The Revelators

by Ace Atkins

  “You good?” Holliday asked.

  “Ain’t there a French singer with your name?” Donnie asked.

  “That’s Johnny Hallyday,” Holliday said. “He had a big hit called ‘Requiem pour un fou.’”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Requiem for a fool.”

  “You shitting me, man?” Donnie said. “That should be my damn theme song as I roll up into the Rebel Truck wash in a Little Debbie’s snack truck loaded down with four hundred and forty fucking AR-15s.”

  “Hope it goes better than last night.”

  “Three men dead, one of them a damn Memphis cop,” Donnie said. “Yeah, tonight should be a real cakewalk. Unless one of those Watchmen gets paranoid. All I need is an army full of nutcases with automatic weapons on my ass. What I want is a goddamn vacation.”

  “Soon.”

  “Shit,” Donnie said. “You’re always saying things like soon. And not much longer. I mean, shit. How long am I indebted to you boys?”

  Donnie took the turns from up in the Tibbehah hills, down Highway 9 and toward the bright lights of Jericho, glowing over the wilderness miles away. Both hands on the wheel, looking back in his side mirrors to make sure he hadn’t been followed.

  “Keep at it, Donnie,” Holliday said. “You may not see us. But I promise we’re with you every step.”

  “Side by side with those gun-toting monkeys from the Watchmen Society?” Donnie asked. “I believe if any of those boys got a taste for real war, not just playing pecker-pull GI Joe in the booger woods, they’d shit their damn britches.”

  “You know it,” Holliday said.

  “And when will y’all bust ’em?” Donnie said. “Or is this fact-finding mission gonna last from now until judgment day?”

  “Soon as the money exchanges hands,” Holliday said. “Just make sure to activate that device I gave you. Step up close on those boys and when you’re ready, say the magic word.”

  “Come on, man,” Donnie said. “Can’t we come up with something better? You and me both know that sounds damn corny as hell. You really want me to say tasty? Besides, I don’t know how the hell I’m gonna say that when I get the cash. I mean you try and say fucking tasty in a sentence.”

  “That’s the word,” Holliday said. “And I’m sure you’ll think of something, given the vehicle you’ll be driving.”

  “You Feds are about as funny as a bad case of the hemorrhoids.”

  “Hang in there,” Holliday said. “We appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “We gonna get these folks?”

  “You know it,” Holliday said. “Everything is contained and controlled.”

  Donnie smiled, turning into a straightaway, passing the old Dixie gas station as he plucked an American Spirit into the corner of his mouth. “Last time someone told me that, damn hadjis opened up a little box that sent my ass flying far and wide. Didn’t wake up until a month later.”

  “Don’t worry,” Holliday said. “Just do your part and I promise to get you out safe.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “I knew it,” Boom said. “I damn well knew it. Donnie just can’t help himself. Here he gets a gift from God, an early damn release, and what does he do? Goes right on back to selling guns as if those last eight years didn’t mean a damn thing. If he’s lucky enough to get out of this alive, he ain’t never gonna get out of prison. Just what do you think that’ll do to Luther?”

  “You think we can reason with him?” Quinn said.

  “Hell no.”

  They were headed back out from the Magnolia Drive-In after finding the gold GTO gone and Donnie nowhere to be found. Boom drove fast back toward the Square, the mufflers on his big V-8 growling.

  “You think maybe we can hit him up and get rid of those guns before he shits the bed?”

  “Worth a shot,” Boom said.

  “Lillie said it’s definitely tonight,” Quinn said. “Out back of the Rebel. If we can’t find him before then, we got to be there.”

  “To stop the Watchmen?”

  “To catch Fannie,” Quinn said. “And maybe stop Donnie from getting killed.”

  “What about your buddy, the Fed,” Boom said. “Holliday.”

  “Already left him four messages,” Quinn said. “This can’t wait.”

  “Me and you might get arrested by Brock Tanner and that shitbird monkey with the schoolboy haircut,” Boom said. “Want to remind me why we’re doing this?”

