‘Do you want to tell them,’ said Nealus to Parker, ‘or should I?’
‘Hollis Ward,’ said Parker.
‘What about him?’
‘I think he abused you and your father colluded in it, or chose to let it slide.’
‘And why would my father have done that?’
‘Because Ward was useful to him, more useful than you were, and he was the keeper of the family’s secrets. So you waited: you waited until you were strong enough to tackle Ward, and then you tortured him to death; you waited until your father was on the verge of concluding the deal that would crown the efforts of a lifetime and assure the Cade family a place in Arkansas history, before you started killing vulnerable young women; and you waited for someone like me to come along, someone from outside, before baiting the hook, because you wanted to be captured, but only by the right person.’
‘That’s very good,’ said Nealus. ‘You glossed over the nastier details of what Hollis Ward did to me, but that’s understandable. Also, our relationship was more complex than you make it sound. I think I had a kind of love for him. He cared for me, or perhaps it was just easier for me to believe that he did. He killed Estella Jackson, you know. I watched him do it. I might even have helped him a little, although it’s hard for me to remember all the details. I suppose you could say I learned from the best.’
‘Why did he kill her?’ said Parker.
Nealus tilted his head in surprise, as though the question were so unnecessary as to be hardly worth answering.
‘Hollis liked inflicting pain. He said he’d hurt other girls – boys, too, because he wasn’t particular – and I can’t see why he would have lied. He thought Estella Jackson was uppity, and wanted to teach her a lesson, but I didn’t think she was uppity. She was just a regular girl.’
‘Did you tell Hollis that before he started hurting her?’
Nealus laughed. ‘No, I didn’t want to spoil the fun.’
While he was talking, Maryanne McCullough had resumed banging against the roof of the trunk. Kel Knight walked to the front of the car and popped the trunk with the lever. He removed the gag from the girl’s mouth and told her to stay where she was for now before resuming his position.
‘Nealus,’ said Griffin, ‘I need you to get rid of the knife.’
Nealus reached to the back of his belt and removed the blade from its scabbard. It was about four inches long and shone dully in the sunlight.
‘Would it be better if there was a trial?’ he mused. ‘If I plead guilty, it’ll go straight to sentencing, but that might be too quick. If I were to plead not guilty at first, then it would all last so much longer, and I could always change my mind when it became tedious. I’d like to give evidence. Will they let me do that? Can I speak in my own defense? Will I be permitted to explain why I had to do what I did?’
‘I’m sure you’ll have the very best lawyers,’ said Griffin. ‘They’ll act as you instruct.’
‘Well, they sound like the very worst lawyers,’ said Nealus. ‘I don’t suppose it matters, though. I’ve ruined my father and my family. I’ve destroyed this land, and everyone in it. It’ll stay poor until the world turns to ash, and all of you will stay poor with it. Take a look at that sign over there, because it’s as close to escaping poverty as any of you will ever get – except Mr Parker, and he’s got bigger fish to fry.’
Nealus Cade cast the knife aside. Its purpose was ended.
‘I hope you find the one who killed your wife and daughter, Mr Parker, I really do,’ he said. ‘I have nothing against you. You’ve done me a favor by bearing witness. Your testimony will be the final nail in the coffin of this county.’
Evan Griffin knew he was right. Nealus had damned Burdon for eternity and impoverished thousands both in and beyond it, men and women who had caused him no harm. He had killed at least four people, and was set to kill a fifth when he was stopped. Nealus Cade was a monster, but one not entirely of his own creation. Even now, Griffin felt a semblance of compassion for him, but Griffin’s greater sorrow was for those whom he had sworn to serve. He had failed them, failed them all.
Griffin advanced, moving in from the right so the men behind him could keep Nealus in sight. He lowered his weapon and reached for his cuffs.
‘Get down on your knees,’ he said.
Nealus began to drop down.
And a single shot rang out.
99
Evan Griffin stood on the raised bank of the Karagol, staring at Nealus Cade’s body floating in the blackness of the lake. Griffin had not looked back after hearing the shot. He did not want to know the identity of the man responsible. He had endured enough disappointments, enough sorrows, and would accumulate more in time.
Anyway, he was about to commit a crime of his own.
He descended to the shore, where he began to gather stones. Kel Knight joined him, then Parker, and finally the third man, the one whose name Griffin did not yet know.
Together they weighed down the body of Nealus Cade and gave it to the Karagol.
