by Ace Atkins
“Will we go back to Mississippi?” Sancho asked. “One day if our mother is free?”
Ana Gabriel looked up from her math book, placing her pencil’s rubber eraser to her mouth, thinking on it. “I don’t know.”
“I miss her,” Sancho said.
“I miss her very much,” Ana Gabriel said. “With all my heart.”
“Perhaps it was all a dream that we will wake from,” Sancho said. “Or maybe it really was the Rapture and we are living in what some people call heaven. Or that in-between place people go.”
“Purgatory,” Ana Gabriel said.
“Yes,” Sancho said, looking out behind the buffet and over the mass of empty tables and chairs. The neon sign blazing OPEN in the big plate-glass window. “Yes. There.”
“Would you like to call her tonight?” Ana Gabriel said. “Mother gets very lonely where she’s been taken. Waiting. So much waiting.”
“Will it be much longer?” Sancho said. “They can’t keep her locked away forever. Can they?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I only know that one day, we will all be together. That I can promise.”
* * *
• • •
“I’m really sorry, Quinn,” Donnie said. “I didn’t mean to mind fuck you like that. With all you had on your plate, getting kicked out of your office, Feds crawling all over the county, and your wife being pregnant. How is that little girl, by the way? Caddy told me she’s about the cutest baby she’s ever seen in her life.”
“All babies are cute,” Quinn said. “But yeah. She’s something special.”
“Y’all are calling her Halley,” Donnie said. “After your aunt?”
“That’s right.”
“Pretty name,” Donnie said. “I like those old-fashioned names. I’ve had it with those Brittanys, Madisons, and Tiffanys. Or whatever they’re called these days. If I ever have a child of my own, I’d name her after my momma. Delores. I know that’s not the coolest or loveliest name that you’ve ever heard. But that would mean something. That’d mean something to me.”
“You talk to Caddy about that?” Quinn asked. “I don’t know if she’s up for more kids.”
“Oh, I’m just talking,” Donnie said. “You know how much I like to talk.”
Quinn nodded, taking a sip of coffee. He and Donnie sat around the fire pit in the open field behind the farmhouse. Tomorrow, Donnie would be leaving town, and Caddy and Jason were going with him. All of them moving on to Austin, where Donnie swore he had an Army buddy who had hooked him up with a great job driving a beer truck. Caddy said she’d find something to do, there was always work for people willing to work hard. She was more worried about moving Jason in the middle of the school year, picking up and going to a new state, a new city after all he’d known was Tibbehah County.
“Heard you turned down Luther’s offer on the GTO.”
“I know,” Donnie said. “Can you believe my incredible integrity? He handed over the keys and shook my hand. This, of course, coming after he learned I wasn’t a Grade A fuckup and had actually been working for Uncle Sam. He was right proud of it. Said he always knew that someday I’d do the right thing.”
“How’s it feel?” Quinn said.
“Doing the right thing?” Donnie said, thinking on it in the glow of the fire. It had been two months now since the raid at the Rebel and the night Fannie Hathcock had been killed. “I guess it feels good. Got my ass out of prison and nailed those damn bastards who got you shot up. I’m only sorry you didn’t bag that big Indian yourself. There ain’t a shred of honor shooting a man in the back.”
“He was just an instrument of Fannie’s,” Quinn said. “Following orders.”
“A soldier,” Donnie said. “That’s just fucking ironic as hell. How’s Lillie doing with all this mess? Heard she’s on leave from the Marshals. Any chance you’ll bring her on back to Tibbehah?”
“Can you see Lillie moving back to Tibbehah County from Memphis?”
“She did it before.”
“And swears she’ll never do it again.”
Quinn took a big sip of some Four Roses Single Barrel in the coffee mug. He placed his cowboy boots up closer to the ring of stones, warming his feet. That moment might’ve been 1955 or 1885. He thought about all the folks who’d built a fire in the back pasture over the years, coming and going, fading with time. Choctaws, Confederate soldiers. His grandparents, Uncle Hamp, and Aunt Halley all watching them from the darkened corners of the woods. Sometimes he swore he could feel them walking in that old house, moving about as Quinn rocked with Halley in his lap.
“I promise I won’t fuck up again,” Donnie said. “I love your sister. I’ll do my dead level best to take care of her.”
“Driving a beer truck?”
“Hell yes,” Donnie said. “Driving a beer truck. Did I tell you it was Coors? Maybe sometime, someday, I’ll just take the whole load and head eastbound and down to Tibbehah County. How would that sound, Quinn Colson?”
Quinn poked at the fire with a long stick and looked across at Donnie. “How about you hold off on that, bud. Least for a while.”
* * *
• • •
They had moved before, once even losing everything in a tornado. But this was altogether something different, Jason decided. Now they’d be leaving Jericho, maybe for good this time, and he’d be leaving everything he’d ever known. His momma tried to remind him of all those horrible apartments in Memphis, but that was so long ago that he couldn’t even quite place it. And then there had been some time at Uncle Quinn’s farm and at Grandma Jean’s. His mother said to remember that nothing was permanent, the only home you really had was with family.
