Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  “You’re here for the secrets, aren’t you.”

  It was uncanny how she cut to the heart of the matter, and the hair lifted on the back of his neck even while he was mesmerized by her opaque blue eyes, wide open in her china doll face. A blonde curl dangled between her arched brows. She didn’t seem to have aged at all. Maybe insanity was a fountain of youth for some people. It seemed to be for Laura Quinton. She smiled.

  “I told Chris you’d be back. He said you’re too smart, but I told him it’s not always the secrets that destroy people. It’s the keeping them. I should know.” Her fingers danced across his bare forearm and up to his biceps, stroked gently. “You’ve gotten stronger. Harder. Ruthless in a way. Just like Bert Quinton. He’ll destroy you if he can.”

  “He’s already tried.”

  She smiled. “Yes. He has. But you’ve beat him so far. You didn’t give up. You didn’t die in the desert. Now you’re back. And he’s worried but he won’t say it, doesn’t want anyone to know. But I know. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he talks about you.”

  Chantry stared at her. Something eluded him here, hovered just beyond his grasp, and he thought maybe he shouldn’t even pay any attention to her at all. She rambled, medicated and no doubt drunk as well, saying whatever came into her head.

  “He has influence, you know. He’s only gotten stronger over the years. He’s helped elect governors and senators. People owe him favors.” Her nails scratched lightly on his arm, like a cat idly sharpening her claws. “But he owes, too. Synchronicity. Law of retribution. Payback. It’s all going to catch up to him one day. I think you’ll catch up to him.”

  He didn’t know what she was talking about, wasn’t sure he wanted to. Mama’s early lessons of courtesy wouldn’t let him be rude to her, yet he felt like pushing her away. But he only shrugged.

  “I intend to talk to him when he gets here.”

  “Yes. Ask him . . . ask him where Ted is. That might be a good starting point.”

  “Who’s Ted?”

  She laughed softly. “You know. Oh, you know. I know you know. Chris told me.”

  Rescue arrived at last in the guise of the maid who’d answered the door, and she took Mrs. Quinton gently by the arm and steered her back toward the staircase. “Mr. Colin will be upset if you don’t get your rest, Miss Laura. Come along now. Your supper is ready and waiting for you in your room.” Glancing back over her shoulder, long white nightgown drifting around her ankles in a sheer swish of silk, she smiled at Chantry as she let herself be led back to the stairs. “I’m glad you came back from the desert.”

  “Thanks,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say, and it seemed to satisfy her so that she nodded.

  He waited over an hour before Quinton returned. Someone had obviously already told him he had a visitor, because he didn’t look at all surprised to see Chantry waiting.

  “Young Mr. Callahan. You’ve arrived at my supper hour.”

  “This may not take long.”

  Quinton smiled. “Perhaps not, but I don’t care to be inconvenienced.”

  “So nothing’s changed.”

  He had to be over seventy now, but he was still a big man, broad shouldered if a bit slack-muscled, his features looser as well. Folds of flesh sagged from his jawline, eyebrows lower over his eyes, his nose not as sharp as it was once. His hair had gone snow white but still waved back from his high forehead thickly enough.

  “Of course nothing’s changed,” Quinton said. “Did you think common courtesy would alter just because you wish to be rude?”

  “Courtesy only matters to you when it’s convenient. We have some unfinished business.”

  “No, I think our business was finished when you left Cane Creek.” He opened his office door and went inside, and Chantry followed without an invitation.

  The office looked much the same, too. Fading light visible outside the windows gleamed on the line of white rocks Chantry and Dempsey had put in years ago, the dry creek bed dotting over green grass. Chantry focused on Quinton.

  “You wouldn’t answer my questions when I was a kid. Now my mother’s gone and there’s no one else who can answer them. I want to know how you made her stay here.”