  “Because Donnie’s our friend.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Boom said. “I almost forgot.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was nearly dark when Donnie drove the Little Debbie truck back behind the Rebel Truck Stop and idled by the bay door to the big corrugated tin building. Donnie flicked the high beams, the bay door started to rise, and he headed on into the washing bay. The Watchmen, bless their hearts, were already there and waiting, dressed head to foot in the latest stylish military uniforms. Sort of like men without a country, the only patch on their arms that of the stars and bars of the Confederacy. There were eight of them, plus old Zeke Coldfield. Mr. Coldfield looked the same as he did in his local commercials in that funeral-black suit and powder blue tie, golden glasses with thick lenses. Donnie swore the old man licked his damn lips when he saw Little Debbie’s picture smiling down at his ancient ass.

  Donnie killed the engine and hopped down out of the truck.

  “You mind if we check on the inventory, son?” Coldfield said.

  Donnie shook his head and four of the Watchmen opened up the truck and trotted on inside as the older fella with both eyeglasses and a black patch, ole One-Eyed Willie himself, came up to where Donnie stood with Zeke Coldfield. The Duck Dynasty fucker with the long gray beard joined them and looked Donnie over as if inspecting a dog turd.

  “The general told me you’d come through,” Duck Dynasty said. “At first I didn’t believe him.”

  The general? Holy Fucking Christ. These ole boys were crazier than a truckload of shithouse rats.

  “Don’t mean to be greedy or impolite,” Donnie said. “But y’all got the money?”

  One-Eyed Willie nodded and lifted his chin over to his Duck Dynasty commander pulling at his beard, the buttons damn well about to pop off his uniform. Who knew? Maybe this fucker was the goddamn admiral of their fleet of bass boats or maybe the damn captain of their Southern-made zeppelins. Donnie looked the SOB right in the eye and saluted. Shit, he just couldn’t help himself.

  Mr. Coldfield reached into his suit pants pocket and pulled out some keys on a jingly ring. He tossed it to Donnie and Donnie caught it in his right hand. “That little round one opens the trunk.”

  Donnie swallowed. He wasn’t too excited about opening up a car trunk with some heavily armed nutcases at his back.

  “How about you open it?” Donnie said.

  “You don’t trust us?” Coldfield said. The old man looking genuinely sad and disappointed, like a grandpa who’s just been told no one gave a shit for his corny jokes no more. “Take the car and the cash. Just like ole Bob Barker might say on The Price Is Right. Son, you just won yourself a 1991 Buick Park Avenue and a half million dollars.”

  “What about a trip to Acapulco?” Donnie said, walking over to that old car and popping the trunk. He counted out the money the best he could, given the time constraints, the pressure, and the fact that he couldn’t keep the money anyway. “And a couple of them models in bikinis with big ole knockers.”

  Coldfield looked as if he wasn’t listening, staring over Donnie’s shoulder. Donnie turned to see the Watchmen coming out of the back of the Little Debbie truck, all holding brand-new AR-15s and looking happier than some broke-ass kids at Toys for Tots. They passed around the guns, each of them working the rifles, aiming and dry firing.

  “Pleasure d
oing business with you, son,” Coldfield said. “Please give your daddy my best. A true American hero.”

  Donnie waited for the bullets to start flying or someone trying to snatch up his ass and stick him in the trunk. But no one did. Those boys too damn happy with their surprises in that Little Debbie truck to even notice he was leaving. Donnie got behind the wheel of the Buick, cranked her up, and waited for the big bay door to open and let him free and loose into the night.

  He was about to mention those wonderful tasty treats old Mr. Coldfield enjoyed when Donnie noticed the big yellow truck, jacked up on massive tires, idling right in front of the bay doors.

  Quinn and Boom got out, both of them carrying shotguns.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Hey, boys,” Donnie said. “Funny running into you here. I was just washing down my delivery truck. Did I tell you my daddy got me a job delivering Little Debbies? I’m peddling them snack cakes all over north Mississippi. I’m gonna be a hero to every little fat kid with a sweet tooth.”

