The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  He thanked her. He’d grown used to acknowledging by rote people’s sympathies, but the way in which she spoke to him, and the touch of her hand, caused him to respond with more sincerity than usual. Griffin returned with the firewood, and soon they were all seated at the table, sharing beef short ribs. For a time they spoke of general subjects, including how Griffin and his wife had met. Griffin had been married once before, but his first wife, Embeth, had drowned in Lake Ouachita in the fourth year of their marriage. He’d considered leaving the state in the aftermath, he admitted, but everything he knew was here, and so he stayed. After a couple of years he met Ava through a mutual friend and they hit it off. Parker saw a look pass between them and recognized the depth of their feelings for each other.

  Ava rose to clear the plates and get some ice cream for dessert. Both Parker and her husband offered to help, but she shooed them away.

  ‘I don’t require either of you to be under my feet,’ she said. ‘Evan can do the dishes later.’

  Griffin and Parker went out to the back porch to get some air. Parker made sure Ava was out of earshot before speaking again.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me about your first wife before now?’ he said.

  ‘I never saw a justification for it,’ Griffin replied. ‘And what would I have said: that I’d lost someone too, that I knew how you felt? It wouldn’t have been true. We may both have suffered bereavement, but our experience of it is not the same.’

  ‘I’m surprised nobody else chose to share it with me discreetly.’

  ‘You’re a stranger, and even my own officers would have left it for me to tell you. They wouldn’t have considered it their part to do so.’

  ‘That’s commendable,’ said Parker. ‘I notice you wear a cross.’

  It was silver, and very plain. Griffin touched a hand to it.

  ‘I still have my faith. You?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I had to reach an accommodation with it,’ said Griffin. ‘With God, too. I decided it wasn’t part of His plan for my wife to drown. Anyone that said otherwise was deluded.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Who can say? Maybe God is old, and His attention wanders; or He has so much to take care of, what with famine, floods and war, and people trying to kill one another on a minute-to-minute basis, that small occurrences, like a woman struggling in a lake, sometimes slip through His fingers.’

  ‘I’ve yet to reach that stage of reasoning,’ said Parker.

  ‘I can believe it. And, you know, I may be wrong about everything. Ultimately, this is a being that allowed His own son to be nailed to a tree. Callousness may be endemic to Him. If that’s the case, I choose not to consider myself made in His image, and I reject His disorder. For the most part, though, I think He spends His days just fighting off despair, like the rest of us.’

  Griffin reached into his shirt pocket and handed Parker a folded sheet of paper. Parker opened it to reveal the mug shot of a man, with features that were almost familiar.

  ‘That’s Hollis Ward,’ said Griffin.

  Hollis Ward resembled his son gone to seed, the face bloated, the skin marked by broken veins and patches of redness that could have been the result of dermatitis or eczema. His eyes were too small for his head, and darkly belligerent. Even had Parker not been aware of Ward’s history, he would have identified this man as one mired in degradation.

  ‘When are you going to put this out?’ he said.

  ‘We had planned to do it this afternoon, but events have conspired to delay any approaches to the media.’

  ‘Rhinehart’s death?’

  ‘And a call from Jurel Cade, backed up by one from Pappy. We’ve been asked to hold off on alerting the public to the possibility of Hollis’s involvement.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Jurel claims to have a lead, although he declined to elaborate, he and I having parted on bad terms earlier today. He said he didn’t want to alert Hollis Ward to the fact that we’re searching for him, which makes some sense. Even had I disagreed, Pappy has made it clear that his newspapers won’t cooperate with us unless Jurel gives them the go-ahead.’

  ‘What will happen when Jurel becomes sheriff?’ asked Parker. ‘Because I assume that’s part of the family plan.’

  ‘Jurel will take over from Swanigan after next year’s election, barring a calamity,’ said Griffin. ‘When that happens, I’ll consider early retirement. But Pappy’s aspirations for Jurel go further than his becoming county sheriff. He’d like to see Jurel up in Little Rock, with a ringside seat in the General Assembly. In that case, I won’t just retire, I’ll leave the state. And if Jurel makes it as far as Washington, I’ll emigrate.’