  “Jesus, Chantry, haven’t you grown up enough to get over all that? It’s ancient history. If she’d wanted you to know, she’d have told you. Why should I betray her memory by going into all that now?” Quinton sat down in the broad leather chair behind his desk, steepled his hands in a familiar gesture, stared hard at Chantry.

  “There was more to it than her not being married to my father. That wasn’t enough to make her marry Rainey and stay here in bondage to you.”

  Quinton smiled. “So you know about that, do you. Why would you think it wasn’t enough for her to want to marry and provide you with a home? Women often act inexplicably. Things like that matter to them.”

  “There’s more to it than that.”

  “No, you just want there to be more to it than that. You don’t like thinking that she stayed here for you, that you’re responsible for her years of misery married to a man she grew to despise. That if it wasn’t for you, she’d have reached her potential instead of remain here in a small town where she’d never be anything but a mediocre school teacher in a mediocre school. Well, I’ve no intention of absolving you from your mother’s sin, even if I could.”

  “Seems to me you need to be worrying about your own sins.”

  “I pay lawyers to do that for me.” He leaned forward, fixed Chantry with a cold stare. “I wouldn’t be talking about the sins of others if I were you. There’s still the matter of the stolen money that’s never been resolved.”

  “It’s resolved.”

  “No, only relinquished for lack of evidence. Your grandfather convinced me it was better to give you a fresh start than pursue a course of action that’d be detrimental to your future.”

  “Or to your past?”

  Quinton sat back, eyed him for another moment. Chantry knew he was wondering just how much he might know, what he could prove and what was only conjecture. He let him think about that before he said anything else. Then he shrugged.

  “Stick to the issues, Quinton. I asked how you convinced my mother to stay in Cane Creek when she wanted to leave.”

  “And I answered you. That’s all you’re going to get from me. Of course, if you’d like to tell me what you did with that ten thousand dollars, my memory might improve.”

  “Even if I’d done something with it, it was my mother’s money. Not yours. Not Rainey’s. It should have gone to Mikey.”

  “He’s done well enough without it.”

  “So have you.”

  “That’s not the issue. My company paid off on the insurance claim.”

  “You know,” Chantry said, “that’s another thing that bothers me. I mean, Rainey got the insurance money when it should have been held for her heirs. No one ever saw Mama’s will. The policy stated it should have gone to her minor children, with Rainey not getting part of it, yet it ended up all being paid to him. With you collecting your handling fee, of course.”

  “And you have that policy stating all the money was to be paid to her minor heirs?”

  No. He didn’t. It’d burned up in the same fire that had killed Rainey. But maybe Quinton didn’t know that. He smiled, and Quinton’s eyes narrowed.

  “If you have new information,” Quinton said abruptly, “then my attorneys should be informed. It’d be nice to write the finish to that issue.”

  “I might get around to that. I’ve waited fourteen years. A few more weeks or months might not matter that much to me.”

  “You didn’t come back here to dicker about your mother’s insurance money. What is it you really want, Callahan?”

  “I already told you that. For a businessman, you don’t pay strict attention.”

  “Oh, but I do. I know there are a lot of things you’d like answers to, and I know you’ve left some pretty messy situations in your past. J
ust be grateful you’re not in jail or dead in some desert.”

  On a hunch, Chantry said, “Not that you didn’t try to get me killed. I’ve always wondered how a kid fresh out of boot camp got called up first to go to Iraq.”

  Quinton smiled. “Luck of the draw, I’d say.”

  “Or influence.”

  “Call it what you like. You survived it.” He stood up. “Things haven’t changed that much in Cane Creek. Step out of line and you’ll wish you hadn’t. So will your friends.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. A warning.” Quinton stared hard at him, as if he could figure out just what Chantry knew and what he didn’t, as if he could break him with intimidation. It hadn’t worked when he was a kid, and it didn’t work now.

  “If I get any more flat tires, or if anything at all happens to anyone I care about, I’ll be back on your doorstep, old man.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. After tonight, I’m no longer available to you.”