“I think that’s true,” Brandon said after Jason told him what he’d been thinking. “With my old daddy, my mom said we weren’t living unless we were living out of boxes. You’ll get used to it.”
The two boys sat out on the curb of the little bungalow on Stovall Street, not two blocks from the Square. Mr. Donnie and Uncle Quinn working to load up a U-Haul truck while his momma and Grandma Jean packed up more and more boxes.
“Texas ain’t Mississippi,” Jason said.
“Maybe that’s a good thing,” Brandon said. “Momma said y’all will have better schools and better roads. I also heard everybody wears cowboy hats. Is that true?”
“I don’t know,” Jason said. “But Mr. Donnie swears he’s gonna buy me and him one, both. I swear to you that man is crazy.”
“I’m going to miss y’all,” Brandon said. “Are you sad?”
“Naw,” Jason said, picking up a stick and raking it in the little gutter. “Best I’ve seen Momma in a long while. She was laughing and smiling with Mr. Donnie, cutting up this morning about what they were going to do with his old trailer.”
“What are they gonna do with it?”
“Leave it with y’all,” Jason said. “Maybe you can use it as some kind of fort. You know we’ll be back for Christmas. Probably the summers. Maybe y’all can visit Texas, too.”
Brandon nodded. He was a cool little kid, had almost been like Jason’s little brother for these last two years. Uncle Quinn taking them both hunting and fishing, showing them those old Westerns on TV, telling them the legends of Jimmy Stewart, Randolph Scott, and Gary Cooper. Jason had taught Brandon to hunt for arrowheads and even whistle. Now that kid whistled like a damn bird.
“Dad says this has something to do with finding y’all’s grandfather,” Brandon said. “Is that true?”
“Don’t know about that,” Jason said. “But wouldn’t surprise me. Grandma Jean said he was over in Texas somewhere, playing hotshot stuntman.”
“What’s he like?”
“Grandpa?”
“Yeah,” Brandon said.
“My grandfather is a damn nut,” Jason said. “He’s nearly seventy years old and still
would climb the tallest tree in Tibbehah County just for the hell of it.”
Brandon stood up and brushed the dirt off his jeans. Jason followed, watching Uncle Quinn and Donnie load in a big mattress. Jason turned to Brandon and reached behind his back. “Figure you might could use this,” Jason said.
“Your Buck knife?”
“I got two.”
“Holy shit,” Brandon said.
“Yep,” Jason said. “You’ll be using it a lot come hunting season. And you can wear it right on your belt. Just like Daniel Boone.”
Brandon took it in both hands and thanked Jason. Jason looked at his little cousin and placed a hand on his shoulder. “And if things go south, you can always stab a fella right where it hurts.”
* * *
• • •
“What in the world do you think those boys are talking about?” Maggie asked.
“What do all boys talk about?” Caddy said. “Trucks, hunting, and girls.”
“Brandon still hasn’t discovered girls.”
“That’s when it all changes,” Caddy said. “Jason is still mooning over Ana Gabriel and she’s been gone two months. I don’t think it’s gonna end anytime soon.”
Halley started to cry from the little baby bucket she’d brought her in. Maggie lifted her up and cuddled her in her arms. The kitchen so empty that their words echoed off the wall and floor. The little girl was tiny and light, eyes bright and inquisitive, looking around a world that she couldn’t quite focus on yet.
“Now girls,” Caddy said. “That’s gonna be two times worse.”
“You really think so?” Maggie said.
“What do you think?”
Maggie passed Halley over to Caddy and the baby stopped crying. Caddy was so good with kids, humming softly and rocking her back and forth.
“Promise me you’ll look out for Momma,” Caddy said. “She can be a piece of work.”
“I will.”
“And don’t forget Hondo with all this going on,” Caddy said. “I sure love that dog.”
“Me, too.”
“I would say Quinn,” Caddy said. “But that’s the most self-sufficient bastard I’ve ever known. He could live off beef jerky and whiskey for years.”
“We have a full house,” Maggie said. “It feels good.”
Caddy reached out her index finger to Halley and Halley grasped it in her little hands. “I don’t know what she’ll be,” Caddy said. “But you can bet Halley Colson is gonna be a pistol. It’s in her DNA.”
* * *
• • •
Ole Man Skinner died two weeks before Christmas. Quinn rode with Boom to the church service and later the burial. It had been a cold day, drizzling rain, and the reading had been short and sweet, sending on his small group of family and friends over to Pap’s for a catfish buffet with a gospel group from New Albany taking on some of Skinner’s favorite hymns. According to the program they’d kick things off with “Rock of Ages” and follow up with “In the Sweet By-and-By.”
“Never saw us being at that man’s burial,” Boom said.
“Never saw him coming around.”
“But he did,” Boom said. “Hadn’t been for him, Vardaman’s ass wouldn’t be headed to federal prison and Nat Wilkins would be dead.”
“Before he died, he told me that compromises and excuses would erode your soul.”
“True,” Boom said. “But he sure did tote that water for Vardaman for a while. Can’t believe that man was so almighty stupid to admit he ordered Herrera getting killed.”
“These days?” Quinn said. “Arrogance and stupidity walk hand in hand.”
