Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  Beau and Rafe Lassiter. Why the hell hadn’t he figured they’d come back? They’d grown up here, whether they liked it or not, whether their dad was still alive or not. Their mother had come from here, still had family nearby, a cousin. Oh shit. Sure. He’d just forgotten, never had paid much attention as a kid. Billy Mac was that cousin’s boy, and kin to Beau and Rafe. He was a lot younger so he’d never been around much, and Beau and Rafe hadn’t ever talked about him.

  He stopped the Rover at the edge of the cleared lot that served as a yard, looked over at Mindy. “Did you know they’d be here?”

  “No. I didn’t even know they ever came back here much, though Mama said she saw them after they got out of prison. I thought . . . God, I’m sorry. Maybe we should just go.”

  “No. We’re here. Just keep that cell phone handy.”

  It was just like old times. He got out of the truck, saw Beau and Rafe turn to look at him, saw the surprise in their eyes turn to wary satisfaction.

  “Well, looka here. If it ain’t our baby brother. Didja come out here to see us, Chantry?” Beau swaggered toward him, still big and broad, but with a beer gut hanging over his belt that reminded him of Rainey.

  “No. Came for the dog Billy Mac found. Mrs. Rowan’s dog. Go get her, Mindy. I’ll wait here.”

  “Hold on. I didn’t find no dog,” Billy Mac protested.

  “Sure you did. I know you’re smarter than to trespass on someone else’s property to open a gate and steal a dog, no matter what all the neighbors said they saw.” It was a shot in the dark. But it worked.

  Billy Mac grimaced, glanced at Beau and Rafe, then shrugged. “Maybe I did find a loose dog. Don’t mean I have to give it back.”

  Chantry looked at the line of pens out behind the trailer. Some kind of treadmill had been set up. Even from where he stood he could see telltale signs of dog fighting. “Then don’t give her back. We’ll bring the cops out when we come back.”

  “You ain’t none too popular with the cops, I hear,” Rafe said, and laughed.

  “No, but Mrs. Rowan still serves them free coffee and pie at the diner. Bet she is.”

  “Shit,” Billy Mac said after a moment. “Take the gawddamn dog then. I been feedin’ her for two days, so what do I get for my trouble?”

  “Ask someone else. Maybe Beau and Rafe have some suggestions. I’m all out.”

  He still stood by the open door of his Rover, not trusting any of them enough to get in an open spot. Always have a back-up plan, he’d learned, and so far, that lesson stuck pretty good. So he was ready when Beau shifted and Rafe moved to one side, walked around like he intended to come up behind him. Chantry reached inside the door pocket of the Rover.

  When he brought up the thirty-eight, a Smith and Wesson that packed a pretty decent punch for a single-action, all movement ceased. They looked at him, obviously not prepared for a show of arms. Beau went pale, freckles standing out like warning flags.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Just my version of a peacemaker. I came here for the dog, not a fight.”

  “You just don’t want your ass kicked again,” Beau said, not taking his eyes off the pistol.

  “That’s right. I don’t.”

  “You got a permit to carry concealed?” Rafe spluttered, and Chantry nearly laughed.

  “You worried about me breaking the law, Rafe? I’ve got it covered. Maybe you just need to be sure you’ve got your own ass covered. Your parole officer might be interested in hearing you’re hanging around a guy who’s breaking the law. Dog fighting’s illegal.”

  “These are pets,” Billy Mac said, and Chantry just looked at him.

  When Mindy came up with Sugarpie, who looked a little worse for wear but unharmed, she said in a slightly shaky voice, “I’m ready to go. Okay?”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Chantry,” she said in a choked voice when they were out on the road again, “it was awful to see all those dogs . . . skinny and scarred. I take back what I said. You know. About not doing anything. We have to do something about it.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Mama told me a long time ago that evil flourishes when good men do nothing. Guess she was right. I’ll talk to Doc. See what we can do.”

