by Ace Atkins
“I think your brother and Boom are way too hard on Donnie,” Jean said. “Always have been.”
“Donnie deserved some of it.”
“But not all,” she said. “He was such a cute little rascal. I remember y’all riding those dirt bikes all over town like a bunch of heathens. And when y’all were obsessed that there was real buried treasure out on the old railroad line. You spent that whole summer riding up and down those old tracks, carrying shovels and picks. Set you were going to find it.”
“That was pretty dumb,” she said. “We nearly got ourselves killed.”
“Donnie’s handsome, too,” Jean said. “Nice eyes and smile.”
“OK, Momma,” Caddy said. “I get the point.”
“Just wanting you to be happy is all,” she said. “Every mother wants that for her children. I prayed and prayed for Quinn. And then he found Maggie. She just appeared in town like I had hoped.”
“Sure,” Caddy said. “That was a real Hallmark special, calling the sheriff’s office on her criminal ex. That man blowing Quinn’s truck into a million pieces.”
“Worked out fine,” she said. “Just want you to find someone. I want you to be happy.”
“I am happy,” Caddy said, headed on a straight shot south to The River, noticing a strange yellow glow in the distance. “Why is everyone accusing me of not being happy?”
“Look at your hands on the wheel, baby,” Jean said. “You’ve worn your nails down to the quick, hands blistered and cracked. Life doesn’t have to be like that.”
“I don’t have to be with someone to be happy,” she said. “Isn’t that why you kicked Daddy loose? You weren’t happy with him. Y’all were never happy together.”
Jean didn’t answer, and for nearly a quarter mile, Caddy thought she’d overstepped. Her mother was pretty sensitive on all matters of the original Jason Colson. Caddy turned to see if she’d made her cry but only saw Jean staring straight ahead, a worried look on her face. “Baby,” she said. “I think something’s a matter.”
“That’s nothing,” she said. “Just some farmer with a burn pile.”
“No,” Jean said. “I don’t believe so. Look again.”
Caddy couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of her in her headlights, the big glowing yellow light expanding as they got closer. Now she smelled the smoke and saw the glow was at The River, or pretty damn close to it. She mashed the accelerator and rushed toward the cutoff road.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Jean said. “Maybe a little bonfire.”
“On a ninety-degree night?” Caddy said.
“Maybe you better call the fire department,” Jean said. “Oh, Lord. Do you see that?”
Caddy turned hard off the main road and down past the open cattle gate. The fire department was already there, Caddy driving closer and seeing the arcs of water shooting into the barn and dousing the tin roofs of the cabins. Everything was on fire, lit up like a bright sun in the dark night.
Caddy parked on the gravel road, feeling like someone had punched her square in the gut, and got out of the truck with the engine still running.
She could hear her mother yelling at her to get back, but she didn’t listen, just drawn to that heat and flame, knowing everything she’d worked to build was gone.
* * *
• • •
Skinner heard the commotion going on in the kitchen but didn’t pay it much mind. He’d taken his pills, cleared the cobwebs from his head, and felt good enough to stand up and drive home. Reaching for the porch rail and pulling himself to his feet, he heard that redheaded devil Fannie Hathcock herself say, “You didn’t need to be in there. That room is off-limits. Looked to the governor like you were eavesdropping, Nat. Why would you do that? Why did you even feel the need to be here tonight? I got Feds crawling all over my ass like fire ants and you better pray to the good Lord above that you sure as hell aren’t part of that.”
“Hold on, Miss Fannie,” the nice girl named Nat said. “I feel like I’m gonna be sick.”
“Are you listening to a damn word I’ve said?” Fannie said. “You’ve scared the ever-living shit out of the governor. Son of a damn bitch.”
“Can you give me a second?” Nat said. “I can’t breathe.”
Skinner turned his head as the back door opened and he saw Nat stumble outside, Fannie Hathcock following, shoving Nat’s shoulders. Fannie plugged a skinny cigar in the corner of her mouth like a gosh-darn man and fired it up. Skinner didn’t know what had happened, but Fannie looked mad as hell. Skinner placed his Stetson on his bald head and nodded to the two women. “Evening.”
