by Chuck Logan
“Yeah,” the bartender said. “Some crazy fuck stirring the pot. Wouldn’t put it past some of those League of the South boys…”
“Or some mental militant coon ass,” Sweet said, stroking his chin.
The bartender nodded. “Hell yes, you got all this red-state-blue-state pressure building up; thousands of guys eye-to-eye only a few minié balls away from the whole thing starting up again, huh?” He grinned.
“You’re putting me on, right?” Rane asked.
The bartender stared him down briefly, then his face split into a slow grin. “Yeah.”
Sweet cackled, “Darl had this fantasy about starting a Civil War paintball game, get all these guys lined up…”
The bartender leaned forward, planting one elbow on the bar in a conversational posture, fingers trickling open. “Fact is, you get thousands of guys out there with black powder it’s like deer season. Miracle more people don’t get themselves killed.”
Rane’s lips turned down in a Gallic shrug. “Good comparison.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It was a stone bummer. I was there,” the bartender said sincerely. “Was with the Fifty-second Tennessee dressed in blue last Saturday and I was standing no more’n two hundred yards away when that dude got hit.”
Rane shifted on the stool and observed something close to remorse flicker in the bartender’s eyes.
“Did you see it happen?” Rane asked.
“Nah, just all the confusion. I was way down the line,” the bartender said as his hand came up and his fingers stroked his nose.
Rane had followed a professional poker player once and learned that this mannerism was a tell: a nervous tick that covered a lie. He considered raising the question of the missing Mitchell Lee and rejected it.
But the bartender, no slouch in the people-watching game himself, had noticed the sudden intensity in Rane’s eyes and asked, “Kirby Creek’s on the other side of State 45 below the line. How’d you wind up here?”
Rane shrugged. “I read in this tourist brochure about the old state-line days. Figured I’d take a look. Was this where they filmed those Walking Tall movies?”
Wrong thing to say.
“Fuck no,” Sweet erupted. “We run ’em into another county to tell their fuckin’ lies.” He advanced and menaced a finger at Rane. “I growed up here all my life ’cept when I went away for that machine-gun thing. My daddy knowed the evil sonofabitch, Pusser. Biggest shakedown crook in the region. Killed his own wife out on New Hope Road and made it look like some local boys did it…put that in your fuckin’ newspaper up North.” Sweet’s rigid finger jabbed Rane’s chest hard.
In a joint like this, showing weakness can take you down quick. Rane had trained six hard months for the book on cage fighting, working off a karate foundation he’d kept up since high school. The old reflexes from two years as a street cop bristled. His hands reacted ahead of his mind.
“Back off,” he said, flat and cold, as he slammed his left palm up under Sweet’s elbow. The instant the arm straightened, he clamped his right hand down on Sweet’s wrist and cranked. Using the trapped wrist as a lever, he twirled the bigger man and smashed him hard into the bar counter in an efficient motion.
Sweet careened off the bar and stumbled back, caught his balance, and grabbed a bottle by the neck and raised it club-fashion, beer slopping down his arm. “Why you little pissant…”
The bartender vaulted the bar counter, stood between them, hands outspread, and scrutinized Rane. “Where’s a photographer learn to move like that I wonder?”
“Whattayou thinking, Darl? Is he dumb or just plain crazy?” Sweet said, agitated, shifting from foot to foot.
“Not sure,” Darl said carefully.
“Maybe he’s an undercover they run in on us,” Sweet grinned broadly, moving around Darl and smashing the bottle on the bar. He thrust the jagged edge up to the light as shards of glass skittered across the floor. He bared his gapped teeth. “I think what we got here is a case of suicide by redneck.”
Rane snatched up his camera bag, slung it quickly over his shoulder onto his back so it wouldn’t interfere with his hands, and eyed the distance to the door. The two pool shooters were coming forward, cues lightly balanced in their hands.
“I ain’t done anything to rate a cop so he must be crazy,” Darl said thoughtfully.
As Rane danced back, the two pool shooters moved to block the exit, so he swept the balls off the table with both hands, gathered several in the crook of his left elbow, and cocked one in his right hand. The pool shooters surged forward, swinging, and Rane fired the pool ball into the stomach of the nearest one. As he went to his knees, the other guy caught Rane a glancing blow across the forehead with the cue.