  Ava came out with the ice cream and a bowl of strawberries to add to it.

  ‘Why does Jurel hate the Wards so much?’ asked Parker, as they ate.

  ‘People here have extensive, if selective, memories,’ said Griffin. ‘I know families that have been feuding for so long that the original offense has been forgotten, and now all that remains is the feud itself. With Jurel, it seems to me it’s Hollis he despises, and Tilon suffers the blowback because he’s Hollis’s son. We all suspected Tilon of being involved in the meth trade, but no one could ever nail him. Kovas won’t want narcotics being an issue for contractors or its own staff, so it’s in the interest of the Cades to put an end to whatever is coming out of the Ouachita. But Jurel also has a sense of right and wrong, however warped I may sometimes consider it to be. He doesn’t like meth being produced in Burdon County. He considers it a personal affront.’

  ‘And how do you feel about it?’

  ‘I don’t want meth being cooked or dealt in the county either, but my people were right when they said that I’d always liked Tilon Ward. They just didn’t elaborate on why. Embeth drowned because of a cramp. Dumbest damn thing. She was swimming with friends and stayed out in the water when they returned to the jetty. Boats were going by, and music was playing on the bank, people shouting and laughing, so when Embeth got into difficulties, no one could hear her cries. Tilon was the only one who saw she was in trouble, and he swam out to help her. By then she’d already gone under, but he dove down to get her, brought her back up, and swam with her to shore. There was a nurse in Embeth’s group who tried to resuscitate her, but it was too late. So yes, I admit to a greater tolerance than is wise for Tilon Ward’s flaws, suspected or proven, and it would have pained me to see him go to jail before now, because I’d always hoped he’d see sense and find a new path to follow. But if he had anything to do with Donna Lee’s death, I’ll hold him down myself while they put the needle in his vein.’

  Which brought an end to that particular conversation. They watched clouds scud across the moon, and listened to the cries of night birds, before Ava sent Griffin inside to do the dishes, leaving her and Parker to finish their coffee together on the porch.

  ‘I’m going to have a baby,’ said Ava.

  ‘I’m pleased for you both.’

  ‘Thank you. Evan wasn’t sure that we should tell you.’

  ‘I’ve decided,’ said Parker, ‘that secrecy may be ingrained in this county.’

  ‘I won’t argue the point, but in our case Evan was worried that the news might compound your own sense of loss. I think he’s spent lot of time since your arrival contemplating what happened to your wife and daughter, and more so after he learned he was going to have a child of his own. It’ll sound strange, but it’s almost as though he feels the need to do something about what befell you, even though there’s nothing that can be done, is there?’

  ‘Not too much,’ said Parker, which wasn’t the same thing, and she noticed the distinction.

  ‘I don’t know you very well,’ she said, ‘so I’m reluctant to speak out of turn.’

  ‘Please, don’t be.’

  ‘You’re a victim as well. What your wife and little girl endured was horrific, but it’s over now. Your torment goes on.’

  She wasn’t looking at him, and
it was instead as though she were carefully choosing her words from an array that only she could see, plucking each one from the darkness.

  ‘I sensed it when they died,’ said Parker. ‘I felt them being torn from me.’

  The ground shifted under Ava’s feet, and the landscape tilted. She had buried her mother a year before. That death had come far too soon – a heart attack when her mother was barely into her sixties – but it was not like this. The magnitude of the visitor’s suffering was incomprehensible to her.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered.

  ‘I should have been with them,’ he said. ‘Had I been there, I might have prevented what happened, even if only by the fact of my presence. But do you know where I was?’

  She did not respond. There was no need.

  ‘I was in a bar, feeling sorry for myself. The last word I spoke to my wife was an obscenity.’

