The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  ‘Who was Johnny Friday?’ said Cade.

  ‘A pimp. A procurer of children.’

  ‘I hear he died.’

  ‘He didn’t just die. He was killed in a bus station restroom.’

  ‘They know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They have any suspects?’

  ‘I’m sure they do.’

  ‘Are you one of them?’

  ‘You take your time getting to the point, but you arrive there eventually, don’t you?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Yes, I was interviewed about what happened to Johnny Friday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I had an alibi.’

  ‘Did it hold up?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be much of an alibi if it didn’t.’

  ‘You’re being clever again.’

  ‘That makes two of us. If you have an accusation to make, you should have the courage to come out with it.’

  Cade relented, but only slightly.

  ‘When I spoke to New York,’ he said, ‘I detected some ambivalence about the fate that befell Mr Friday. His own mother wouldn’t have described him as any loss to the world, and he was always likely to end up prematurely dead or behind bars. Those who take that view probably feel his murder should become a cold case, so it can quietly be forgotten. At the same time, there are still some in the NYPD who cleave to the rule of law, not the rule of the jungle, especially when it applies to one of their own. Just saying.’

  Parker began to gather his notes.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I took a trip out to the location where Patricia Hartley’s body was found. I stood on that rise above it, and thought of her remains tumbling down the slope, getting all torn up by those rocks and stones; and that was after what had already been done to her, whatever the coroner and anyone else might have tried to kid themselves into believing.

  ‘I also attempted to interview Wadena Ott, the woman who found Patricia’s body, but she left town yesterday in a big sedan, and she doesn’t strike me as a person habituated to sedan cars. It’s almost as though someone didn’t want her talking about what she might or might not have seen, and elected to move her just in case she couldn’t be relied on to remember the story she’d been taught.’

  Parker nudged with a finger the box containing what passed for the records of Hartley’s death.

  ‘Those papers, those scraps of fiction, suggest that Patricia Hartley either fell while running down the slope, or else she was already dead when she fell – the coroner speculated on a taste for narcotics, but without any evidence I can see – and her corpse might have been nudged over the edge by an animal. If that was the case, it was an animal that knew the difference between federal and county land, which makes it a very advanced species of predator. I’d be very interested in catching an animal like that. I’d consider it a matter of public safety, because it wouldn’t do to have it out there running wild. Who knows what mischief it might get up to if left to roam unchecked?’

  Cade had grown very still, and his eyes held pale fires.

  ‘And what would you do with it, Mr Parker, once you’d found it? Would you kill it? Is that your favored mode of operation in such cases?’

  ‘Only if it left me no choice. I’d prefer to trap it, so it could be examined, and an attempt made to determine its nature. After that, people could do with it as they wished. In olden times, villages used to hang the carcasses of wolves from their gates as a warning to the rest of the pack. I feel there might be an aptness to a similar act of display in this instance, metaphorically speaking.’

  ‘You ought never to have come to this place,’ said Cade.

  ‘I keep being told that,’ said Parker, ‘but I’m here now, and I’m not leaving until the man who killed these young women has been found. I’ll speak with Chief Griffin about what I’ve learned from the examination of those files. If he thinks you can be of any help in tracing some of the people on my list, I’m sure he’ll be in touch.’

  He was at the door when Cade called his name.

  ‘Men,’ said Cade.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You told me you weren’t going to leave until the man who killed those women was found. It’s not one man. It’s at least two.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Whatever might have befallen Patricia Hartley, Estella Jackson and Donna Lee weren’t killed by the same individual. I was at all three scenes, and you weren’t. Jackson’s death was different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘There was more rage. Her teeth were broken, and her private parts were all cut up by what had been done to them with that branch. The other bodies didn’t have that level of damage inflicted on them, not even Donna Lee’s.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Parker. He was still trying to figure out how the conversation had taken this sudden turn when Cade decided to answer the question for him.

  ‘I may not like you, Mr Parker,’ he said, ‘but don’t mistake that for not giving a shit about those dead girls.’

  Parker did not reply, but left Cade slouched in a chair, the sunlight reaching for him through the blinds, and wondered at whose hypocrisy might be greater: Cade’s or his own.

  67

  Denny Rhinehart didn’t usually open for business until just past noon, except on weekends. This was not entirely of Rhinehart’s own volition. Burdon might have been a wet county, but the Cargill town council, under the influence of various church representatives, had strongly suggested that bars within the town limits should consider serving liquor only after some acceptable portion of the working day was done. This had followed a surge in closures of local businesses, leading to more than a hundred job losses and a concomitant increase in arrests for DWI, minor assault, and domestic violence. While Cargill’s drinking establishments were under no legal obligation to abide by this motion, they were given to understand that their responses to it might color any future discussions surrounding the renewal of their licenses.