  If Beau and Rafe were involved, as they obviously were, it might be a lot easier to get the cops to check it out. Since that drug bust by the state police had forced Quinton to let Rainey’s boys flounder on their own, the local cops would probably check with Quinton before they did anything. Quinton would know they were up for any illegal activity; he usually had a hand in it. Men like that didn’t change that much over the years. Not for the better, anyway.

  He drove out to Doc’s house, just to keep him aware of what happened.

  Doc wasn’t happy to hear they’d gone out to the Stark place, but he wasn’t against doing something about the dog fighting, either. “It’s a bad situation. Haven’t been able to get local law that interested in doing anything about it,” he said, “but maybe since the Lassiters are involved, it might be easier. Cane Creek police would love to get their hands on them again. Looks good on the record books.”

  “As long as Quinton’s not involved they would. It’d be best if I stayed out of it as far as the law’s concerned,” Chantry said, and gave a shrug when Doc looked at him. “They lump me in with Beau and Rafe. I’d be a liability instead of a help when it comes to that part.”

  Doc nodded agreement. The cops would love nothing better than to get their hands on Chantry too. One of the perks of a misspent youth. It wouldn’t do the investigation any good.

  With Beau and Rafe in Cane Creek, he expected trouble to pop up any time anyway. It had a way of doing that when they were around. And now that he’d confronted them and come away with something they’d consider theirs, they’d be just waiting for a chance to get back at him. Oh yeah, coming back to Cane Creek might be the worst move he’d made in a while.

  As if reading his mind, Doc said, “Glad to be back here, huh. Well, just look at it this way, Chantry. Tie up all the loose ends now and you can go on with life without having to look over your shoulder or wonder what’s gonna bite you in the ass from your past.”

  “There are too many loose ends for that to happen.”

  Doc got up from his recliner, shook his head. “Not all loose ends are meant to be tied up, maybe. Just those that haunt you. Or can still hurt you.”

  That sounded about right. For some reason he thought about Cinda, about the Italian guy she’d brought back with her. Savona didn’t look like he wanted to be just friends. He may be a lot older, but he looked at Cinda with a lot more than friendship, despite what she said. Maybe it was just one-way; maybe it was over if there’d ever been anything between them, on her part anyway. And maybe he was just kidding himself that he’d ever be able to do what he wanted where she was concerned. It’d never work. It was as doomed as Chris and Tansy.

  Then he remembered what Chris had said and how happy Tansy had looked, and figured he’d better at least watch out for trouble that was bound to happen. Old man Quinton wouldn’t take kindly to Chris’s rebellion. It’d be dangerous to cross him.

  It always had been. But now Chantry knew about the Klan.

  After he left Doc’s house he drove over to Liberty Road. Dempsey came out to greet him, a smile on his face when he met him on the porch. “Been kinda expectin’ you to show up. Got some fish fryin’ for supper if you’re hungry.”

  “That’d be good.”

  They ate fried catfish, hushpuppies, and slaw, and Dempsey poured them both big glasses of iced tea. It was familiar, a ritual they’d done many times before. When the platter and plates were empty, Dempsey sat back and reached for his pipe. Then he paused, frowning a little before he shrugged and filled the bowl with tobacco.

  “What’s on your mind, boy?”

  Chantry didn’t even ask how he knew. He sat forward, curbing the urge for a cigarette as cherry tobacco spiced the room with another layer of sm
oke and scent.

  “Just wondering if there’s ever been anything like burning crosses or men in sheets running around here that I don’t remember. Before I first moved here, maybe.”

  Dempsey looked at him over the spurt of flame from his lighter, wisps of smoke making a wreath around his head. He clicked the lighter closed, puffed on the pipe a moment in silence. “I reckon you done heard something or you wouldn’t be asking that.”

  “Right.”

  Another few puffs later, he nodded. “Yep. Sure has been. Long time ago now. Folks don’t much like talkin’ about it. Bringin’ up the past ain’t always a good thing. There’s times it’s best to let go of it.”

  “How come I never heard about it?”

  “Ain’t something folks’d advertise.”

  “But you’d think the police—news reporters, neighbors—someone would say that guys in white sheets showed up on their front lawn with a can of lighter fluid.”

  “It was a long time ago, Chantry. Things change. Tactics change.”