  Ava recalled the arguments she sometimes had with her husband, and the occasions on which one or the other left the house on a harsh word. It would happen again, she knew, because they were people, not saints. But she prayed now, as she always did, even after the worst of their quarrels, that the day would end with Evan sleeping safely by her side. Soon, God willing, she would have another prayer to add to that one. Her left hand touched her belly, where the child waited.

  How can this man carry on? What is it that keeps him from embracing oblivion?

  And the answer came to her: wrath.

  ‘I still find myself talking of them in the present tense,’ he said, ‘but not as often as before. I’m losing them, and I don’t want to let them go.’

  His voice caught. He stopped talking.

  ‘Evan always talks about those left behind,’ said Ava, ‘the people who have buried loved ones because of drunk drivers, domestic abusers, strangers, whatever. He tries to stay in touch with them, and keep them notified of progress. He doesn’t want them to feel they’ve been forgotten, because he knows that they can’t forget, just as you never will.’

  She reached for him. His body was shaking.

  ‘Whoever killed your family knows that you’re in pain,’ she said. ‘He knows you’re angry and grieving. That knowledge may even give him pleasure. Don’t let yourself become his pawn. Don’t let him ruin what’s good in you. Whatever else you’re forced to remember, and whenever you start to doubt yourself, don’t ever forget that you came back here when you could have just kept on driving. You came back to help my husband stop another man from killing young women, even though there was no obligation upon you to return, and no one would have judged you harshly if you’d chosen otherwise. There’s a light inside you. Don’t allow it to be snuffed out.’

  She went back inside to make some coffee, leaving him alone.

  When she returned Parker was gone.

  86

  The three men in the truck – Bobby Needham, Ryan Vinson, and Gary Reeve – were all either current or former employees of Rich Emory, he of the just-about-surviving sawmill and the missing fingertips. They had been present at the Rhine Heart for the exchanges between Parker and Emory, listening from nearby, and had taken the view that the interloper should be brought down a peg or two through the judicious application of steel-toed boots. They had made this opinion known to any number of individuals, both over the course of the night in question and subsequent to it, including within earshot of Denny Rhinehart, whence they found their way to Pruitt Dix, who liked to kept abreast of events in the county. Thus it was that when willing bodies were required to teach Parker a lesson, their names immediately sprang to his mind.

  The truck, a Ford SVT Lightning, was brand new, Vinson having come into money following the death of his stepfather, who – unlike every other stepfather of Vinson’s acquaintance – hadn’t been a complete asshole. A more sensible human being might have put some of that cash away instead of blowing the bulk of it on a truck and the rest on a custom paint job inspired by the cover of Molly Hatchet’s Flirtin’ with Disaster album, but Ryan Vinson was not sensible. He was overweight, single, and dumb as a brush. He was also an optimist at heart, and firmly believed that the impending arrival of Kovas would transform Burdon County into the Southern equivalent of the land of milk and honey promised by God to Abraham.

  The men had been following Parker for much of the evening. They had earlier considered gaining access to his room at the motel in order to deal with him there, before deciding that the risks of being overheard while delivering a beating were too great – possibly even greater than being shot by their target, although that was touch and go. When Parker later left the motel, they stayed with him, and were only seconds away from forcing him off the road when it became apparent that he was on his way to Chief Evan Griffin’s home – was, in fact, only a hundred feet from Griffin’s drive as they closed in on him – and if they screwed up, and Parker got away, they’d be in jail before the Ford’s odometer had time to clock up another mile.

  But Pruitt Dix, who had delivered his instructions to Bobby Needham by phone that morning, had made it clear that Parker was to be put out of commission before another day dawned, or else not only could the three men forget about any form of payment, but they would also incur Dix’s personal animosity, which was the only thing worse than his impersonal animosity. It was now getting on for 11 p.m., which meant time was running out, and so it was with a sense of relief that they saw Parker’s car emerge from Griffin’s drive. With Vinson behind the wheel, they came up behind him within minutes, and Reeve racked his shotgun. After some discussion, fueled by most of a bottle of Crown Royal, it had been decided that Reeve should shoot out one of Parker’s back tires, because Needham and Vinson had seen it done in a couple of movies and thought it looked cool, after which they’d deliver the beating to end all beatings.