  Rhinehart considered it all so much foolishness, because a man or woman requiring a drink before lunch – or even before breakfast, he who is without sin and all that – could simply look to their own supply at home; or if they were running low, a gas station or liquor store would promptly rectify the situation, within the strictures of the law. Also, if you’d lost your job, and had no prospect of finding another anytime soon, or not anywhere in Burdon County, why not take time to catch your breath, crack open a cold one, and consider your options, however limited they might be? And maybe it would be better to do so in a bar like the Rhine Heart, where a sympathetic bartender could monitor your intake, listen to your problems, and possibly talk you down when you started getting too angry or depressed, than drink alone at home – or worse, not alone but in the vicinity of a partner or spouse who just didn’t understand, goddammit, and might become the victim of a regrettable loss of temper.

  But Denny Rhinehart had kept these opinions to himself, making only a token objection – and offering a token concession – to what he was assured would be a temporary measure. Once Kovas had broken ground on the first site, these voluntary restrictions could be dispensed with and normal service resumed. Anyway, it wasn’t as though he made a whole lot of money before noon. Sometimes it was barely worth opening the place just to serve a dozen beers and a couple of drinks from the well, and even then he had to offer free bacon. But Rhinehart didn’t like being told what to do, especially not by the kind of speaking-in-tongues fanatics who comprised the worst of the county’s God-fearers, and had more influence on the susceptible than was conducive to easy living. Rhinehart had parted ways with organized religion many years earlier, and with any notion of God not long after. A man had only to gaze on the havoc wreaked on the state by January’s tornadoes, or take in the slow withering of Burdon County and its people, to come to the conclusion that if there ever was a God, He was long gone from these parts.

  So Rhinehart wasn’t greatly p
leased when, shortly after 11.30 a.m., Reverend Nathan Pettle entered the bar through the rear door, looking about as uncomfortable as he probably felt, if not more so, Pettle not being a drinking man. Rhinehart and Pettle, like most citizens of stature in Cargill, were on nodding terms with each other, but hadn’t exchanged a word since the meeting convened four months earlier to discuss opening hours.

  ‘Reverend,’ said Rhinehart. ‘You’re an unlikely visitor. I hope you parked out back, where none of your congregation are likely to see your vehicle and speculate on your vices.’

  He grinned, but Pettle didn’t grin back.

  ‘I was hoping to speak with you for a few minutes, Mr Rhinehart.’

  There were many residents of Cargill with whom Denny Rhinehart would have preferred not to spend time in colloquy, and Reverend Pettle figured high among them. Whatever had brought the preacher to his door, it wasn’t going to lead to an increase in Rhinehart’s takings, and might even require him to listen to a sermon.

  ‘To tell you the truth,’ said Rhinehart, ‘I came in early to get my paperwork done while things were quiet. If there was a way we could do this another time—’

  ‘I think we should talk now,’ said Pettle. ‘It’s about Donna Lee.’

  Tilon Ward, the bag of clothing and toiletries slung over his shoulder, trudged through the woods, Pruitt Dix following close behind. Randall Butcher operated three meth cookhouses out here in the Ouachita, the two smaller ones in converted RVs for reasons of convenience and mobility, and the largest in a house that once belonged to a family called Buttrell, although the last of them was set to fertilizing daffodils in 1989. The dwelling subsequently fell into disrepair, and would in all likelihood have been swallowed up by the forest and eventually forgotten, had the body of Estella Jackson not been discovered in the woodshed close to the main house. Such limited appeal as the property might have offered to most prospective buyers immediately turned to smoke after the killing, and nobody thought much about it when a company in Little Rock acquired the Buttrell acreage at a bargain price and commenced planting pine. The more optimistic townsfolk theorized that the company might even make a profit on its investment down the line, although others took the view that it was some kind of tax write-off, because the Buttrell land was hard to access and any tree farming or logging would require construction of a better road.

  As for the families residing on the adjacent land, they had long since ceased to take an interest in what went on there, any inquisitiveness they might once have entertained having evaporated following a single visit from Pruitt Dix – although the threat of the stick was balanced with a carrot in the form of an envelope of cash delivered twice yearly, the Thanksgiving payment being slightly larger than the summer one in recognition of the additional demands the season placed on the pockets of the poor.

  Now, as Tilon passed through the rising pines, the house became visible, the two RVs already parked in the yard and a handful of men moving between them. Usually Butcher kept the mobile labs away from the Buttrell land, but not this time. He had buyers lined up, and they’d take all the product he could provide. It made sense to bring the three arms of his operation together in one location, which would save on manpower and costs.

  Tilon paused. There, to the right, stood the woodshed in which Estella Jackson had died. Out of whatever impulse – simple perversity, most likely – Butcher had insisted on leaving it intact. Pruitt Dix sometimes slept there if he was obliged to spend the night at the property. Dix didn’t like sharing intimate space with other people. He preferred to cohabit with the dead rather than the living.

  As for Tilon, the Buttrell place still gave him the creeps. Whenever possible, he worked out of the RVs, and when he had to go to the house, he tried to leave before dark.

  Dix arrived at his side and patted him on the back.

  ‘Home sweet home.’

  68

  Parker was already gone from Hamill when a red Nissan appeared in his rearview mirror, flashing its headlights. He couldn’t see the driver clearly because of the sunlight on the windshield, but he pulled over nonetheless, even as his right hand found the butt of the gun under his jacket. He watched as the door of the Nissan opened and a young man stepped out: Nealus Cade, Jurel’s younger brother. Parker released his grip on his weapon and rolled down a window.