  Ah. So that was it. He leaned forward. “Threats take different forms, is that what you’re saying?”

  “It happens. You should know that.”

  “Yeah. Guess I do.” He sat back, thought a minute. Burning crosses and white sheets had to phase out eventually. Those tactics were for amateurs, show-offs like Beau, Rafe, and Rainey, not men like Quinton with their bone-deep, die-hard prejudices. Bert Quinton would evolve with the times, know better than to draw attention to himself by acting a fool with sheets and crosses. He’d be furtive. Elusive. Ruthless. It was second nature to him. After all, Quinton was trying to rewrite history lately, since it was no longer politically correct to be a racist. If it’d ever been. But now he tried to pretend he’d always been in favor of civil rights. A joke to those who really knew him.

  Dempsey stirred. “Chantry, there’s some things you can’t change. People you can’t change. Quinton is one of ’em. He’ll be like he is ’til he dies.”

  “I know. Too bad somebody didn’t send him to hell years ago.”

  “He’ll get there, son. Don’t worry. He’ll get there soon enough.”

  “Wish I could hurry it up for him. Before he ruins more lives. More people.”

  Dempsey frowned. “Be careful sayin’ that kind of thing, boy. Some folks’d take that as a threat, and if it got back to Quinton, he’d . . .”

  “He’d what?” he asked when Dempsey paused. “Ruin my life? He’s tried that already. He keeps trying. Everything he touches he has to own or destroy.”

  Dempsey was silent for a minute, then he said, “Some folks’re so worried about dyin’ they forget how to live well. And then some folks’re so worried about livin’ well, they forget they’re gonna die. I reckon Quinton’s one of those last ones.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d like to see a little more justice in this world. I’m not all that sure it’ll be there in the next. Or even if there is something after this.”

  “I gotta believe there is, Chantry. Otherwise, none of this makes much sense. Why be put here on this good, green earth unless we leave it better than we found it? We all got to learn somethin’ in life.”

  “Not sure we all have to learn the same thing.” Chantry drank the last of his iced tea. This wasn’t a conversational direction he wanted to pursue. It’d been a long time since he’d believed in life after death, or in a glorious reunion with those he’d lost. More likely, it’d just be oblivion. Not so much different than how it was now, maybe. He wanted to think there was something else, but so far, experience had taught him not to be foolish. Not to expect miracles.

  “Maybe not,” Dempsey agreed, “but it’d be nice to think there’s a good reason for us bein’ put here on earth.”

  “Other than bizarre chance or fate’s idea of a cruel hoax?”

  “Guess that’s one way to look at it,” Dempsey said after a minute, “but maybe I’m more optimistic than some. I like to think we’re all here to help each other. If there wasn’t any bad things ever happened, guess then there wouldn’t be any chance for folks to show how good they can be.”

  Chantry looked at him. “In other words, if there weren’t people like Quinton, there’d be no evil to overcome.” So far, it was the best reason he’d heard yet for evil to exist. He’d heard lots of theories, the yin and yang, East Indian philosophy, but Dempsey condensed it pretty well. He smiled. “You’re the delta sage, Dempsey. If word gets out, you’ll have folks paying to sit at your feet and learn.”

  “And you’re still a smartass, son. Good thing I’m kinda partial to you.”

  “Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”

  When he left, he drove home. He’d been avoiding the carriage house, knowing Cinda was giving a family barbecue. Knowing she was with Savona. It didn’t help that he kept thinking about them being together even when he did his best not to think at all. Images kept popping into his head. Like he didn’t have enough to think about right now.

  If Savona was a family friend, why wasn’t he staying with the Sheridans instead of alone in Cinda’s house? It was a little too convenient. Too intimate. Not even the most trusting soul would buy the fiction that it was the only suitable place in town. If there was one thing Chantry wasn’t, it was trusting. He didn’t believe it for a minute.