Rane staggered, the pool balls clattered on the floor, and the guy skipped to avoid them. Rane darted in, stripped the cue from his hand, reversed it, and butt-stroked him hard in the throat with the handle. The guy gasped and went down, raising a hand to his neck. Rane stabbed the cue tip down into the table’s corner pocket and was about to snap it off, turning it into a lethal spear. Paused.
No one moved on him?
They’d stopped. Sweet had dropped his bottle and discreetly kicked it away. Darl Leets leaned back on the bar counter, shaking his head. Then. Oh shit. A pair of powerful hands seized Rane firmly by the elbows from behind. He dropped the cue, craned his neck, and saw two clean-cut, solid men in tan on darker tan. The guy holding him smelled of aftershave, his uniform shirt was freshly pressed, a loaded leather duty belt strapped his waist, and the patch on his shoulder read, MCNAIRY COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT.
“Everybody just take it easy, now,” a third man in plainclothes said, stepping forward. He glanced at Rane. “Sir, you’re bleeding.”
“Nothing,” Rane mumbled. “Little argument.”
“Leets,” the speaker said, “what’s going on?”
Darl shrugged. “Like he says. He come in here and proceeded to lecture us on local history and it became heated.”
“Anybody hurt? Anything broken?” the speaker asked.
Leets and Sweet shook their heads; the one pool shooter was catching his breath, massaging his throat.
“Okay then. I’m going to escort this fella on down the road. To ensure he ain’t followed, Deputy Mason’s gonna sit outside for a while. We clear?”
With that, the three Tennessee cops escorted Rane outside. One of them took a first-aid kit from the trunk of his cruiser, wiped blood away from the bump on Rane’s forehead with a compress, and applied a Band-Aid.
As the cop treated him, Rane listened to the plainclothes man talk on his cell phone.
“Bee? Yeah, Sam Terell, over McNairy. Your Yankee pilgrim you asked people to keep an eye on? Red Jeep. Minnesota plates? Well, I got him over at the XTC on old 45 and he ain’t bleeding too bad…”
37
THEY WAITED FOR KENNY BEEMAN, PARKED OFF the side of the road just inside the Tennessee line, next to the cracked foundation of the Shamrock Motel with the ghosts of Louise and Jack Hathcock. Sergeant Terell, an investigator for McNairy County, had driven Rane’s Jeep to give Rane’s head some time to clear. A county cruiser trailed them to give Terell a lift back to his car and was parked behind the Jeep. Now they were out of the Jeep and Terell was satisfied that Rane was walking and talking normally.
“Just a formality, you understand,” Terell explained, his eyes now unavailable behind sunglasses. He asked for Rane’s driver’s license after he looked at his photo ID from the Pioneer Press. Then he walked to the cruiser and called the license in to Selmer dispatch to run the NCIC check.
“Figure where you’re from the cops all got the mobile video terminals. We’re still in radio cars,” Terell said. When Rane cleared the check, Terell returned his license and then asked casually, “You ain’t packing any guns or drugs in your vehicle are you, Mr. Rane?”
“There’s reenactor gear and an old rifle I borrowed, in the back,” Rane said. “I was planning on going to Shiloh
on Saturday.”
“Mind if we have a look?”
Rane said, “Sure.”
As Terell and the other cop poked through the gear, Rane tested the swelling over his forehead. Dumb. Then he checked through his haversack to make sure his camera was still working. No damage he could see. He set the bag on the hood as Beeman pulled up in his black car and got out.
Beeman stood with his hands behind his back, flexing slightly on the balls of his feet. Terell walked up to Rane, holding the cased rifle in one hand and the black leather cartridge box in the other. He grinned at Beeman, leaned the rifle against the side of the Jeep, and opened the flap to the leather case. “Usually they have tins in here to hold paper cartridges. You have, let’s see, a reporter notebook, a pen, a pack of, ah, baby wipes, a pair of wool socks and what’s this?”
Terell held up a compact plastic rectangle.
“Light meter,” Rane said.