“Let me get my purse,” Fannie said, ignoring him. “I’ll take you back to Vienna’s. You’ve done enough for one night.”
“Are you OK?” Skinner asked.
“She’s fine,” Fannie said, returning back into the kitchen, screen door thwacking closed behind her. “Please get out of the damn way.”
Nat didn’t look fine, giving him a weak smile, her eyes big and glassy. The young lady walked on up to him, reached around his neck, and hugged him like a grandchild might, saying loud, “Sure was nice meeting you, sir. Hope you had a good time.”
“Appreciate the dinner,” Skinner said. “Hope you get to feeling better.”
With her mouth not an inch from his ear, Nat whispered, “I’m a federal agent. Make sure this gets to Quinn Colson.”
“Ma’am?” Skinner said, stepping back. His face coloring from the young woman getting so close and intimate, the words she said at first an afterthought and then sharpening. Just what in the gosh-dang world was happening?
“Come on down to Vienna’s anytime,” Nat said, holding on to the railing for support, looking into the black night and swallowing hard as Fannie came out from the big stone house.
“Come on,” Fannie said, grabbing Nat’s upper arm and tugging at her. “I’ll drop you in town. What’s the matter, Skinner? You waiting for this girl to pass out and get you a little prime-time poon?”
The vulgar words sounded vile and sharp in Skinner’s ears as he watched them disappear down a softly lit path lined with gardenias. He craned his head to see Hathcock’s fancy white car start up and then drive off into the black night. Just what in the Sam Hill was going on?
Skinner reached into his pocket for his keys, but instead he found a strange black cube.
He studied the little cube for a moment in the light of the porch, smiled, and then tucked it away. Gosh darn. Quinn Colson. The Lord sure did work in strange and mysterious ways.
26
The next day, after bouncing from Jericho to Oxford and then over to Tupelo, Quinn stepped out from meetings with Holliday’s task force to finish the rest of his cold coffee and burn a fresh Liga Privada. He’d gotten two hours’ sleep at the Garden Inn by the BancorpSouth Arena where all the Feds had gathered to plan the nighttime raid. If Holliday hadn’t secured those no-knock warrants from Judge Percy in Oxford, he would’ve headed straight home. Jean had called and told him what had happened out at The River. There wasn’t much he could do now but keep focused on the mission.
Holliday said they would hit Fannie’s lake house, the Rebel, Vienna’s Place, and the sheriff’s office at sundown. None of the folks from the DEA had heard from Nat Wilkins since last night.
“Who would’ve thought that bald-headed fuck would come through?” Lillie asked.
“I think Skinner has been studying on his legacy for the last few months.”
“You think?” Lillie said. “What’s in it for him? Always something for Skinner at the trough.”
“Redemption,” Quinn said.
“Nope,” Lillie said. “Old man is a fuckwad, but he isn’t an idiot. He smells which way the wind is blowing. He’s trying to save his ass.”
“Little more to that story.”
“Maybe you can tell me sometime when
I give a shit.”
Quinn nodded, turning his head to blow the smoke away from Lillie. He’d gotten a call from Skinner in the middle of the night, wanting them to meet up by the Tibbehah Cross. The old man hemming and hawing about finally seeing the light and being washed in the blood of the lamb before handing over that lovely little black device. After Skinner had left, he’d jacked it into his laptop and watched it for two hours in his truck before he saw the scene Nat wanted him to have. The honorable J. K. Vardaman, sitting at the head of a big round poker table, talking about the ordered killing of Hector Herrera. Quinn had to play it three times before he was sure he heard it right. But there it was live and in glorious living full-color video.
The Feds already had plenty. But Holliday called this the cherry on top.