  “You’ll be available. You won’t be able to resist finding out what I know and what I’m only guessing at. You’ll talk to me.”

  He was right, and he saw that Quinton knew it too. They may hate each other, but neither would be the first to retreat. Or surrender.

  At the doorway, he stopped and looked back at Quinton. “You were always a gambler, I hear. Just don’t bet the house that you’ll win this time.”

  When he reached his car, he found Chris standing there leaning up against it, waiting on him in the night shadows. He looked at Chantry and shook his head.

  “What the hell are you doing? Don’t go poking tigers, man. It’s dangerous.”

  “I could tell you the same thing.”

  “I don’t have much left to lose.” Chris shrugged. “No wife, no kids, not even a house of my own unless I want to count my apartment in Tunica. And I don’t. So it doesn’t matter to me if I lose. You should remember how that feels.”

  He did. No point in reminding Chris he still had nothing to lose.

  “What do you want?” he asked him. “Why are you bothering to say anything at all? We’re not friends. You don’t like me and I don’t like you. Just why the fuck do you care if I stir up the old man?”

  “Because it causes trouble for other people. Stop thinking about just yourself for a change. What, do you think you’re the only one who ever lost anything or anyone? There are ways of losing people without them being dead. And sometimes, that’s a helluva a lot worse.”

  “Maybe. But it’s not as final.”

  Chris stared at him, eyes reflecting light from the outside lamps on the house and along the driveway. Then he nodded. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right about that.”

  “Shit, Chris, if you still want Tansy go after her. She loved you once.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Only if you don’t try.”

  “You know why I can’t.”

  Chantry shrugged. “It’s not illegal. People marry other races all the time.”

  “Have you met my grandfather?” Chris’s laugh was harsh. “You have no idea just how he can be or what he’d do. No idea.”

  “I think I have a pretty fair idea of how he works. It’s just up to you if you let him keep on ruling your life.”

  “So tell me,” Chris said when he got into his car and started the engine, “did you come to get answers or Cinda?”

  Maybe both. He honestly didn’t know right now. It might be too late for both. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out,” he said, and drove back down the driveway and out onto the highway.

  He hadn’t really thought he’d get direct answers from Quinton, but he’d thought maybe he’d be able to figure out how to get what he wanted to know. There had to be another way. He had to find a weak spot. A flawed link.

  Like Laura Quinton . . . why hadn’t he already thought of that? She said she knew secrets. Maybe she did, or maybe it was just drunken rambling. He should have asked old man Quinton about Ted just to see what kind of reaction he got. Maybe next time he would. That’d tell him a lot about whether or not he could trust Laura Quinton’s secrets.

  When he turned off Highway 1 into the Sonic drive-in to get some dinner, a quick flash of blue lights swept behind him. A siren burped twice. He pulled into the slot and parked, watched as two deputies got out of the cruiser and approached him.

  “License,” one of them said, and Chantry handed him his driver’s license without a word. The officer checked his registration, proof of insurance, and inspection sticker, then motioned for him to get out of the car. “Mind if I check your vehicle, sir?”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  “Routine traffic stop. You didn’t use your turn signal back there.”

  Right. Quinton had lost no time in calling out the dogs, it seemed. He got out of the car and stood to one side while the deputy went through it, checking under the seats, in the glove box and in the side pockets, pulling out stuff, a hunting knife, extra keys. The other officer kept an eye on him as if expecting him to go postal at any minute.

  That thought immediately reminded him of the pistol he kept in the side pocket of the Rover. He opened his mouth to say something at about the same moment the deputy found it. He backed out of the car with the thirty-eight held between his thumb and forefinger and looked at Chantry.

  “Got a permit for this?”

  “Yeah. It’s in my—”

  “Hold it.” The cop behind him grabbed his arm when he started to reach for the wallet he kept on the sun visor. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, son.”

