The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  ‘The soda’s on the house,’ said Rhinehart.

  ‘What about the beer?’ said Colson.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be accused of bribery.’

  ‘Too damned cheap, you mean.’

  Rhinehart shrugged before heading to the other end of the bar to serve one of the men who had arrived with Rich Emory. Colson tapped her bottle against the rim of Parker’s glass.

  ‘Cheers, for what it’s worth,’ she said, then: ‘You don’t drink?’

  Parker took time to compose his reply. ‘I went through a period of excess. It didn’t end well.’

  Colson picked at the label on her bottle.

  ‘Evan told me what happened to your family. I’m sorry. I know you’ve probably heard that a lot, and hearing it again probably doesn’t help much, but I am.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The last time Parker had kept company with a woman in a bar, it was his wife beside him. It helped that Colson looked nothing like Susan, but Parker still had to fight a lump in his throat. He waited until he had it under control before speaking again.

  ‘How much of that exchange with Rich Emory did you catch?’ he said.

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘I get the feeling he believes a local may be responsible for what’s happening here.’

  ‘There’s a difference of opinion on the subject,’ said Colson. ‘You have those who say it’s a drifter, the same man that killed Patricia Hartley come back for more – because everyone knew she was probably murdered, but they preferred to live with the lie. This isn’t Hot Springs, or Fayetteville. There’s always been an antipathy toward those without roots in the county, and these killings have tapped into it. Even the prosperity that Kovas may bring has to be balanced in a lot of minds with the changes that will follow. The town will fill up with those who don’t have any ties to the land, disrupting the natural order. Once Kovas arrives, Burdon County will never be the same again.

  ‘But,’ she concluded, ‘however frightening it may be for them to suppose that a stranger is shedding blood here, it’s harder yet for them to countenance the possibility that it might be one of their own.’

  ‘And what do you believe?’

  ‘He’s local,’ Colson said firmly. ‘You saw where Patricia Hartley’s body was found, and I know the chief told you his suspicions about where it might have been put originally. That’s not an easy location to access. You have to know the way to the outcrop. And neither Donna Lee nor Patricia was killed where the remains were discovered, so unless he has a van or an RV, he’s working from a base. Even if he’s using a vehicle, he needs a safe location in which to park it, where he knows he won’t be disturbed. That’s local knowledge right there.’

  And then there was the simple fact that he had made Burdon County his hunting ground, not anyplace else. Even if the killer wasn’t native, thought Parker, he had a point of connection with this area.

  ‘And Estella Jackson?’

  ‘That was different. She was tortured to death and left in a shed. But it might be best for you to read the report first, and not have me prejudice your thinking.’

  Colson abandoned her beer and stood to leave.

  ‘You staying?’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m done.’

  ‘Are you parked in the lot?’

  ‘I came here on foot.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ride back to the motel.’

  ‘I can walk.’

  ‘I’d feel better if you accepted the escort.’

  ‘Because Rich Emory might be about to resume the argument?’

  ‘No, Rich has said his piece now, and he’s not dumb. But there are others who are better at keeping their emotions hidden, and they’ll be watching you as well. Evan says you brought your own guns.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You carrying now?’

  Parker moved his shirt to display the butt of the Smith & Wesson.

  ‘Make it more visible. It’ll act to discourage any foolishness. By this time tomorrow, everyone will know that getting in your face will be like getting in the face of the chief himself – or worse, Kel Knight.’

  They made their way to the door. A few people glanced in their direction, Rich Emory and his crew among them. Parker didn’t bother to wave goodbye.

  ‘I’m not feeling the love from Knight,’ said Parker.

  ‘He hasn’t warmed to you, I admit. I don’t know why.’

  Parker had his own theories. He wondered how much Griffin and Knight had learned about him from their sources in New York. Whatever it amounted to, they’d probably made the decision not to share all of it with Colson and the other officers.

  ‘It could be a Civil War thing,’ said Parker, ‘and I’m just carrying the can for Northern belligerence.’

