The Revelators

by Ace Atkins

  “I think they are trying to make a deal.”

  “A deal for what?”

  “A deal for all of y’all,” Jason said. “That son of a bitch Angel never planned on taking y’all to see your families. He saw y’all as a business opportunity.”

  “I’m so stupid,” she said. “He gave his word. He seemed so honest, saying he was worried about me and my family.”

  “Because he’s a damn liar,” Jason said. “Tell me it doesn’t make sense. Why are we in Memphis? What else would they be doing? You saw that kid point that pistol at me. I say we make a run for it right now. We got a better chance causing a commotion out here than letting them drive us around to God knows where.”

  “What about the others?”

  Jason looked around the van, the girls sleeping on their backpacks, one of them, Marisol Gonzalez, on her knees praying. The first time they stopped, sometime around midnight, Angel and the driver had taken all their cell phones and put them in a sack. They’d promised to give them all back when they got to the prison, but now they knew that was nothing but a bunch of bullshit. They were just going around and around Memphis until those boys could figure out how to make a few bucks. Damn, he wondered what his momma must be thinking right about now. His grandmother, Uncle Quinn, and Aunt Maggie.

  Jason knew he’d made a mess of things, but now it was up to him to make it right. He reached into his waistband and pulled out the Buck knife that Uncle Quinn had given him.

  “Wait,” Ana Gabriel said. “Wait. What are you doing?”

  “I’m gonna get y’all out of here and that metal-mouthed bastard better not try and stop me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Quinn hadn’t slept all night. He stayed up with Caddy and his mother at Jean’s house, drinking coffee and smoking cigars, and calling up every kid that Jason knew. They talked to his teachers and his coaches, Quinn and Boom taking to the back roads and the places Jason would most likely hide if there was some kind of trouble. Tree stands and fishing holes, old dry creeks and abandoned houses deep in the piney woods. He and Boom parking the truck on gravel roads and hiking into the woods, flashlights scattering up and around the trees, calling Jason’s name into the dark.

  “He wouldn’t run away,” Caddy said. “He had no reason. There wasn’t any trouble. He just started football season. You know how much he loves it. It’s all he’s been talking about since camp at Ole Miss.”

  Quinn and his sister stood across from each other in the house where they both grew up. Quinn held a cigar in his hand, letting it burn while he listened to what Caddy had to say. Behind the ranch house was a gentle, sloping hill where Quinn used to play war and Caddy kept a small kitchen under their play fort.

  “What about folks at The River?” Quinn asked.

  “Are you asking me about the sketchy folks, perverts, convicts, and all that I sometimes help?”

  “Didn’t say that, Caddy,” Quinn said. “I’m just trying to help the best way I know how.”

  “Doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “Does it? God. It’s so warm out here and I can’t quit shaking.”

  “He have a girlfriend?” Quinn asked.

  “He’s just twelve,” Caddy said.

  “Almost thirteen,” Quinn said. “Who’s he friendly with?”

  “There’s this little girl staying out at The River,” Caddy said. “Her name is Ana Gabriel. I tried checking with her before I left but her little brother said she was sound asleep. I figured I’d head back and try again. I don’t think she knows anything. Jason didn’t know her that well.”

  “Mommas are always the last to know.”

  “Not this momma.”

  “Go on and wake her up,” Quinn said. “I’ll track down Brock Tanner and get him to send word to the folks on patrol.”

  “Brock Tanner?” Caddy asked. “You really want to do that?”

  “No time for pride and bullshit,” Quinn said. “I already reached out to Reggie and sheriffs in surrounding counties. You said he finished up school but no one saw him leaving?”

  “Never showed up for practice,” Caddy said, starting to cry again. “Does that sound like Jason?”

  “Whatever happened, he must’ve had a good reason,” Quinn said, reaching his arm around his sister and pulling her tight. “We’ll find him. I promise. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Donnie Varner had made a black skillet filled with two fried eggs, some Jimmy Dean sausage links, and Wonder Bread grilled in butter when five trucks rolled on up into the Magnolia Drive-In. He stood there in his tighty-whities, mud boots up to his knees, and terry cloth robe open, staring into the headlights blazing into the dawn.