  Apparently, the barbecue was still going on. He saw strings of lights illuminating the back yard and veranda, heard laughter and music. He parked behind the carriage house, went in and turned on the TV just for background noise. It was weird, but he felt estranged. Left out. Like he had as a kid, when it seemed he’d always stood on the wrong side of the street from where he wanted to be. It didn’t matter that Cinda had invited him, probably even wanted him to come. He knew where he belonged and it sure as hell wasn’t at the same table with Philip and Cara Sheridan or Paolo Savona.

  That’s why, when he heard a knock on his door, he remained stubbornly in front of the TV and ignored it. He wouldn’t be lured out. If the house caught on fire, he’d stay right where he was and pretend not to notice.

  The knocking progressed to an urgent and insistent banging, accompanied by Herky’s plea for him to answer. “I know you’re in there, please come help me . . .”

  Shit. He couldn’t ignore Herky.

  When he opened the door, Herky stood there with a limp, furry body cradled in his arms, a look of distress on his broad face. “She grabbed a piece of chicken before anyone could stop her. Then she choked. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”

  Chantry reacted. It was a pug, eyes bulging, tongue hanging out one side of the mouth. He grasped the small dog and turned her over, pressed two fingers firmly into the space between the ribs, gave a canine version of the Heimlich maneuver, and was rewarded with a chicken bone missile popping out after only two tries. The dog gasped, snorted, and then peed all over him. Herky smiled and took the dog he thrust toward him.

  “You did it. We tried to get it out ourselves but it was too far back. Miss Cinda’s mama sure is gonna be happy ‘bout this. She’s up at the house carryin’ on something awful about her little dog.”

  “This is Mrs. Sheridan’s dog?” He would have expected something more along the lines of Cerberus, a three-headed hound said to guard the ferry to Hades.

  “Yeah. Used to be Miss Cinda’s, but she left it with her mama when she went out of town one year and now Mrs. Sheridan won’t give her up. Anyway, I told ’em you’d save her if they’d just let me bring her down here. Is she gonna be all right?”

  “As long as you don’t let her near chicken bones again. Mrs. Sheridan might want to take her to the vet Monday just to be sure she hasn’t ingested anything that’ll give her some trouble later on.”

  They’d left the door open. A voice he recalled only too well demanded, “What are you doing with my dog?”

  Chantry didn’t reply. Herky turned to face an irate and obviously upset Cara Sheridan, who halted what had promised to be a furious tirade when she saw the wiggling pug.

&
nbsp; “Chantry fixed her.”

  “She—she’s okay?” Mrs. Sheridan’s voice quivered on the last word, and she stared at the dog with an expression somewhere between relief and disbelief. Then she reached out to take the little dog from Herky, tucked her close and didn’t even try to avoid the energetic tongue-lashing. So much for the old adage about children and dogs knowing the difference between good and bad people. Mrs. Sheridan had never struck him as the kind who’d care about dogs. Or children, for that matter. But now she looked very happy to have her dog returned, smiling at the wiggling pug and looking almost human.

  Herky was nodding. “Yes ma’am, she’ll be just fine. Chantry got the bone out. He says you might wanta take her to the vet Monday just to be sure she didn’ swallow somethin’ else bad.”

  After a moment, Mrs. Sheridan looked up. Her mouth pursed like she’d just tasted something sour and her tone was grudging as she held the dog even closer. “Did he. Well. I’ll send you a check. How much—”

  “Forget it. I don’t want your money. Just my privacy.” He moved to the door and pulled it wide open, a pointed gesture that Mrs. Sheridan grasped immediately. Her eyes narrowed.

  “This is my daughter’s house—”

  “Which I’m leasing. That makes this portion my private property. Good night.”

  Mrs. Sheridan looked past him. He heard footsteps on the walkway and knew Cinda must be behind him. This was all he needed. Not that she apparently intended to let her mother run the show, even though Mrs. Sheridan was obviously furious.

  “Cinda, tell this rude . . . person . . . he’s no longer welcome on your property. All I did—”

  “Yes, Mother, I heard you. And he’s right. You’re on his property at the moment. Until he or I tender thirty days’ notice to vacate, at any rate. He hasn’t and I don’t intend to, so perhaps you’d better take him up on his suggestion that you leave.”