnolia Drive-In, Luther’s CCR in the tape deck, he thought back on their conversation before he’d headed home. “How about I buy you the deluxe carne asada burrito over at the El Dorado tonight?” Donnie had said. “Bring along Jason. We can down a few margaritas and talk about days gone by.”
Caddy had informed him that she didn’t drink anymore but would consider the offer.
He’d smiled back and said, “Caddy, don’t believe everything you hear about me. I’m just a simple man making his way in complex times.”
She’d laughed and smiled, sort of noncommittal, but there was something there. Damn, Donnie thought, as he thumped at the wheel of the GTO to “Up Around the Bend.” Purpose. Truth. Jesus. Helping folks. Hell yeah. If Caddy Colson was there, Donnie Varner was in for all that shit.
At the turn to the Magnolia Drive-In, he slowed to unlock the swinging gate by what had been the ticket office. He stepped out, fished a joint from his dusty T-shirt pocket, and started to light up. Midway from flicking his Bic, he noticed the lock dangling loose and free on the gate. His first thought was maybe the son of a bitch who’d rented him the land was nosing around his trailer or maybe ole Luther was waiting around for a brand-new Bible lesson. But then he started recalling that high-dollar attitude of Miss Fannie Hathcock as he got back behind the wheel, the pipes of his solid gold GTO growling like a jaguar across the sunbaked asphalt. Son of a damn bitch.
Down into the expanse of the Drive-In lot, he spotted an old Crown Vic, green as a Martian’s ass with tall, fancy silver rims and windows tinted as black as midnight, sporting a big whip antenna and Tennessee plates. Donnie reached into his glovebox, snatched the .38, and spun loose the cylinder to make sure it was loaded. He got out and moved low under the trailer windows, hearing cicadas up in the trees and laughter and clapping on the TV. He saw the back of a man reclining in a La-Z-Boy watching the fucking Price Is Right on Donnie’s brand-new 4K Vizio, Drew Carey making some small talk with a busty blonde in a sequined dress about an all-expense-paid trip to Cozumel.
Didn’t take Donnie but two seconds to rush inside and point his pistol right at the son of a bitch in his daddy’s old chair.
Some big black dude, looking about Donnie’s age, although it was hard to tell age with black folks, looked up at him. He had on a white sleeveless Nike T-shirt, long white workout pants, and white athletic socks and shower shoes. The man wore sunglasses, head still turned to Drew Carey and the woman with big tatas, as he petted a gray French bulldog on his lap. The little dog, still a puppy, growled up at Donnie.
“Don’t worry, dude,” the man said. “That’s
just Lola. You scared her, bustin’ in the door like that.”
“Oh, I’m so fucking sorry,” Donnie said. “You want me to leave my own domicile and let y’all continue watching The Price Is Right? Let me tell you something, that show hasn’t been worth a shit since Bob Barker retired.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” the man said, smiling up at Donnie. He had copper-colored skin and a precision trimmed afro and clipped mustache. “Bob Barker was one smooth motherfucker. He was still in his damn eighties with that white hair and cool California attitude, hopping in the sack with his models, showing them that long microphone he carried.”
Donnie stepped back and studied the man’s profile, pistol lowering to his side. The man’s neck was thick, his biceps huge and swollen like the weightlifters back at FCI Beaumont. “Hey, man,” Donnie said. “I know you. Right?”
“Maybe,” the man said, grinning.
“You played ball?” Donnie said. “Big time. Right? A few years back?”
The man shrugged and put the little gray bulldog down on the green carpet. The dog wandered off between Donnie’s legs and toward the kitchen. Donnie watched as the man stood up, looking fit and muscular in his spotless white workout gear. The man nodded, reaching up and fingering at the big diamond stud in his ear. “Akeem Triplett.”
“Goddamn,” he said. “I knew it. You was on the cover of Sports Illustrated back in the day. I recall some kind of special issue of you making that catch in the ’Bama game. My daddy used to sell a shit ton of ’em along with Juggs and Barely Legal.”
Triplett shrugged.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Oh, you know,” he said. “Did a little bit of time in the pros. Up in Seattle and in Atlanta. Shattered my right ankle in a million pieces. You heard that story all before.”
“Akeem Fucking Triplett in my goddamn trailer,” Donnie said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not on drugs or something? Maybe hitting hard times after the pros, looking around to score a big-screen TV or some shit? ’Cause if you are, that’s cool. You can take the TV. It’d be a fucking honor.”
Triplett didn’t look like he was paying attention, staring at the pocket on Donnie’s T-shirt. Donnie looked down and spotted the end of the joint sticking out.
“Say man,” Triplett said. “You gonna smoke that shit or what?”
Donnie reached down and passed him the joint, turning to see the little gray dog wander from the kitchen and squat to pee. Both of them saw it, Donnie knowing there wasn’t time to stop all that piss soaking into his green carpet. He just shook his head as Triplett lit up the joint and took a big hit.
“I know,” Donnie said, snapping his fingers. “My daddy sent you. You’re doing some kind of motivational shit to talk to me about Jesus and getting up with people and all that. Don’t worry about it, man. I got all that covered. I just got in with the best-looking preacher woman you ever seen in your life. She’s got the damn road map to Jesus.”
Triplett stared at him from behind the sunglasses, letting out the smoke slow and easy. He didn’t speak for a moment, waiting for the dog to come back, and then scooped her up into his waiting arms.
“Mr. Sledge sent me.”
“OK,” Donnie said. “Does that mean something?”
“Are you fucking with me?” Triplett said. “Mr. Sledge runs Memphis.”