  A truck door opened and a fat little fella wandered out. Donnie wasn’t able to make out his face.

  “Picture show is closed,” Donnie said, raising his voice to the trucks. “Hadn’t had movies out here since John Wayne kicked the bucket. Try that new Malco over in Tupelo.”

  The man kept on walking, dust and grit all kicked up by the mud tires, the man emerging close to where Donnie stood on his wooden steps. The little fella was dressed for combat, black tactical pants and black shirt, a pistol worn in a side holster. It was one of the boys he’d met over at Zeke’s Value City, one of those Watchmen folks.

  Donnie held the skillet in his right hand and closed his robe with his left. Man had to have a little dignity.

  “You’re a tough man to find, Donnie Varner.”

  “Hell no, I ain’t,” Donnie said. “In case you hadn’t seen a damn map, Tibbehah County is nothing but a little postage stamp of property.”

  “You never called us back.”

  “Still working out a few details,” Donnie said.

  Other truck doors began to open and more of those wannabe-military fruitcakes crawled out in their combat gear and black hats. Some of them had guns. Most of them wore beards, headlights still shining bright too damn early in the morning.

  “Sorry but I don’t have but a few more sausages in the fridge,” said Donnie. “I ain’t exactly equipped for no pancake supper.”

  The man walked up close to the wooden steps. A half-dozen or so of those other boys joined them. With all the scraggly beards and dark shades, they looked like the goddamn Oak Ridge Boys were back on tour.

  “We gave you a list.”

  “And a fine list it was,” Donnie said. “But gathering all that weaponry ain’t exactly like stopping by the Piggly Wiggly and filling up your cart with Ding Dongs and Fruity Pebbles. You boys got to understand this stuff takes time. It’s about making contacts, gaining trust, and some hard-nosed negotiation. Y’all got to trust me and give me some space.”

  “We think you’re pulling our goddamn peckers,” one of the men said. The boy was a spitting image for William Lee Golden with the long gray hair and beard that drooped down over his chest, or that old sallow-faced fucker on Duck Dynasty. That show sure had been a big hit at the correctional institution. Boys laughed and laughed at that old hambone country wisdom he dispensed.

  “We heard some federal folks made their way down here,” the short turd said. “You know anything about that?”

  “No, sir,” Donnie said. “I most certainly do not. And I resent the holy fuck out of the implication. Do you have any idea what it’s like to spend the last decade in lockup being told when to eat, sleep, and shit? I’m no friend to the federal people. I can promise you that. Those people, and one redheaded woman in particular, cornholed my ass long and good. I hadn’t been able to sit down for years.”

  The men, standing in a semicircle, exchanged glances with each other. The Oak Ridge Boy nodding over at the little fat fucker who Donnie figured was the leader of this Mickey Mouse Club. The man looked up at Donnie, who just wanted to sit down and have breakfast before his eggs coo
led off.

  “Yeah?”

  One of the fellas, dressed head to toe for combat operations, dropped a rucksack on the bottom step.

  “What the fuck’s that?” Donnie asked.

  “Down payment.”

  “Hold the phone for a second,” Donnie said. “Let me get back to you on a few things. I mean that was one hell of grocery list y’all gave me. It’s gonna take time.”

  “You’ve got one week,” the little man said.

  “Yep,” ole Oak Ridge Boy said. “Or we’ll hang your ass high on that movie screen out there. We’re not an organization who puts up with bullshit and insubordination.”

  Donnie picked up a sausage link from the skillet and took a bite. He looked down at the little crew all waiting for Donnie to make good on the promise. He just stood there and stared, the edges of his bathrobe opening and closing in the hot summer wind. At a time like this, he sure was glad he slept in his underwear.