“Take a left here,” Boom said.
“Pap’s is straight ahead.”
“I know where Pap’s is at,” Boom said. “You don’t need to tell me where to get catfish.”
Quinn turned onto a freshly graveled road down toward the County Barn, where Boom had worked for a number of years and where he’d just started back on the job. Everything from dump trucks to backhoes to patrol cars got repaired or fueled up. Quinn had no idea why Boom wanted to head back here tonight.
They got out of Quinn’s vehicle, an old Cherokee that had been put in service when he’d first become sheriff ten years ago. He followed Boom out in the rain while Boom opened up the bay doors and walked into the garage.
“How you doing with those pills?” Boom said.
“After I saw what Maggie did,” Quinn said, “on her own? I flushed them down the toilet.”
“All you can do,” Boom said. “Pain won’t stop. But you get used to that shit in time.”
Boom hit the overhead lights to spotlight a green Super Duty F-250 truck with a fat light bar on top of the cab and the silver star of the Tibbehah County SO on the doors. The truck had been given a tall lift, custom rims, a winch, and big-ass mud tires and looked ready for the apocalypse.
“This what Skinner had me working on,” Boom said. “When he first got me hired back on.”
“For who?” Quinn said. “Brock Tanner?”
“Skinner knew you’d be back,” Boom said. “Said get that boy ready for whatever’s next. I don’t know what he was thinking, but he must’ve been expecting a real shitstorm headed our way.”
“I can’t take it.”
“Skinner knew you’d say that, too,” Boom said. “Truck is used. Two years old and all the customizations came out of his own pocket. Called it a gift.”
Boom pressed a button on the key fob and the truck rumbled to life, blue lights flashing on the cab and scattering around the garage.
“What do you think, man?” Boom said. “The new Big Green Machine? Or what?”
Quinn nodded, lifting a cigar from his jacket pocket and firing it up. He nodded some more, the smoke twirling up into the lamps. “You did all this?”
“Everything is custom,” Boom said. “From nose to damn tail. But you ain’t seen the best part yet.”
Boom opened up a rear door where Quinn could hook up prisoners to a D-ring.
Behind the driver’s side, Boom had strapped in and fitted a baby seat to the rear bench.
“That baby can’t be riding in that old beater,” Boom said. “You know I’m right.”
* * *
• • •
On Christmas Eve, the Rebel Truck Stop was doing a fine business from both the locals and the folks headed up and down Highway 45 for the holidays. For several months, Vienna’s had been shuttered and locked up and the only sign that shone along the highway was a billboard offering the finest chicken fried steak in the Mid-South, not to mention that Kids Eat Free!
The waitresses had decked out the diner side of the truck stop with silver garland and blinking colored lights. A hand-painted sign showed Christ being born in the manger under the Star of Bethlehem, the words PEACE, JOY, & LOVE. JESUS GIVES US ALL written below. The waitresses twirled about in their blue and white uniforms delivering super-sized dinner platters and refilling coffee mugs while Brenda Lee sang “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”
There was no snow and ice that night, north Mississippi a rainy and dark fifty-two degrees, with more rain expected for Christmas Day. Everyone was so caught up in their conversations and holiday plans that no one seemed to notice the skinny, gray-headed man wander in from the diesel pumps. If it weren’t for the double-breasted blue suit and blue paisley tie, the man might’ve walked right out of a Walker Evans photo. He had the ruddy complexion of a dirt farmer and the pompadoured hair of a 1950s rockabilly star.
As the man headed on into the Rebel, he seemed to know his way around, waiting until a young woman finished busing a booth in a far back corner. The woman looking up at him as he patiently waited, asking if he had more folks joining him.
“Just me,” the man said.
“This is the family table,” she said.
“Well, ma’am,” the man said. “I am family.”
The woman gave a confused look and left with the dirty dishes, the man sitting down at the table and taking in the entire room while popping a peppermint into his mouth and crunching on it with his back molars.
After a few minutes, Midnight Man appeared from the kitchen, holding a coffeepot and a clean mug. He set down the mug and filled it to the rim. Steam rose from the top.
“Wrapped up testimony yesterday,” the man said, not even glancing up. “Boy, they sure got Vardaman’s ass good. Watched him on TV say he ordered that killin’. Live and in Technicolor. Looked better than damn Gone with the Wind on the big screen.”
“Good to have you back, boss,” Midnight Man said. “Can I get you something else?”
Johnny Stagg added two big tablespoons to his coffee and stirred, thinking on it. “You know, I sure have been craving some of our fine chicken fried steak. And maybe a slice of that hot pecan pie with a big old scoop of vanilla on top. Yes, sir. That’ll do the trick.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ace Atkins is the author of twenty-three books, including eight Quinn Colson novels, the first two of which, The Ranger and The Lost Ones, were nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel (he has a third Edgar nomination for his short story "Last Fair Deal Gone Down"). He is the author of seven New York Times-bestselling novels in the continuation of Robert B. Parker's Spenser series. Before turning to fiction, he was a correspondent for the St. Petersburg Times and a crime reporter for the Tampa Tribune, and he played defensive end for Auburn University football.
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