“Used to be Craig Houston until some Cartel boys put his head in the back of Johnny Stagg’s Cadillac.”
“Long time since Craig Houston got taken out,” Triplett said. “Mr. Sledge and his nephews the Bohannons cleaned house with those folks long time ago. Been a while since Mexican folks think they can run things the Memphis way.”
“God bless the USA,” Donnie said.
Triplett looked hard at Donnie, from his head down to his old pointy-toed boots. His T-shirt dusty and dirty, Wranglers faded and worn.
“Say, man,” Triplett said. “Are you, or are you not, Donnie Varner?”
“Yes, sir,” Donnie said. “I am the one and only. Tibbehah County’s great folk hero.”
“The big-time gun dealer?” Triplett asked.
“Used to be,” Donnie said. “But not no more. I’m straighter than a Mormon’s pecker.”
“Hmm,” Triplett said. “That’s too damn bad. Guess me and Lola drove all the way from Memphis for nothin’. I heard you were looking to resupply your load.”
“You in the gun business?”
Triplett fingered at that diamond stud again and shrugged, moving toward the door. Donnie, standing in the way of him and his dog, reached out and plucked the blunt from Akeem Triplett’s hand and took a deep hit.
“OK,” Donnie said. “OK. I’ll bite. Tell me what’s on your mind, Mr. Triplett. And maybe later you tell me about that damn ’Bama game. I can’t stand those sorry bastards over in Tuscaloosa.”
Triplett grinned. “Cool.”
* * *
• • •
Quinn headed back to Tibbehah General hoping to catch Maggie on break. She’d been working the day shift since June, planning on taking off a long while when the baby came. There was talk about her starting back at the first of the year, with some help from Quinn’s mother, but they still weren’t sure how that would all work out. Most of it depended on if and when Quinn would be back in the saddle as sheriff, so much going on that he hadn’t been able to share with his own wife.
He parked the old blue Ford in the visitors’ lot and headed in through admissions toward the cafeteria. The county hospital bustling as always. Old folks in wheelchairs and walkers, a weathered woman named Janet Hobbs moving down the hallway in her flowered gown and paper shoes, dragging an IV drip behind her. Quinn stopped to hear about the agony of her hemorrhoid surgery until he got relieved by Raven Yancy, one of Maggie’s best friends, who ran the ER. Raven said she’d let Maggie know Quinn was here when she finished up with a patient.
“Tell her not to rush,” Quinn said. “I’ll get some coffee.”
“Take your life in your own hands with that bad coffee, Sheriff,” Raven said. “Looks worse than what we drain out of those bedpans.”
Quinn grabbed a cup anyway and found a quiet corner to wait for Maggie. He wasn’t sure how much he could tell her now. Maggie was tough as hell, but her workload, the baby coming, and the stress of dealing with legal shit from her ex-husband was enough. Her ex had sent Maggie a batch of insane letters from prison when he’d heard she was pregnant, letting her know that now it was truly over for them. He even threatened to write a song about their breakup and put it on YouTube. Rick Wilcox, besides being a felon, also fancied himself as the next country music sensation. Quinn called him Garth Crooks.
Quinn felt an arm wrap around his neck and Maggie’s soft lips on his cheek. Her skin felt warm to the touch and she smelled of fresh laundry.
“Howdy, stranger.”
“Better be careful,” Quinn said. “This is how folks start talking.”
“I won’t tell your wife if you won’t.”
“I think the whole town already knows.”
“Let ’em talk,” Maggie said. “Anyone who sees this belly knows we’ve been up to no good.”
The thought of the time they’d spent together over the winter made him smile. It hadn’t been easy. He hadn’t been able to walk for more than a month. Maggie had gently gotten him moving again, changing his bandages, getting him his pills, trying to reward each little goal in her own way. She’d promised to lie with him naked at night if he walked from the bedroom to the kitchen and back. He accomplished the goal on the first try. Each goal more intense with the next, the rewards more wonderful and heated. Maggie Powers had brought him back full and intact and in the process they’d created a daughter.
“How’s she doing?”
Maggie sat down and let out a long breath. She stared downward and started to run her hand
s all around her stomach. Tilting her head, Maggie closed her eyes in thought and said, “Knocking on the door. I think she’s gonna be early.”
“How early?”
“A week or two,” Maggie said. “Brandon was two weeks early. Of course, you never know until it’s time.”
“I once helped a teenage girl give birth out at a trailer in Hell Creek,” Quinn said. “I have a healthy respect for the process.”
“This is coming from a man who’s been shot several times.”
“I don’t think you can compare the two.”
“Ever shot a watermelon out of your pecker?”
“No, ma’am,” Quinn said. “I don’t believe I have.”
“As a registered nurse, I’d have to say it would probably be a similar sensation.”
“And no epidural.”
“Nope.”
“No painkillers?”
“Not a one.”
Quinn nodded, thinking on how he needed two pills and a shot of whiskey just to get moving this morning. He’d washed the glass and placed it back where he’d found it. The pill bottle he’d taken out to his truck and hidden under the seat. He was damn ashamed about the whole thing. Quinn knew he’d get through it; the pain couldn’t last forever. All that mattered was keeping on his feet and moving forward. No one kept you on your back. You pressed on. You fought back or it would kill you.
“Hey,” Maggie said. “Where’d you go?”
“I’m right here.” Quinn turned back to her and smiled.
“Can you still pick up Brandon at school?”
“You bet,” Quinn said. “Gonna hitch up the bass boat. I promised to take him fishing.”