  “I promise y’all I’ll do my damn best,” Donnie said, holding up his free hand and offering them a salute. “Cub Scout’s honor.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Jason yanked back the van door but heard a chain clanging outside. They’d locked them all in. But as he moved into the driver’s seat, tugging at the door handle, it budged open and he whispered to Ana Gabriel and all the girls for them to get the hell out of there. He hit the pavement, reaching up for Ana Gabriel’s backpack, motioning for the others, not even turning to see who was following. Jason had the Buck knife in his belt loop now, carrying it like ole Jim Bowie from the books, and scooted fast through the air pumps and car wash and on behind a Pirtle’s Chicken, looking across the big road to an abandoned car dealership. Mt. Moriah. Jason figured if they could lose Angel and his buddy, they could maybe stop a car or find another gas station where they could call the police.

  Jason and Ana Gabriel hid behind a dumpster outside Pirtle’s, catching their breath, and listening for anyone following. There was some yelling in Spanish and the screeching of a car back behind the gas station. They were still too damn close, but here in Memphis, right out by the interstate, there wasn’t a tree or a blade of grass to hide behind. They’d need to cross the big road and get on behind that car dealership to get free. He swallowed, motioned to Ana Gabriel, and they both sprinted across the road, waving their arms for someone to stop and help. But no one did. They kept on running toward an abandoned building, racing through busted glass and NO TRESPASSING signs.

  “We have to help,” Ana Gabriel said, panting and out of breath.

  “We will,” Jason said.

  “The girls will be punished.”

  “Come on,” Jason said. “We’ll find them some help.”

  He ran up behind the car dealership, looking for a place to hide, the asphalt spreading out in the morning light, busted up with weeds poking through the cracks.

  “Where’s your backpack?” she asked.

  “Wasn’t time to fool with it,” he said.

  “So stupid,” she said. “Angel promised he’d look out for us. He said he’d make sure we got to our parents. He said his father was taken, too. But that was probably a lie.”

  “Probably,” Jason said. “No time to think on it. Let’s keep moving. Always keep moving.”

  “Your uncle taught you that?”

  Jason Colson nodded, pushing in a beat-up metal door, the doorknob long gone, wandering into a wide-open space that had been the showroom at one time, with buckled linoleum floors and ceiling tiles hanging loose or laying broken on the floor. Pipes and wires dangled down, desks and chairs overturned. A yellowed poster for HONDA SALES DAYS 2010 spiraled down to the floor. Half the plate-glass windows were busted, and the air was already hot inside the building. Jason looked out onto the big empty lot, hearing tires squealing and then that goddamn white van came roaring toward them, busting through a chain draped across the entrance and coming to a rest by the showroom. Jason and Ana Gabriel ran far into the back rooms, through puddles and darkness and into the old maintenance building. They stayed there, huddled behind a pile of old tires, and waited.

  A few minutes later, after what seemed forever holding his breath, Jason watched as Angel and the tall black man in the duster and the long cornrows strolled inside the showroom. He seemed as cool and collected as if he was about to put a down payment on a new ride.

  “The girl is yours,” Angel said. “I’ll take care of that little boy free of charge.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It wasn’t even eight a.m., but Tanner was where dispatch told Quinn he’d be, seated in a spinning barber chair in front of a woman with a big bouffant giving him a trim over his ginormous ears. The woman’s name was Faye Randolph, and before she started cutting hair she’d been in the business of breeding Chihuahuas with squirrel dogs. She called them Taco Terriers. But all that had stopped when one of her dogs nipped her next-door neighbor and Quinn had to come out personally to take the report.

  “Miss Faye,” Quinn said.

  “Sheriff,” she said.

  Quinn stood in the middle of the barbershop, looking over at Brock Tanner, who didn’t acknowledge he’d walked in the door.

  “Brock,” Quinn said.

  The man just gave a lazy, uninterested look up at Quinn. The whole idea of him sitting there at Quinn’s barbershop, dressed in a uniform with Tibbehah County patches, wasn’t exactly pleasing. But Quinn knew he had Brock Tanner’s damn number, knowing exactly who he was, why he was put there, and what he intended to do on the job in north Mississippi. Unfortunately, right now he needed the SOB’s help.