Terell tucked the meter back into the case and snapped the slotted flap over the brass-button latch. He looped the strap over his shoulder, picked up the rifle case, undid the tie, and slowly pulled out the slender weapon. “Fuuack,” Terell grimaced as he rubbed a finger along the scum of rust and dried mud that streaked the barrel, the hammer, and the lock.
Rane gave his best weak-ass smile as Beeman widened his eyes and rocked on his heels.
“Mr. Rane,” Sergeant Terell inquired in a pained voice, “you know what you got here?”
“Ah, this old gun my uncle had back in his closet. It weighs less than those bigger ones the reenactors use…”
“And this tape you got here over the rear sight?”
“To keep them from flopping around?”
Terell exhaled and gritted his teeth, turning the rifle in his hands. “Mr. Rane, this is an original, single-trigger, Model 1859 Sharps military rifle. They only made a couple thousand of these.”
Rane shrugged and smiled helpfully.
Terell drew himself up, raised one hand, and tipped his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, revealing a glare of hazel eyes. “I got a mind to run your ass in for abuse.” He glanced over at Beeman, who was stifling a hopeless laugh. “Whattaya think, Bee. Can I hold him twenty-four hours till I get a legal opinion?”
The third cop had left the squad and joined them. “Yankee city boy,” he muttered softly.
“Is anything wrong, officer?” Rane asked Terell nervously. The three cops grumbled and walked off a few paces and huddled briefly. Beeman poked through the uniform and gear in the back of the Jeep, then joined the other two, and they proceeded to bray over the Sharps and the contents of the cartridge box. Terell elaborately cased the leprous rifle and placed it in the back of the Jeep along with the leather bag. Then the two Tennessee cops shook their heads.
“Good luck, Bee,” Terell said philosophically as he got in the cruiser. Beeman and Rane stood on the side of the road and watched the Tennessee car head back up north. It was quiet on the highway, just a whisper of breeze, the tick of insects, and, far off, the sound of a tractor.
Beeman turned to Rane with a pained expression. “Baby wipes?”
“To keep my hands clean in the field.”
Beeman scratched his hair. “What happened to the ground rules, John? Look around. Think where you’re at.” Still smiling patiently, he said, “Okay. It’s like this. Ever since we hooked up this morning there’s something been bugging me about you. Something I can’t figure out. You say you’re a photographer and you been in town for hours and you don’t take any pictures. You analyze a shooting scene in half an hour flat. Then you go off on your own into a redneck joint that most local cops wouldn’t venture in without backup.”
He took a step closer. “Terell says you hit a guy in there with a pool cue. The guy’s name is Jimmy Beal, Dwayne Leets’s driver. He’s Dixie mafia.”
Beeman shook his head, turned, and picked the haversack off the hood. After a brief look inside, he handed it to Rane. Rane slung the bag over his shoulder, reached in his pocket, pulled out the folded napkin, and handed it to Beeman.
“What’s this?” Beeman asked, opening the tissue and staring at the cigarette butt.
“I picked it out of Darl Leets’s ashtray. The crime lab in Jackson can run it against the one at the scene for a DNA match,” Rane said hopefully.
Beeman smiled manfully and let the butt drop to the ground. He patted sweat on his forehead, then bit his lower lip in a patent grimace, and said, “You keep this detective shit up I’m gonna start calling you Virgil. But you gotta understand—this ain’t Sparta, Mississippi, in the sixties and I ain’t Rod Steiger with a busted air-conditioner.” He squinted. “Now how the hell did you get onto Darl?”
Rane said, “I didn’t want to hit a strange town without a guide. So my photo editor checked with a former boss of mine in Atlanta and got onto a local lady named Anne Payton who…”
“…talks a lot,” Beeman said, his smile broadening.
“You know Anne?”
“Know of her. We’re not exactly close.”
“When we found the cigarette butt you said his name. So after you dropped me off I called her up and got directions to his bar.”
Beeman sighed and clucked his tongue. “Tell you what, John,” he said. “I suggest you drive back to the Holiday Inn and check out.”
“I thought we had a deal?” Rane protested.
“Yeah. Be nice if you stay alive to keep your end of it. So how about I invite you out to my place for a couple days,” Beeman said slowly, like he might be regretting it.