  ‘That must be it,’ said Colson, as they reached her little Camry. ‘Fresh wounds, and all that …’

  Denny Rhinehart watched Colson and Parker leave. Only when the door closed behind them did he relax. He went into the little kitchen where Ivy was cleaning up, now that what passed for food service had ended. Ivy Muntz had been working at the Rhine Heart for six years. She was in her early fifties, and a better cook than the venue, and the quality of its ingredients, deserved.

  ‘You need anything else before I leave?’ she said.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You okay, Denny?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘just fine. Hey, Ivy, would you do me the kindness of taking a turn behind the bar for a few minutes? I need to use the restroom.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She stepped through the swing door into the bar. Denny had his own private bathroom beside his office; given the state in which the customers left the stalls of the Rhine Heart, it was an understandable move on his part. He closed the door behind him, pulled the cord on the light, and removed from his pocket a thin length of cloth tied in a bow, strands of dark hair caught in the knot. He’d kept it as a souvenir, but it made sense to get rid of it now. He was about to flush it down the john, but decided instead to burn it, just to be certain.

  He lit a match and watched impassively as Donna Lee Kernigan’s bright red ribbon turned to black.

  53

  Nathan Pettle had known men like Leonard Cresil all his life, and his familiarity with such individuals had not enhanced the quality of his existence. Cresil, he knew, had bounced around various police forces during the early part of his career, trailing a reputation for violence and bigotry – his capacity for both being remarkable in scope, extending as it did to anyone who was not Leonard Cresil – before finding a more profitable outlet for his talents in the field of corporate security. Cresil was a native of Chicot County, and his people were steeped in ignorance: he had once informed Pettle, in a rare moment of candor, that his grandfather Vernon didn’t realize it was wrong to shoot at black people until he joined the army.

  Now here was Cresil, sitting in Pettle’s little office, his feet resting on an open desk drawer, cleaning dirt from his fingernails with the folded edge of a Bible pamphlet, the smell of his cologne strangely sweet, even effeminate, for such a man. The pores on his face were excessively large, so that they stored within them the grime of his travels and the sum of Cresil’s own discharges. His breathing was loud and irregular, as though he struggled to draw sufficient air into his lungs, even in repose, and his voice at all times held a rattle in its depths. Pettle sometimes wondered if Cresil was ill, and if so what his malady might be, but he had never worked up the interest to ask. It might have been remiss of him as a man of God, but was entirely understandable of him simply as a man. When Leonard Cresil eventually departed this life, the next day’s sun would rise on a better world.

  ‘I’m disappointed in you, Reverend,’ said Cresil. He did not look up from his ablutions, but continued to dig at a particularly recalcitrant piece of filth lodged beneath a thumbnail.

  Pettle took a seat on one of the two hard chairs facing his desk, reduced to the status of a supplicant. He
bore this calculated insult as he had borne so many others throughout his life: with the bitter patience of one who had long ceased to be surprised at the manners of certain white men and women, yet continued to be disappointed that their self-respect should be so dependent on the humiliation of others.

  ‘Why is that, Mr Cresil?’

  ‘What is the term for the offense where one neglects to inform an individual of information germane to his interests, perhaps in order to protect oneself from accusation or condemnation?’

  ‘I believe it’s referred to as a lie of omission,’ said Pettle, even as he feared that Cresil had somehow become privy to the fact of his fornication with Sallie Kernigan.

  ‘That’s it, the operative word here being “lie”. A lie’s a sin, is it not, or has church thinking on this matter altered since last I exposed myself to sermonizing? I’ll admit that regular religious attendance has been low on my list of priorities in recent years, and doctrine does evolve.’

  Cresil had finally managed to purge the nail of the last of its crud. He flicked the residue onto Pettle’s carpet and threw the pamphlet in the trash.

  ‘No, a lie remains a lie,’ said Pettle.

  ‘And therefore also a sin?’

  ‘That follows.’

  ‘Which is reassuring to know, although it does make a liar of you, seeing as how you neglected to inform me immediately of the Kernigan girl’s passing.’