  Quinn’s friend Don, who owned and ran the place now, was seated in a far barber’s chair, reading a copy of the Daily Journal and looking up every few seconds at a TV on top of the Coke machine. The news channel was running a promo for a new show where a woman with bleached blonde hair and lots of gold jewelry talked about the continuing persecution of people of faith. The commercial let the viewers know that they provided Biblical answers for those under attack in today’s America.

  “We need more people like Miss Ainsley,” Faye said. “Y’all know we are all being persecuted for our faith. Just for being white people.”

  “Is that a fact?” Quinn said. “Has that happened to you? Or you just hearing it?”

  “It’s all over the news,” Miss Faye said. “Haven’t you heard? We got to protect our rights or this country’s going to hell in a handbasket.”

  Brock grinned and cut his eyes over at Quinn and then up at the television, the news proclaiming it was CELEBRATE AMERICA MONTH. A flag unfurling and fireworks popping from the screen.

  “Can I help you with something?” Brock Tanner said.

  “My nephew Jason is missing.”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Brock Tanner said. “Wish there was more I could do. Got some boys on patrol on the lookout for him wandering the back roads. I’ll let you know if they spot him.”

  “I was hoping for a little more than that,” Quinn said. “His mother asked y’all to put out an Amber Alert and I hear that hasn’t happened yet.”

  “You got any proof he was abducted?”

  “He didn’t run away,” Quinn said. “He’s been missing since after school. He’s not the kind of kid to wander off and not tell us.”

  “But you don’t have any proof?” Tanner said, Miss Faye working the scissors across his forehead, his nose long and upturned like an old wooden puppet. “No witnesses? No information? Nope. I can’t put out an alert half-cocked. Did he have a fight with his momma or something? That sister of yours can be a real pistol.”

  Quinn didn’t answer. He looked up to the television now with two grown men screaming at each other about how Congress was taking a wrecking ball to the Constitution and how soon gun owners would be targeted. The station went to a commercial break and a woman came on
the screen talking about her husband’s erectile dysfunction. Quinn walked over to the television and turned it off. He couldn’t hear himself think straight through all the damn noise.

  “Call me up if you hear something different,” Tanner said, closing his eyes as Faye worked. “I got to follow the law. You recall that.”

  “I don’t think you’re hearing me, Brock,” Quinn said. “I’m asking as a personal favor.”

  Don looked up from his paper, folding it back, sensing something tense between the two men. He turned to Quinn. “Give you a trim, Sheriff?”

  Tanner’s eyes opened up, not liking the sound of Don addressing Quinn as sheriff. He opened his eyes briefly and then closed them, looking like a man trying to relax and shut out the intrusions.

  “Not today, Don,” Quinn said. “Appreciate it.”

  Faye shaved Tanner’s neck, washing the razor off every few swipes. Quinn stood there watching her work until Tanner opened one eye and then snapped it shut. “Didn’t get the family connection when I got the picture last night,” Tanner said. “That boy sure doesn’t look like he’d be your people.”

  Quinn stepped up to where Faye worked the blade against Brock Tanner’s neck. The woman stopping for a moment when she saw what was in Quinn’s eyes and put away the blade. Quinn hovered over Tanner, noting the small grin on the man’s little mouth, almost like a bass.

  “Things always tend to shake out in this county,” Quinn said. “You’ll find that out soon enough.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Tanner said with his eyes closed. “I know you’re not making a threat.”

  “Count on it,” Quinn said.

  Quinn winked at Don and nodded to Miss Faye and headed out the glass door, the bell tinkling overhead. Boom sat in the passenger seat of the bright blue Ford Highboy. He had his good arm folded over his big chest, head down where he’d been catching a few moments of sleep. They’d been up all night.

  “What he say?”

  “He’s not gonna help.”