The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  The black man dropped the first picture. The next one was also a photo of Vinson’s truck, except that it was no longer in his driveway, but was instead positioned worryingly close to the edge of a rocky precipice.

  ‘No, wait a minute,’ the man continued. ‘I tell a lie. I think this is your truck.’

  Vinson’s truck was no longer on the edge of the precipice. In a demonstration of considerable photographic skill, the photographer had managed to capture the image of the truck in midair, its hood just beginning to tilt downward.

  ‘Okay, this,’ the man concluded, holding up the fourth and final print, ‘is definitely your truck. Look, you can see the paintwork bubbling.’

  Vinson’s truck, or what was left of it, lay at the bottom of a quarry, which could have been one of any number in the vicinity of the Ouachita. The truck seemed to have only recently started burning, because Vinson could still make out the custom paint job amid the rising flames.

  Ryan Vinson began weeping. That truck was the nicest thing he’d ever owned.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ said the man. ‘The good news is that you could have been in it when it went over, but I tossed a coin and you won. Admittedly, that was before I got bitten by one of your fleas. Now I’ve a mind to toss the coin again, and keep tossing until it comes up on a side more akin to my frame of mind.’

  Vinson heard the sound of the pistol cocking beside his left ear. If he lived, he thought, he’d have to change the sheets.

  ‘Who told you to go chasing after the detective from New York?’ said the black man.

  ‘Pruitt Dix,’ said Vinson. This wasn’t the time for lying.

  ‘And who is Pruitt Dix?’

  ‘He works for Randall Butcher.’

  ‘And Randall Butcher is …?’

  ‘Randall owns some titty bars.’

  ‘And did either of these gentlemen tell you why they wanted the detective hurt?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Of course not. Why would you?’

  ‘It wasn’t personal,’ said Vinson. ‘I just do what I’m told.’

  ‘I’m sure that would have been comforting to Mr Parker had you successfully completed your task. Now I’m going to tell you to do something, and for my associate and me, this really is personal. Mr Parker is a friend of ours, and we like him just the way he is, which means unmarked. You call those two ofay assholes that were driving around with you, and you inform them of what has transpired between us. You let them know that if we have to come calling on them, we’ll burn their homes down around their ears, sow their land with salt, and kill all their pets. You understand?’

  ‘Yes. What do I tell Pruitt Dix?’

  ‘Tell him we may be paying him a visit. Same goes for the titty bar guy, because I do hate titty bars.’

  The hammer clicked as the pistol was decocked. From the folds of his jacket, the gunman produced a pair of solid handcuffs, with which he secured one of Vinson’s hands to the frame of the bed. The bedstead was heavy and made of black iron. It would take Vinson a while to free himself. Otherwise, he’d be forced to yell until someone heard or find a way to disassemble the frame.

  ‘We’ll be on our way now,’ said the black man. ‘Remember what I said about cleaning up occasionally.’

  They left Vinson on the bed, along with the photographs.

  So he had something to remember his truck by.

  In the comfort of the Cobra, the driver removed his mask and tossed it out the window. He was, as Vinson had surmised, black. His name was Louis.

  ‘That went well,’ he said.

  Beside him, the gunman disposed of his own mask in the same way. He was of indeterminate race, and his name was Angel.

  ‘You certainly seemed to enjoy destroying his truck,’ said Angel.

  ‘You know, I kind of did,’ said Louis. ‘I think I might like to do something similar again someday.’

  Cleon heard the bell ring above the office door. He’d been sleeping soundly on the couch in the back room, but he sprang up at the sound and went to see who had entered. Standing at the reception desk was a tall, elegantly dressed black man, and a smaller, considerably less elegantly dressed second man who might have been white, Latino, some combination of both, or none of the above.

  ‘I believe Mr Parker made a reservation for us,’ said the black man. ‘My name is Louis, and this is Angel.’

  ‘Yes, sirs,’ said Cleon. ‘Mr Louis and Mr Angel. If you’d just like to register …’

  He took a registration card from a drawer and placed it on the desk. The black man looked at it, then looked at Cleon.

  Cleon put the registration card back in the drawer.

  ‘One room, is that correct?’ he said.

  ‘One room.’

  And something in the way he said it made Cleon’s gay heart soar. Like most men who are brave, Cleon did not consider himself to be so. There were only two ways to be gay in Cargill, perhaps even in most of the South, except for pockets of tolerance like New Orleans or Miami. The first was to conceal one’s nature and reveal it only in secret, if at all. Burdon County had no shortage of closeted gay men, and Cleon had met his share of them. He’d taken beatings from a few as well, sometimes after moments of intimacy when desire, now exhausted, was replaced by self-disgust.

  The other path was the one chosen by Cleon. He would not hide – or if he did, he would hide in plain sight. This course also led to its share of beatings, but the pain of them was easier to bear because it was unaccompanied by shame. Now, as he looked at these two men before him, he wanted to ask how they had come to be as they were, because he perceived in them a strength that he erroneously believed to be lacking in himself.

  ‘What’s your name?’ said the one named Angel, who had not spoken before now.