The late August afternoon was pushing nearly ninety-nine degrees outside the Hilton. Next door, the BancorpSouth Arena was hosting a Monster Truck Jam over the weekend. They’d been listening to the big engines growl all morning while breaking into four-member teams for Operation Deliverance. Quinn would roll with Holliday and a team of federal agents to the sheriff’s office. Lillie would ride with her partner Charlie Hodge and two folks from the DEA having the honor and pleasure to capture Fannie Hathcock and gather all the evidence they needed from her office at Vienna’s and the Rebel.
Lillie had said she wouldn’t have it any other way, smiling through the entire meeting in the Hilton banquet room. Holliday tossed her the file on Hathcock that Nat had put together.
“Nat’s been silent for a reason,” Lillie said. “Fannie must suspect something. Remember what she said about Sam Frye recognizing her?”
“Skinner said Nat looked sick,” Quinn said. “The last he saw her, Fannie was taking Nat back to Vienna’s.”
“Nat wouldn’t have gone with that woman at gunpoint,” Lillie said. “She would’ve run.”
“Skinner said she looked like she was about to throw up,” he said. “That she couldn’t stand up straight.”
Lillie nodded. Quinn not liking the vacant look on Lillie’s face.
Quinn turned as the loudest, most unholy racket sounded from within a tractor trailer and Grave Digger XX headed out nose first, the driver gunning its engines and shaking the other vehicles in the lot. After a few moments, another big truck started to rumble, the noise killing all conversation. He and Lillie watched as Megalodon, the big truck shaped like a massive shark, rolled out of another trailer and wheeled right behind Grave Digger, rolling slow and loud in a mini parade into the open mouth of the arena.
“Goddamn rednecks will pay to see anything,” Lillie said.
“I took Jason and Brandon last year.”
“Just to prove my goddamn point,” Lillie said.
“I’m sure Nat’s OK,” Quinn said. “She may have hopped off the grid if Fannie was asking too many questions.”
“She better be,” Lillie said, reaching for Quinn’s cigar and taking a puff. “I’ve been waiting for this moment since that bitch and her circus rolled into town. I don’t really give a good goddamn how Fannie leaves.”
“You don’t mean that,” Quinn said, taking back his cigar.
Lillie just stared right at him, not wavering, the smoke floating off into the parking lot and scattering into the hot wind. “Damn shame to hear what those people did to Caddy.”
“I wish I’d been out there,” Quinn said.
“Can’t look out for everyone, everywhere, Ranger,” Lillie said. “Did Caddy really step up to Fannie and slap her across her face?”
Quinn nodded.
“I sure do admire the hell out of your sister.”
“And now she’s left without a church or a mission,” Quinn said. “How do you think that’ll go?”
“You mean will she go off the rails?” Lillie said. “Like last time? Nah, not this Caddy. Not Caddy now. That woman has been forged in damn steel. She’ll rebuild or finally get smart and get the fuck out of Tibbehah.”
“Like you.”
“Yep,” Lillie said. “I’m the only one from that damn county who has any sense. Look at Donnie Varner. Do you really think it was worth an early release to nearly go and get himself killed? He should’ve told Holliday no thanks and kept on trucking until he could walk out a free man and keep on heading west.”
“Took out the Watchmen for me.”
“Those old boys would’ve hung themselves one way or another,” Lillie said. “Not exactly a brain trust with their people down in Jackson.”
Quinn held his cigar in his right hand and flicked the long ash away with his left middle finger. He took a draw and let it out, feeling that familiar buzz of caffeine and nicotine in his system, already doing his best to get down to two pills a day, cutting it down in half. Not all the way like he’d promised Maggie. But he’d learned long ago, way back when he was nineteen at Fort Benning, you did everything you could to complete the mission. He’d keep running on empty until Tibbehah was cleaned out.
“What about that jug-eared monkey wearing your uniform?” Lillie asked.
“Holliday and I get to pick him up,” Quinn said. “Along with a few of his deputies.”
“After he’s busted, you think he’ll still sign his fucking book for me?” Lillie said. “Honor and Duty.”