  ‘It’s been a difficult day, and I had other obligations.’

  ‘To your flock?’

  ‘Yes, among similar duties.’

  ‘Most of your flock feeds on cheap cuts, but I don’t see you wearing sackcloth and ashes and subsisting on welfare.’

  ‘I fail to take your meaning.’

  ‘Don’t play the fool, Reverend, or not to a greater degree than comes naturally to you. Our money trumps whatever responsibilities you might have to anyone else, up to and including God Himself. If you don’t share that view, the faucet can be turned off just as easily as it was turned on. We should have known about that girl’s body before the bugs found her.’

  ‘Is Mr Shire concerned?’

  ‘He’s back in that shithole motel for another night or two, so my guess is, yes, he is concerned.’

  Pettle was not familiar with every facet, every hidden corner, of the proposed deal to bring Kovas to Burdon County, but he had lived long enough to understand that money didn’t flow only in one direction. Shire was Kovas’s man on the ground in Arkansas, and his shadow touched all negotiations; but he was also a bagman, and every time he put money in someone’s pocket, a little was returned to him, either from the recipient or another source. Demonstrations of goodwill from local and state businesses were required if they were to benefit from Kovas’s future presence in the state, and secure for themselves a sufficiently rewarding slice of the pie. Shire would be heavily involved in advising Kovas on the bidding process for contracts, so it didn’t just pay to be in his good books; it required payment. Pettle didn’t know what Shire was doing with his cut of the money, but if the Kovas deal were to fall through, the fixer’s popularity would plummet rapidly, especially if he wasn’t in a position to make reimbursements. True, it was not as if those who bribed Shire had been handed receipts, or supplied with cast-iron guarantees, but few would be willing to write off their investments entirely in the event of Kovas choosing Texas over Arkansas. It was therefore a matter of deep personal concern to Charles Shire that any complications should be avoided, or dealt with expeditiously.

  ‘Mr Shire doesn’t have cause to be worried,’ said Pettle.

  ‘You hear that from God or someone else?’

  ‘I was speaking to one of Chief Griffin’s officers after the service. Jurel Cade and the sheriff’s office will cooperate with the Cargill PD, but the investigation will be low-key. Nobody wants a fuss, but everyone shares a desire to see this business brought to a successful conclusion as quickly and cleanly as possible.’

  Cresil kicked at the desk drawer, and Pettle heard the wood crack.

  ‘What the fuck does that mean? Cade and Griffin, these men aren’t trained investigators. They’d struggle to find a fucking cat in a tree.’

  ‘Don’t swear in my church, Mr Cresil.’

  Cresil wagged a finger at him. ‘And don’t you test my boundaries, Reverend.’

  ‘Cade and Griffin aren’t working alone. They have outside help.’

  ‘Outside?’ Cresil didn’t look pleased to learn this. ‘State? Federal?’

  ‘An ex-policeman from New York. A detective. Seems he was in the area and agreed to help.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Parker.’

  ‘First name?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I can find out. Or you could just ask at your lodgings. I believe he’s staying there also.’

  Cresil took this in.

  ‘I guess that must count as progress,’ he said, finally.

  ‘Of a kind.’

  ‘You sound ambivalent, Reverend.’

  ‘If white girls were dying – their bodies violated, dumped like trash – we wouldn’t be talking about one detective as progress. This town would be alive with police.’

  ‘If white girls were dying,’ said Cresil, ‘Kovas would already be breaking ground in Texas, and Christ could come back ten times over before you’d see your new church. You got anything else you want to share with me before I leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you think of anything, be sure to let me know. Don’t make me come asking again.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Cresil stood.

  ‘Did you know the Kernigan girl?’

  ‘I knew the family.’

  Cresil laughed.

  ‘Is that all? You may lie to yourself, and your wife, but you can’t lie to me. I know all about your proclivities, Reverend. I wouldn’t be much good at my job if I didn’t. There isn’t a secret worth knowing in this town that I don’t keep close to my chest. I’ve a notion that your past sin might have reared its head again, and you’ve returned to the honey pot. You weren’t fucking the daughter too, were you?’