100
Parker drove with Evan Griffin to the house of Pappy Cade, their trousers still damp from the lake, but Parker did not enter, and whatever passed between Griffin and Cade remained private. By then, Nealus Cade’s car had already been set alight by the bank of the Karagol, and Kel Knight had visited Eddy Rauls to smooth out any bumps in the narrative that was under construction: a kind of cousin to truth, or what Thoreau once termed a ‘consistent expediency’.
Later, Parker would wonder at the efficiency of it all: an investigation that was smothered at birth; a single witness, Maryanne McCullough, who had not managed to get a good look at the man responsible for abducting her, and could recall only snatches of a conversation overheard by the banks of the Karagol, and what she thought might have been a gunshot; a figure reportedly seen fleeing into the Ouachita and a subsequent pursuit that yielded no results, because those were deep woods in which a man could lose himself, if he chose; the revelation that, theoretically, a great many people had access to the garage in which the bodies of Sallie Kernigan and Hollis Ward were discovered, because there were multiple copies of the keys, including some held as far afield as Little Rock; and the decision by the Cades’ tame judge to regard Parker’s entry into that same garage as an illegal search, making the discovery of the bodies inside fruit from a poisoned tree in evidentiary terms.
And hovering in the background, presences from the state legislature and beyond, all with a shared interest in wealth and silence, even as the disappearance of Nealus Cade became its own mystery, one that was linked to the deaths of young women only through whisper and conjecture, until a corpse was found deep in the Ouachita: a male in his late thirties, rotted beyond identification, with a rusted four-inch blade beside him, the same weapon believed to have been used in the killing of Donna Lee Kernigan and her mother, and perhaps others too, although who could say for sure? His body bore the marks of a dissolute life.
A drifter, a stranger found dead – or so it was whispered – by Jurel Cade in a gutter, and rendered fit for the purpose of providing a scapegoat.
Someone not of that place.
Two days after the death of Nealus Cade, Parker checked out of his room at the Lakeside Inn. A new clerk stood behind the desk. He appeared harried, and was unfamiliar with the running of a motel. Cleon was gone. He had gathered his belongings and departed in the company of the men named Angel and Louis. Eventually Cleon would find his way to Springfield, Vermont, where he would open a bed and breakfast with his partner, Erik, and design costumes for the Springfield Community Players.
Only Evan Griffin was present to see Parker leave. He paid Parker’s bill and walked him to his car. They shook hands, and a few words were exchanged.
‘Where will you go?’ said Griffin. ‘Back to New York?’
‘In time,’ said Parker. ‘First, Mississippi.’
‘Why there?’
‘Someone crucified a woman named Eliza Tarp in Belzoni, an
d crowned her with thorns.’
‘You of a mind to discover who that someone might be?’
‘I am.’
‘You be careful about making promises to the dead. They’ll hold you to them.’
‘I expect them to,’ said Parker.
And then he was gone.
NOW
101
Parker heard down the phone line the whispering of years.
‘So I thought you should know,’ said Evan Griffin. ‘About the body. The Karagol had started to flood and stank worse than usual. Someone over at the Kovas facility thought dredging might help, which is how the remains were found.’
‘Have they been identified?’
‘From dental records,’ said Griffin. ‘It’s Nealus Cade. It’s a curious thing, but he was in a state of semipreservation. Something to do with the temperature of the water, they’re saying, and maybe the strangeness of the Karagol. Jurel was there when they laid the body down on the shore, once they’d freed it from the mud. He’d spent a long time looking for his brother, but I think he suspected where Nealus was all along. He’s the county sheriff now, you know? Good one, too, or so they tell me. He’s the last sibling left. Delphia died of cervical cancer a few years ago. And Pappy – well, Delphia took care of Pappy in his final months. I’d like to believe her solicitude might have been a boon to him, but I’m disinclined to lie to myself. The neighbors said they could hear him screaming in the days before he passed away.’
Parker didn’t care. He had rarely thought about the Cades since leaving Cargill, and only once had the events of that time intruded with force upon his thoughts. A few months earlier, down in Houston, he had caught sight of a man walking with a woman in Tranquility Park, a pair of teenage girls alongside them. Parker thought the man looked like Tilon Ward, who had vanished without a trace from Arkansas in the aftermath of the confrontation at the Buttrell property. Ward did not notice him, and Parker made no effort to confirm his identity.
After all, he might have been mistaken.
‘What about you?’ said Parker.
‘I retired a decade ago,’ said Griffin. ‘I got three kids now, and we all live in Siloam Springs. Cargill grew too busy for me, once Kovas got situated and started to expand. Too many faces I didn’t care to get to know. It’s become a wealthy town – or it is for some, but still better than it was for most.’
He drew in a long breath before speaking again.