  Quinn nodded at Boom and they walked into the truck wash. Quinn carried his Remington 12-gauge and Boom carried a cut-down J. C. Higgins he could balance in his good hand. Donnie stood back from the grouping of men in black tac gear, no mistaking the damn Watchmen, along with old Mr. Zeke Coldfield himself. Coldfield looked like a circuit preacher who’d been discovered in the back room of a Memphis cathouse. His pale blue eyes wide and barren, jaw hanging open as Quinn and Boom corralled the boys like Hondo working a herd of cattle.

  “Don’t see why this is any of your concern, Quinn Colson,” Coldfield said. “I thought you was on an extended vacation.”

  Quinn didn’t answer. He and Boom moved clockwise around the gathering. Boom had his gun raised in his good hand and Quinn had his 12-gauge against his shoulder. Four of those boys had pulled AR rifles up to their shoulders, barrels trained on him and Boom. But Quinn almost wanted to walk over and pat those old boys on the back. All four of their guns were missing their magazines. They were aiming empty guns at him and Boom.

  Boom noticed it, too, smiling slightly as he walked slow in a ring.

  One of the men, who Quinn recognized from his online posts as Silas Pierce, a self-proclaimed general of the crew, wore glasses with one lens blacked out, an Australian slouch hat, and a big revolver. This guy was dead serious, staring Quinn down with that one beady and mean eye, gun stretched out in his hand, level and ready to fire.

  “I know who you are,” the man said. “My boys should’ve finished you off out on Perfect Circle Road.”

  Quinn stood maybe eight feet from the man and could cut the son of a bitch in half with the twitch of a finger.

  “You come in here with a shotgun and a one-armed nigger,” the man said. “My boys’ll turn y’all into hamburger and wash you down these here drainpipes.”

  “Them magazines sold separately?” Boom said, nodding.

  The one-eyed man swallowed, stepping back, his eye wandering around and noticing the gravity of the situation. In all the years Quinn had been sheriff, the one thing he realized was that stupidity had no bounds. The one-eyed man wandered up to Quinn. He kept his gun aimed at him.

  “You boys are gonna step back and let us take that snack cake truck outta the wash.”

  “And let y’all take all the guns?”

  “Guns?” Pierce said. “Ain’t no guns. Just a truck filled with ole Ho Hos and good old sticky buns. Me and the boys get real hungry out on the range, training and prepping. You better be doing some of that, too, Sheriff.”

  “Come on, Quinn,” Donnie said, palms outstretched, stepping back toward the entrance. It was a step-by-step, slow retreat, but Quinn noticed it. “Just let me work this little deal and we can catch up later. Man’s got to work.”

  “Damn, Donnie,” Quinn said. “Working with these turds is beneath even you.”

  “That hurts, Quinn,” Donnie said.

  “Hold on, hold on, hold on,” Zeke Coldfield said, hobbling on up to where Quinn worked the room with his Remington pump. The old man addressing Quinn as if he’d just stopped him after church to see how his momma and them were doing. “Perhaps we might come to some kind of financial arrangement. I’m a wealthy man and would be glad to fill your coffers a bit. I know times are tough since you got laid off. You just don’t understand the gravity of the current situation we have in Mississippi. This is our last stand. This is no different than the selfless act of Nathan Bedford Forrest back in the winter of ’64 when he lost his own brother, committing his mortal remains into these wild hills.”

  “Step back, Mr. Coldfield,” Quinn said.

  One of the Watchmen, an older guy with a long gray beard, had lowered his empty AR and started to reach for the gun on his hip. Boom flipped the shotgun around and rammed the stock right into the man’s nose, sending him down on the wet concrete floor, blood sputtering into his hands.

  “And can y’all please lower your damn weapons,” Quinn said. “Having empty guns drawn on me is an insult to my intelligence.”

  “We can work this out, son,” Coldfield said. “Me and your granddaddy were good friends. That ole boy made the finest moonshine in eight counties and damn, how your daddy and his crazy brothers could drive.”

  Quinn turned the gun on one-eyed Silas Pierce, leader of the shitbirds, and told him to lower his weapon or he’d splatter his brains across Little Debbie’s pretty little face.

  Pierce didn’t move.

  “I got it,” Donnie said. “I got it. Y’all stand down. I fuckin’ got it.”