  ‘Cleon. I’m the night manager. The day manager, too, depending on how short-staffed we are.’

  ‘Are you a native?’

  ‘Of Cargill? Yes, sir.’

  ‘You like it?’

  ‘No, sir, I don’t like it at all.’

  ‘Then why are you still here?’

  Cleon opened his mouth to tell the stranger about his lack of funds, and his distance-learning course in design studies, and how once he had a qualification he’d think about moving, maybe. What emerged, instead, were words he had never previously spoken aloud.

  ‘I guess because I’m scared. Shitty as this town is, I know how it works. I can navigate it without getting hurt too badly.’

  ‘Then it’ll destroy you,’ said Angel.

  ‘I have nowhere else to go.’

  ‘There’s always somewhere else to go.’

  ‘Hey, Ann Landers,’ said Louis, ‘leave the man in peace.’

  Cleon handed over the key to the motel’s second-best room.

  ‘Will you be staying longer than one night?’ he asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ said Louis. ‘Anything to do around here?’

  ‘Lately,’ said Cleon, ‘people are mostly causing trouble, and killing one another.’

  ‘Then,’ said Louis, ‘we’ll fit right in.’

  V

  But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.

  Revelation 21:8

  90

  They began gathering at the Burdon County Sheriff’s Office before there was light in the sky; first the men in uniform, then the rest. These others carried an assortment of weapons: pistols, shotguns, and semiautomatic rifles. Some were dressed in full camouflage clothing, but most wore more casual hunting garb: waterproof trousers and jackets, with old shirts and T-shirts underneath, so they could add or subtract layers as required; and boots that had seen years of wear and would see more still. Two women, both in their forties, and big and hard-faced as the men, were among the group. Conversation was limited, and no one joked. The darkness was like a mesh b
efore their eyes, and settled like soot upon the skin. Coffee was poured from thermos flasks, and someone passed around biscuits that had been baked in preparation the night before.

  Then Jurel Cade appeared among them and laid a map on the hood of one of the cruisers. He told them about Hollis Ward and Hollis’s son, Tilon. He talked of dead girls and methamphetamine. He reminded them of what was at stake for the county: a choice between continued poverty and steady decline, of half-lives for them and all who came after; or the prospect of a new start with well-paid jobs, and further employment down the line for their children and grandchildren.

  And from the shadows of the sheriff’s office, Leonard Cresil watched over all, the hunting bow in its case by his side.

  ‘Each of you will be temporarily deputized,’ Cade told the group. ‘If you elect not to participate, we’ll be obliged to make you comfortable in one of our cells until we’re done. We can’t afford to have anyone give this operation away with careless talk.’

  But nobody demurred. Cade had made his selection well.

  He had his posse.

  Parker, never a morning person, woke shortly after 7.30 a.m., and could not return to sleep. He got up to shower, and saw that Cleon had slipped a note under his door, informing him that his guests had arrived safely during the night. He decided to give Angel and Louis a few minutes more to rest and while he showered. As he emerged dripping, he heard his local cell phone ringing. He didn’t recognize the number, but picked up anyway.

  ‘Is this Mr Parker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Dr Ruth Temple. I work at the state crime lab. You sent us a dead possum.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We don’t usually examine possums.’

  ‘I was hoping you might make an exception for this one.’

  ‘Were you and the possum very close?’

  Parker decided that he already liked Dr Ruth Temple.

  ‘We never really got the chance to become intimate. I’m working with the Cargill PD on the Kernigan and Hartley cases.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘We’re struggling.’

  ‘I understand that also.’

  ‘Therefore the possum is a long shot.’

  ‘I’m still listening,’ said Temple.

  ‘Someone took a blade to it. There were bloodstains around the remains when I found them, so I’m guessing it might have been done while the animal was still alive. In my experience, the kind of person who would do that to a possum might also be capable of doing the same to a human being.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘If the blade used on the possum might be similar to the one used on Donna Lee Kernigan or Estella Jackson.’

  ‘That’s the second time someone from Cargill has mentioned Estella Jackson to me in the past twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Evan Griffin told me he’d spoken about Jackson to someone at the crime lab,’ said Parker. ‘That was you?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘He also said you were of the opinion that we might be looking at two killers.’

  ‘That’s not my area of expertise. Chief Griffin and I were merely speculating, and nothing more.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I’m leaning toward the same theory, but I’m still interested in the wounds to the animal.’

  ‘I’ll take a look at the possum. If anyone asks me why I appear to have lost my mind, I’ll refer them to you.’

  ‘Do that. In the meantime, I’ll try to come up with a name for it.’

  ‘You’re a strange person, Mr Parker.’

  ‘I’m not the one about to cut open a possum before breakfast,’ said Parker, ‘so it’s all relative.’

  While Parker spoke with Ruth Temple, Cade’s posse was finally moving into position.