  ‘You’re a vile human being,’ said Pettle, the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them.

  Cresil leaned forward, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints of hate.

  ‘I’ll let that slide,’ said Cresil, ‘on account of how I know you’re in turmoil right now, but only if you make it worth my while. Otherwise, I may be forced to distract you from your emotional suffering.’

  And Pettle saw a future beaded with blood.

  ‘I admit that I may have fallen prey to the Tempter’s devices again,’ he said, ‘but I also know that Donna Lee was seeing someone before she died.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tilon Ward.’

  ‘Now that is interesting,’ said Cresil. ‘Do you think he killed her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pettle, then: ‘No.’

  ‘Which is it?’

  ‘I never saw that darkness in him, Sallie neither.’

  Those dark animal eyes regarded Pettle.

  ‘You didn’t kill her yourself, did you, Reverend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. She was a sexy little thing, if that picture in your church is anything to go by. Not to my taste, wary as I am of darker meat, but a damn shame regardless. Any sign yet of the mother?’

  Pettle shook his head. He put a hand to his brow and willed this incubus to be excised from the world.

  ‘If they find her skewered with sticks as well, we’re all done,’ said Cresil. ‘Even Mr Shire won’t be able to hold the deal together in the event of another body. You’d best pray that doesn’t happen, Reverend.’

  Cresil patted him on the shoulder as he walked to the door.

  ‘Meanwhile, I’ll embark on more practical measures.’

  54

  Parker was woken during the night by the ringing of the telephone in his room. The clock on the nights
tand showed 4.05 a.m., but when he picked up the receiver, there was no one on the other end of the line. He got out of bed and carefully checked the parking lot from the window, but all was quiet. He went back to sleep.

  Shortly before 8 a.m., he wandered down to the motel office to pick up some bad coffee and an apple. Only Cleon was present, working a double shift. He offered to make a more acceptable brew from his personal supply, but Parker thought the desk clerk’s manner was slightly off. When Cleon returned with the coffee, Parker asked if he’d put a call through to the room at any point during the night.

  ‘I was the caller,’ said Cleon.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You were shouting in your sleep. I thought about knocking on the door, but I didn’t want to get shot.’

  Parker tried the coffee. It was good, helped by being served in a proper ceramic mug.

  ‘I’m sorry. Did someone complain?’

  ‘I decided to intervene before that became an issue. I apologize for waking you. I just couldn’t think what else to do.’

  ‘The apology is mine to make. Did you hear what I was shouting about?’

  Cleon didn’t reply.

  ‘You can tell me,’ said Parker. ‘I think I’d prefer to know.’

  Cleon’s awkwardness increased. ‘It wasn’t so much shouting as crying.’

  The morning sky was umbrous, and the sunlight had a sickly cast, as though blighted by its passage through the low clouds. Suddenly the coffee didn’t taste as good anymore. Parker felt his face grow warm with embarrassment. He had no memory of any of this. Strange to relate, he believed himself to have slept soundly and dreamlessly the night before.

  ‘Do you often have nightmares, Mr Parker?’ said Cleon.

  ‘Only lately. My wife died, and my daughter with her.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Was it some kind of accident?’

  ‘No.’

  Cleon dropped the subject. Parker saw the man named Leonard Cresil appear in his shirtsleeves and walk to the rental car. Cresil had a tattoo along his right forearm. Even from a distance, Parker could see it was the image of a hanged man, the body held suspended by a noose passed through the hollow sockets of the eyes. Cresil removed a long box from the trunk of the car. Parker recognized it as the kind used to transport a compound bow. Cresil paused as he prepared to close the trunk. He looked around, some primitive sense alerting him to scrutiny, until finally his eyes came to rest on the office, and Parker. Cresil remained very still for the best part of ten seconds, his gaze never shifting from Parker’s face.