  Before he knew it, the cuffs were out and his arms jacked up high behind him, metal cuffs snapping on. It wasn’t unexpected. Just irritating. Chantry stood quietly while the officers tore his car apart. By now quite a crowd had gathered, but he didn’t glance at anyone, just watched the police pull out the seats, lift the cargo hatch, check out the wheel wells like they were looking for drugs. He half-expected them to plant some. It’d be Quinton’s style.

  After about thirty minutes, the cops decided all was in order, unlocked his cuffs, and let him go. He looked at the rear seat of the Rover sitting on the ground, the spare tire on top of it. The cops grinned. They left, wheeling out of the Sonic parking lot and leaving him to put his car back together.

  It didn’t take him too long, and by then most of the crowd had faded away. He ordered a couple of double cheeseburgers, fries and a Route 44 cherry limeade, then left with his food. He’d better get used to this. It wouldn’t get any better as long as he was in Cane Creek. As long as old man Quinton was alive and in charge, anyway. And he didn’t see an end to that anytime soon.

  Herky was waiting on him when he got to the carriage house, and motioned for him to drive around front.

  “Use the garage, Chantry. If’n you don’t, you’s liable to get your car tore up some more. I don’t think Miss Cinda would like that very much.”

  “Yeah. Not too sure I would either. You had anything to eat yet, Herky?”

  Herky looked surprised. “Had a bologna sandwich just a while ago. Why?”

  “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was earlier. I’ve got this extra double cheeseburger if you want it.”

  He did. They sat outside on the tiled patio and ate, listened to night sounds and didn’t do much talking. Chantry gave Herky the limeade, too, and had a beer instead. He thought about old man Quinton and the secrets he’d kept for a long time. There had to be a lot he didn’t want known. Hell, he could relate to that. There were some things he didn’t want known either, but it wasn’t anything that’d ruin him. He doubted Quinton could say the same.

  “This is good,” Herky said as he ate the last bite of his burger. “I don’t eat out much.”

  Chantry looked at him. Light from the outside pole lantern illuminated a small patch of tile and some night-blooming plants. They smelled sweet. “Are you the one who keeps all the grounds like this?”

  Herky nodded. “Yeah. I like doin’ i
t.”

  “How long have you worked for . . . Ridgeway Realty?” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say her name and felt stupid about that.

  “Ever since Miss Cinda bought the company. It used to belong to Mr. Sewell. He moved a while back.”

  “Mariah Sewell’s father?”

  “Uh huh. You remember her?”

  He did. He remembered her being furious with him over Cinda, too. Like he could have done anything else, done what he wanted to do instead of what he was forced to do.

  “Does she still live in Cane Creek?”

  “Naw. Moved off to N’orlins after she got married to some guy she met in college. She and Miss Cinda went to Ole Miss over in Oxford, used to come home on weekends. I’d see ’em ridin’ around in their cars and think how purty they were, all kinda fluffy lookin’, if you know what I mean.”

  Herky sucked on his limeade while Chantry tried to picture Cinda riding around with her best friend, laughing and carefree. He smiled, and looked up to find Herky watching him with eyes that saw too much.

  “Yeah,” he said then, “I know what you mean. She always made me think of cotton candy. Pink, fluffy, and sweet.”

  “But iron underneath.” Herky nodded wisely. “Yeah, that’s Miss Cinda. She knows what she wants, don’t let nobody push her around too much.”

  “That’s the Quinton in her.”

  “Yep. Bound to be. I heard Mr. Ledbetter say she’s got more balls than Chris, but he don’t always talk real nice about the Quintons anyway.”

  Maybe not, but it was probably true. He wanted to ask if Cinda was seeing anyone, if she had ever been married or close to it, and what she’d been doing for fourteen years, but couldn’t think of a way to bring it up without feeling intrusive and juvenile. Just like a kid asking about his old girlfriend, or someone he wanted to be his girlfriend. Hell, he was too old for this. It’d be better to just steer clear of the subject of Cinda altogether.