  Everything about the operation had taken longer than anticipated, because Cade didn’t want to send a bunch of armed civilians into a potentially dangerous situation without all of them understanding their responsibilities, and ensuring that they were clear on the positions they were to take up. Basically, he instructed, their role was to cut off routes of escape, and their weapons should be regarded primarily as tools of intimidation, not harm. If they saw someone unknown approaching, they were to instruct them to drop any weapons and lie on the ground. They were not to fire unless they believed their lives were under imminent threat, even if that meant allowing suspects to go free. Cade didn’t want this turning into some kind of free-fire calamity. He organized them into groups of three, placing one of his men in charge of each, and emphasized the necessity of obeying any orders given by their group leader. Even then, Cade knew he was playing with fire. He had deputized armed men and women, and was introducing them into a confrontation with drug dealers who would themselves be armed. His hope was that the occupants of the farm would mostly be local boys, and reason might prevail once they realized they were surrounded by their own kind, but his experience of life in Burdon County was that reason was often in short supply there.

  So, too, on this particular morning, was luck. The dark was reluctant to yield to the day, and the first of the rain began to fall before the convoy had even reached the first meeting point, after which they would proceed on foot for the last half-mile. There was only one road to the farm, and Cade wasn’t convinced that they could travel up it in force without alerting the suspects to their approach. He didn’t want Butcher’s people scattering into the woods, because it would be hard to round them all up again, not to mention risky for his deputies and those with them.

  The rain meant that visibility was limited, although it would keep those in the farmhouse from ranging too far, which would make it easier for the posse to close in on them unnoticed. Cade wanted everyone in position before he started negotiating the surrender of the operation’s targets. He had decided against going in hard; his aim was to prevail without bloodshed on either side. He didn’t want to have to tell the wife of one of his deputies that she was now a widow, or a mother that she had lost a son or daughter because of his posse, but neither did he want to make a martyr of Randall Butcher or anyone else on the old Buttrell property. Deaths would also bring bad publicity, which he wanted to avoid. Nice clean arrests would be best for everyone. He’d drummed that into the posse, and checked with each of them in turn to make sure that he or she understood.

  Only Leonard Cresil had looked away. It was all Cade could do to talk him into leaving behind the hunting bow and its arrows with their broadhead tips. But Cresil still had a gun, and Cade’s conversation with Charles Shire, and its likely implications, continued to prey on his mind.

  Cade raised his hand as soon as he saw the roof of the farmhouse through the trees. Everyone around him stayed silent, even as the posse split up and moved to encircle the building. Cade duck-walked to the edge of the woods, Deputy Mathis close behind. Cade saw the farmhouse, with two trucks and three cars parked in the yard, and one man, armed with a pump-action shotgun, leaning against the shed in which Estella Jackson had been found, its tin roof providing him with shelter from the rain. He had a two-way radio strapped to his shoulder and was eating beans from a can. He appeared to be the only lookout.

  The door to the farmhouse opened and Randall Butcher emerged. He had a cup in his right hand, and a gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He yawned, stretching his arms.

  And someone shot him in the chest.

  91

  Later, once the smoke had cleared, both literally and figuratively, it would be decided that Leonard Cresil fired the first shot in what became known locally as the Battle of Buttrell’s Farm. For a number of reasons, it would prove impossible conclusively to establish Cresil’s culpability, and therefore a degree of doubt would always remain.

  For now, though, all Jurel Cade knew for sure was that a person unknown had just put a hole in Randall Butcher. The lookout with the shotgun, having stood frozen while his boss set about the business of dying, started running for the farmhouse while simult
aneously firing random blasts into the forest. Pellets from one of those blasts hit Deputy Erwin Franks in the side of the head, removing most of his right ear and a section of his scalp, and rendering him immediately unconscious. The three deputized civilians assigned to Franks, having concluded, not unreasonably, that their lives were almost certainly under threat, returned fire, and suddenly Cade’s operation was spiraling out of control before it had even properly begun. He was already scrambling for the bullhorn to order everyone to stop shooting when four armed men emerged from the trailers parked at either side of the farmhouse. One of those men was Pruitt Dix.

  Dix had many unbecoming qualities, but disloyalty was not among them. He had stood by Randall Butcher’s side for nearly twenty years, and what he felt for him was as close to love as he had ever known. The sight of Butcher writhing on the porch, a blood angel forming beneath him, caused something to break inside his lieutenant. Dix’s only instinct was to try to save Butcher, even as what remained of the logical part of his brain recognized that his employer – his friend – could not and would not survive. But shots were impacting around him. Glass was breaking, and wood splintering. Dix could hear shouting from inside and outside the house, and a voice repeating the words ‘Stop firing! Stop firing!’ over a bullhorn. But this couldn’t have applied to Dix, because he hadn’t yet fired a shot. He was about to rectify that situation.

  Dix was carrying a Beretta AR90, one of a number of weapons that had fallen foul of the Federal Assault Weapons Ban signed into law in 1994 by President Bill Clinton – for whom Dix had not voted, and whom he regarded as a disgrace to the state that had birthed him. This particular AR90, with its wire folding stock, was one of three that Dix had acquired from Mexico and was fitted with a hundred-round C-Mag drum, the contents of which Dix now began emptying into the forest. Jurel Cade’s voice was subsumed in the tumult, but by then he had given up on the bullhorn, and – like everyone else around him – had his face buried in the dirt.

  On the porch, Randall Butcher stopped writhing.