“Sure,” Quinn said. “Being arrested will only up his book sales. You know how he’ll spin it.”
“Persecuted for his politics and faith?”
“Yep.”
“Mind if I walk over to where Grave Digger laid down those tracks and puke?”
“Be my guest.”
Lillie tugged on her gold sunglasses and smiled at Quinn, dimples formed deep in her cheeks. “This is gonna be one hell of a time, Ranger,” Lillie said. “Just like the old days.”
“Love you, Lil.”
“Damn straight,” Lillie said. “You and Maggie ever figure out what you’re gonna name that kid? Lillie Virgil Colson sounds awfully nice.”
* * *
• • •
It was early afternoon when Fannie pulled around back of Vienna’s Place in a borrowed blue Chevy Impala. Heat radiated off the asphalt as she got out. Being forced to drive a domestic car with no air-conditioning from Memphis had made her sweat through her black tank top, hair lifeless and damp across her face. Vardaman’s people had tipped her only two hours before that the raids were coming either tonight or at first light tomorrow. Whenever it went down, Fannie wanted to make sure her ass was long gone.
She should’ve known a woman with Nat’s looks and brains coming hat in hand to work at an interstate titty bar was a Fed. Fannie should’ve seen it all straight off, but had wanted someone smart and competent under her. So many idiots had come and gone over the years that she was willing to believe it. Of course a woman like Nat would want to work under Fannie Goddamn Hathcock. It was gonna be just like The Devil Wears Prada, but instead of Vogue magazine, Nat was there to learn from the high priestess of steaks and titties.
Fannie unlocked the back door and headed into the club, the house lights off, a red glow coming off the bar and down in the VIP rooms. Every time she walked away and came back in, the damn smell nearly knocked her out. It wasn’t a bad smell, it was a like a massive Jolly Rancher fart of sugars and cherries and personal lube and whiskey. She’d worked in titty bars all the way from Mobile to Biloxi to New Orleans and that smell was the same. No amount of bleach could get rid of it.
She mounted the steps, walking round and round up onto the catwalk. She unlocked her office and turned on the lights, getting down on her knees to punch up the combo on her safe. She’d grab the laptop and the extra phones and all the standby cash and credit cards she kept. This was the shit she’d been prepping for since she opened up Vienna’s. But truth be known, she was kind of sad to see it all go. The entire bar built as a monument to the only person in her family that she gave a shit
about, the straight-talking, lovely, and accomplished Vienna. Her mother had been a drunk. Her father had been a creep, turning her out to old men before she had her first period. That old woman knew what she’d gone through, lived and breathed in that old trailer on the Coast, and let her know there was a better world out there, filled with silk dresses and steak dinners. She let it be known that Fannie’s mother had been a disappointment, letting men eat her up and destroy her. Vienna understood her granddaughter was smart and capable, made of stronger stuff, sitting there in that wheelchair and grasping her hand. “You got a little something extra, don’t you?”
Fannie loaded a big leather travel bag with the money and yanked the laptop off her desk, cord and all, scattering a pile of little pink vouchers for two-for-one lap dances and free buffet dinners Saturday night at the Rebel. The Rebel an afterthought to Vienna’s, a joint that only a peckerhead like Johnny Stagg could’ve loved. Leaving that place every day made you smell like smoked hickory and burned meat.
This was going to work. Everything would be fine. If the Feds came for her, they wouldn’t find shit. And nobody, absolutely nobody, would ever hear from Nat. Fannie had made sure of it.
Fannie reached for her bag, weighing a goddamn ton, and placed the laptop under her arm. After she headed back downstairs and moved toward the front door, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in the mirrored walls. Gucci sweatpants, black tank, and a goddamn trucker’s cap from the Rebel on her head. Damn if she didn’t look like country trash come to town.
If she could just make it to her car and back out to the warehouse and her airfield, she’d be sipping Sazeracs at the Roosevelt in New Orleans by midnight. She’d leave J. K. Vardaman to mop up this Mississippi shitshow and make things right.