Rane pointed to Beeman’s wedding ring. “Don’t want to impose.”
Beeman nodded. “Wife and two boys, six and eleven. They’re at Marge’s folks’ in Tupelo, went down with a police escort Sunday; right after we came home from church and found the picture window shot out. Or did Anne Payton leave that part out?”
“I guess she did mention it,” Rane said.
“And after I got this.” Beeman took out his cell phone. He thumbed into a directory and showed Rane the text message on the screen:
MISSED YOU @ KIRBY CREEK. CATCH YOU @ SHILOH IF YOU GOT THE NUTS. I’M CALLIN YOU OUT BITCH.
“Could be bullshit,” Beeman speculated. “Like a crank call. Things are heating up and the assholes are coming out of the woodwork. Monday night somebody put a pipe bomb in my mailbox. Then,” he glowered, “last night they dumped some kinda poison in my catfish pond.”
“Leets?” Rane asked.
“Punks, kids, probably come in from West Alcorn be my guess, where the Leets family has allies.” Then he held up the cell phone. “But this is more serious; these messages were sent from a phone account listed to Mitchell Lee Nickels.”
“There’s more than one?”
“Oh yeah,” Beeman sighed, selecting another message.
HEY BEE, UR WIFE KNOW U R STILL FUCKEN THAT NIGGER NURSE?
This time, Rane decided it best not to comment. After a moment, Beeman said, “Officially we’re still carrying Paul’s death as an accident but the sheriffs are having a meeting, Jimmy’s on his way to Savannah, Tennessee, to get with his Hardin County counterpart. Gonna discuss how to handle Shiloh…”
“Meaning?” Rane asked.
“Meaning how to use me as bait.”
Rane chewed his lip. “Okay. So where do you live?”
“Just go back to town, check out of the motel, and wait in the lot. No side trips, you hear?”
“No side trips,” Rane said.
“Okay. I’ll be right behind you soon’s I make a call. Now go. Git.”
Rane picked up his haversack, got in the Jeep, turned the key, pulled onto the road, and headed for Corinth. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw Beeman standing beside the road, tapping numbers in his cell phone.
38
PAUL’S BODY ARRIVED IN THE MORNING.
At one p.m., Jenny wheeled the Forester into the lot of the Bradley Circle of Life Center off Highway 36 at the western edge of Stillwater, parked, a
nd turned off the key. She heaved her shoulders and exhaled as she watched traffic stream along the highway.
Other people doing normal things.
After what she hoped would be her last long-distance showdown with her mother-in-law, it was time to sign the papers giving the center permission to cremate Paul’s remains. Paul’s family did insist on minimal due diligence; that someone view the cadaver to make sure Jenny was consigning the right body to the fire.
Jenny was unfazed. Her mind was made up. And she had Paul’s will to buttress her decision. Molly’s last memories of her dad would be of him alive. She would not see him pumped full of chemical preservatives and tarted up with cosmetics in a casket.
Dutifully, she got out of the car, hauled from the backseat the biggest suitcase they owned, and carried it toward the discreet one-story building.
Molly viewed the cremation as more than a practical matter and had insisted that she be allowed to participate in the funeral discussions. After half an hour of discussion she did not back off on her stubborn desire to pick the last clothes her dad “would wear.” Then she expressed a desire to pack a farewell bag.
Jenny, Vicky, and Mom saw it as a step toward acceptance, and agreed.
So now Jenny carried a suitcase that contained Paul’s bulky green terry-cloth robe, his Acorn slippers, and the frayed Minnesota Twins cap he’d always worn on canoe trips. A smaller wooden latch box Molly had purchased with her own allowance at Michaels craft store was tucked in the folds of the robe. She’d selected a favorite handmade Father’s Day card to pack in the case.
To Dad. Happy Father’s Day.
Molly, age five, struggling with her first cursive penmanship. She had drawn a red cardinal with mismatched wings in pastel.
She’d also included Paul’s favorite coffee cup, a package of Pecan Sandies, and a box of green tea. The final item she’d added was the much-handled copy of The Red Badge of Courage, the last book she had seen him reading.