  ‘Mr Cade,’ he said. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  Nealus Cade buried his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans and looked back at his car. It was a 240SX, a relatively cheap coupe that gave a lot of bang for the buck.

  ‘I wanted to speak with you.’

  ‘Speak away.’

  ‘Not here.’ He indicated his car. ‘I’m afraid someone might notice us.’

  ‘If you didn’t want to be noticed, you should have chosen a less ostentatious mode of transportation.’

  ‘That’s what my father says.’

  Nealus was in his early twenties, but he still resembled a teenager, perhaps as a consequence of growing up in the shadow of his siblings, and of Pappy Cade. Yet the young man had a certain strength of character, judging by the care he was said to have extended to his mother in her final illness. It might have been better for him had he found a way to leave Burdon County after she died, because he now appeared to be trapped in a new cycle of dependency with his progenitor.

  ‘He might have had a point,’ said Parker. ‘Hard to stay under the radar in a car like that.’

  ‘I have a Dodge too, but it’s in the shop. Seriously, I’d prefer not to be seen talking to you by the side of the road.’

  ‘Do you have an alternative in mind?’

  ‘There’s a diner in Fordham, about five miles east of here, just over the county line. It’s called the Dairy Bell. How about I meet you there?’

  Parker checked his watch. He wanted to return to Cargill, but he could probably spare the time.

  ‘I can do that,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Nealus. ‘I know I sound paranoid, but give me some time to get ahead of you, okay?’

  ‘Mr Cade,’ said Parker, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m driving a rental Taurus. I doubt I could keep up with you if I tried.’

  Denny Rhinehart made a pot of coffee and filled two cups from it. He and Pettle sat at a table in the dimness of the bar, the Rhine Heart’s windows bearing shutters on the inside that the proprietor kept closed when he wasn’t accepting customers. Now, with the doors locked front and back, they served to offer the two men complete privacy. The radio was playing in Rhinehart’s back office: KKPT out of Little Rock, one of only two classic rock stations the device was able to pick up. Nobody was ever permitted to change the station for fear it might never be located again, thereby leaving Rhinehart to subsist on a diet of Christian Contemporary, Gospel, and Regional Mexican, until he eventually blew his brains out.

  Pettle drank his coffee. He took it without cream or sugar, like a penitent.

  ‘I know Sallie informed you about the relationship between her and me,’ he said, without further preamble. ‘I wish she hadn’t, but she did, and there’s no undoing it.’

  ‘I never spoke of it to anyone else,’ said Rhinehart. ‘It wasn’t my place or my business.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Pettle. He recalled how Sallie had told him of Rhinehart’s clumsy efforts to seduce her, if repeatedly trying to feel her up in the storeroom could be counted as any form of enticement. Pettle loathed this man, and all he represented.

  ‘And I always did like Donna Lee,’ Rhinehart added.

  Pettle’s hand tightened on the coffee cup.

  ‘I was out there, after they found her,’ said Pettle. ‘I looked upon her face. They called me, and told me that a girl had died, and died badly, but there was only so much they could share over the phone. They said I didn’t have to come if I didn’t want to, and no one would think less of me for it, but they were trying to identify her and thought I might be able to help. It’s strange, but as the police cars came in sight,
I was sure it was Donna Lee. I knew it, even before they pointed out her remains. I think it was God readying me for what was to come, but nothing could ready a man for that. I made them show me what had been done to her. They wanted to keep her covered up, but I needed to know. It was important that I bear witness.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Rhinehart, then, ‘Sorry.’

  But Pettle gave no indication of noticing the casual blasphemy. He was staring into his coffee cup, at the surface of the liquid, still and dark, resembling the Karagol itself, as though the lake were less a single body of water than an entity capable of infusing all manner of fluids with its essence.

  ‘I watched that girl grow up,’ said Pettle. ‘I cared about her, just as I cared for her mother. In another life, maybe I’d have gone and lived with them both, and taken Donna Lee as my own daughter. If I’d possessed the courage to do that, none of this would have happened.’

  Rhinehart shifted in his seat. He wanted Reverend Pettle gone. He didn’t wish to listen as he poured out his guilt and regret, because he’d heard so many variations on the theme in the past. It came with the territory. The difference here lay only in the ending of the tale, and a body mutilated with sticks. Yet he remained curious to understand the reason for the reverend’s presence in his bar.

  ‘My wife knows,’ said Pettle. ‘About Sallie and me.’

  ‘Women have a way of sensing indiscretion,’ said Rhinehart. ‘In my experience, men are more lacking in perception.’

  ‘My life has become a misery in the wake of it,’ said Pettle. ‘Delores says she’ll stay with me for the sake of our mission here, because it’s God’s will that we should build a great church in Burdon County, and by raising it I may make reparation for my sins. But we sleep in separate beds, and she won’t let me touch her. Says she doesn’t know if she’ll ever permit me such intimacies again.’

  Rhinehart, as feared, had become Pettle’s confessor, just as he had for countless men and women before, even though he could offer no absolution, and often failed even to rouse himself sufficiently to care.