  “Back up, Donnie.”

  Quinn had been so intent on saving Donnie and corralling old Mr. Coldfield and the Watchmen that he hadn’t noticed Donnie walking up on him from the side. He had an AR-15 of his own now, this one with a full clip inserted, and pointed the gun at Quinn, walking forward.

  “Y’all go ahead and git,” Donnie said, nodding to the Watchmen. “And I’ll hold these boys right here. Sorry for the inconvenience. Enjoy them snack cakes. They’re just tasty as hell.”

  Donnie shouted the last sentence. The room was silent. Donnie looked right at Quinn and winked. Quinn looked at him sideways, trying to figure out just what in the hell he was up to.

  “Tasty stuff,” Donnie said. “Yes, sir. Tasty stuff.”

  Quinn held the shotgun on Pierce. Mr. Coldfield mumbled something and walked toward the delivery truck. But all the other men looked to Pierce for direction, stopped cold and holding those empty guns.

  “Drop the damn gun,” Quinn said to Pierce. “Get facedown.”

  “Like hell,” Pierce said, raising his revolver.

  Quinn shot Pierce in the chest, sending him hard and quick down on his back. The Watchmen all scattering, searching for cover behind a big trailer with JESUS SAVES painted on the side. A few of them hopped up into the delivery truck and another boy tried to run past Boom toward the open bay door but Boom tripped his ass, sending him skidding headfirst across the soapy wet floor.

  The rear door rolled open and from the front and back of the truck wash, men and women wearing vests that read both FBI and ATF rushed into the building. They got everybody down on the floor in seconds. It took longer for old Mr. Coldfield, who needed assistance to get down on his arthritic knees and place his hands behind his neck.

  Jon Holliday walked up to Quinn, who was down on the floor with his hands behind his neck. Holliday reached out a hand and helped Quinn to his feet, nodding down to the dead man on the floor, slouch hat in a pool of blood.

  “Might’ve called me first.”

  “I did,” Quinn said. “Four times with four messages.”

  “That who I think it is?”

  “Yep,” Quinn said. “Silas Pierce. First time I’d seen him outside his YouTube videos.”

  Quinn watched as a woman in an ATF vest and a blue ball cap helped up Donnie and cuffed him be
hind his back. As she walked him out toward the big bay doors, Donnie gave Quinn a weak smile.

  Quinn looked away, unable to look Donnie in the eye. So disappointed that his good friend would work with the men who’d tried to kill him.

  “That one is on me,” Quinn said. “I should’ve warned y’all Donnie was back. And probably up to no good.”

  Holliday nodded, placing a hand on his back. “Let’s get you out of here before Brock Tanner shows up,” he said. “Me and you got a lot to discuss.”

  25

  Fannie sped toward Choctaw Lake, stopping and slamming her Lexus into park. Two Tibbehah County patrol cars were parked up under a single lamp shining outside the barren Captain’s Table Restaurant, the kind of place that served greasy fried fish with a gallon of tartar sauce on the side. The place hadn’t been open in years, but the air still smelled of catfish and hushpuppies as Fannie got out, tossing her cigarillo down into the gravel lot full of dirt and weeds.

  She walked up toward the shadow of the building where Brock Tanner stood with that dumbass Mitchell Danbury, both of them having the good goddamn sense to keep their mouths closed and let Momma talk.

  “What in the fuck is going on out at the Rebel?” she said, speaking direct to Tanner, Danbury not worth her attention.

  “Feds busted some of those Watchmen folks,” Tanner said. “They were buying guns off some local boy named Donnie Varner. You know him?”

  “Why didn’t we know the Feds were down here?” Fannie said. “I mean Christ Almighty, what good are you if you don’t know the Feds are working in Tibbehah County? You got to be some kind of stupid not to notice.”

  “We hadn’t been informed,” Danbury said, his wide, pockmarked face shiny with sweat, his little bangs combed straight down over his forehead.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Fannie said. “I’m talking to the fucking sheriff here who’s supposed to be watching my ass while I run my damn business. Are you listening to what I’m saying? What in the hell is the FBI doing operating right out my own back door? I heard somebody was killed.”