  But just as Reeve was rolling down his window prior to taking the shot, Parker accelerated rapidly, and before they could close the gap they were being overtaken by another car, a brand-new SVT Mustang Cobra. It immediately inserted itself into the space between them and Parker and stayed there until they reached Cargill. Every time they tried to pass it, the Cobra would speed up or nudge over the white line, until Reeve was seriously thinking about shooting up its tires instead, just to give himself something to do. They couldn’t even see the driver, because the interior was dark and the glass faintly tinted, although Needham, who had good eyes, thought he glimpsed two people inside. The end result was that Parker made it back to the motel without incident, the Cobra took the next left and drifted from sight, and the would-be brutalizers were faced with the choice of kicking Parker’s door down, which seemed more than unwise; giving up, and taking their chances with Pruitt Dix, which struck them as equally unwise; or waiting until morning in the hope that a better opportunity might present itself, and Dix would forgive them missing the deadline on the grounds that they’d managed to get the job done eventually. They all agreed that the third option was easily the best, and so Vinson dropped the others back at their homes before returning to his own.

  ‘That fucking Cobra,’ said Reeve, as he jumped out.

  ‘I know,’ said Vinson. ‘If I see it again, I’ll leave the imprint of my grille guard on its bodywork.’

  And, he thought, on the driver, too, given the chance.

  Cleon, the desk clerk, waved at Parker as he pulled into the parking lot of the motel, diverting him from the sight of the Ford Lightning reluctantly vanishing into the night, along with the three assholes inside. Parker had never seen a truck decorated like a Molly Hatchet album cover before. He hoped never to see one again, but briefly wondered what kind of person might attempt vehicular assault while driving the most easily identifiable truck in the state of Arkansas.

  Parker got out of the car as Cleon approached, holding a white business card in his hand.

  ‘Someone came by asking after you,’ said Cleon. ‘He left this and said he’d wait for you at Boyd’s.’

  Cleon gave the card to Parker.

  ‘I’ve never b
een handed an FBI agent’s card before,’ said Cleon. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, I know him.’ Parker looked at his watch. ‘What time does Boyd’s close?’

  ‘Not until after midnight. Was this one of the guests you were expecting?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t expecting him at all.’

  Cleon thought that Parker appeared neither pleased nor displeased by the sight of the card, only curious, which was a relief. He was worried that Parker might be in trouble. Cleon would probably have helped him get away if he was, but only on the condition that Parker took him along. Even if they ended up being shot, or driving over the edge of the Grand Canyon like Thelma and Louise, it would still be better than being alive and well but living in Cargill. More than ever, Cleon wanted to escape the town; he just couldn’t figure out how. The main obstacle to decamping, he had concluded, was himself.

  ‘Will you still be needing the other room?’ said Cleon.

  ‘If that’s okay. My friends will be along in their own time. They keep unsocial hours.’

  ‘I’ll be around whenever they arrive. They’ll just have to ring the bell. I’ve left two complimentary bottles of water in their room, and some fruit.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Parker handed the card back to him. ‘For your collection.’

  ‘I don’t have a collection,’ said Cleon. ‘I suppose I could always start one.’ He held the card between his thumb and forefinger, the details facing out. ‘Or just pretend to be an FBI agent.’

  ‘That would be a crime,’ said Parker, ‘although I admit it would be entertaining to watch you try.’

  He looked toward Boyd’s and his expression changed. For a moment, Cleon glimpsed an immensity of pain in his eyes. Had he known this man better, Cleon might have reached out and held him in his arms. And then the shutters came down, and the pain was once again hidden from sight.

  ‘If your friends come, should I tell them where you are?’ said Cleon.

  ‘You can tell them, but they won’t be joining me. They prefer not to keep the company of federal agents.’