‘I saw that you found the man who killed your family.’
‘Yes,’ said Parker.
‘Did it bring you peace?’
‘Not immediately.’
‘But now?’
‘I have a kind of peace.’
‘That’s more than a lot of people can say.’
‘I suppose it is.’
‘You still making promises to the dead?’
‘On occasion.’
‘Old habits. There is one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘They dug a bullet out of a sycamore down by the Karagol about five years ago. The tree was being milled over at Rich Emory’s when someone found it. The bullet had been there a long time: more than a decade, judging by the growth around it. Rich called me himself, in case I wanted to take a look. The slug was messed up, but I thought it might have been a ten millimeter.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘Took it away, then lost it. Careless of me.’
Griffin said goodbye. Parker collected his car keys, his phone, and his notebook. He thought about the 10 mm Smith & Wesson he no longer possessed, and the Glock that Kel Knight was carrying as his sidearm on the day Nealus Cade died: a G20, chambered in 10 mm.
Then Parker cast Cargill from his mind forever.
Follow John Connolly here
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It seems odd to compile a list of acknowledgments without adding the titles of a slew of reference works, but The Dirty South is different from some of my other books. I began writing this novel just a few days after delivering A Book of Bones to my publishers. Since each novel tends to be a reaction to the one that preceded it, and A Book of Bones was a mammoth endeavor, requiring enormous amounts of research material, I wanted The Dirty South to be less bound to other texts. And so, while I read newspaper articles relevant to the period, and the occasional piece on recent Arkansas history, most of this book derives from my imagination, aided by a little time in the Ouachita and the assistance of a handful of kind and knowledgeable Arkansas residents.
First off, then, my thanks to J. R. Howard, former United States Marshal, former executive director of the Arkansas State Crime Lab, and – as Colonel J. R. Howard – former director of the Arkansas State Police. What he doesn’t know about Arkansas law enforcement probably isn’t worth knowing, but I suspect there isn’t anything he doesn’t know. I can think of few more pleasant ways to have spent an afternoon than in J.R.’s company at a Burger King in Searcy. He is an extraordinary man, and his expertise and generosity of spirit made The Dirty South a better book. Its flaws are entirely mine, not his. I am also grateful to Brian Cliff and John Couzens for their help with making introductions.
I am also hugely grateful to Ryan and Rebecca Webb, who took the time to speak with me about growing up in Arkansas, and to share their recollections of the tornadoes that struck the state early in 1999. The novel may be called The Dirty South, but my experiences of Arkansas were entirely positive and the best of the characters in the book are based on people like J.R. and the Webbs.
As always, my novels continue to find a home with Hodder & Stoughton, just as they have since 1999. Thanks to my British editor, Sue Fletcher, and all those at Hachette who support, improve, and promote my work: Swati Gamble, Carolyn Mays, Lucy Hale, Auriol Bishop, Alice Morley, Ruth Mundy, Alasdair Oliver, Breda Purdue, Jim Binchy, and the Hachette sales teams around the globe. Similarly, in North America, Atria/Emily Bestler Books have remained faithful to me down the years, and I’m indebted to my American editor, Emily Bestler, and all who work with her, including Lara Jones, Stephanie Mendoza, and the staff at Atria and Simon & Schuster. To my foreign publishers and editors, and all my sub-agents, thanks for bringing my books to far-flung shores; and to booksellers and librarians everywhere, long may you run.
My agent, Darley Anderson, and his crew are as fine a bunch of folk as a man could hope to have guarding his interests. Huge thanks, and much affection, to you all. Ellen Clair Lamb, as well as being friend, fact-checker, and advocate, holds the online fort together, and Cameron Ridyard does a sterling job on making that online presence as beautiful and easily navigable as possible. Jennifer Ridyard and Cliona O’Neill, meanwhile, were among those who generously lent their time to catching some of my many errors, supplementing the efforts of various staunch copy-editors and proofreaders.
Finally, love to Jennie, Cam, Al, Alannah, and Megan. At the very least, I hope I keep you all amused.
John Connolly
August 2019
Celebrating 20 years of Charlie Parker
Return to the beginning with the gripping first novel.
Tormented and racked with guilt over the brutal slaying of his wife and daughter, Charlie Parker, ex-cop with the NYPD, agrees to track down a missing girl. It is a search that will lead him into an abyss of evil.
Buy Every Dead Thing now
Table of Contents
Contents
About the Author
Also by John Connolly
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
How to Use this eBook
Part I Now
Chapter 1
Then
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
; Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part II Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part III Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part IV Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020) Page 44