Dark River Road

by Virginia Brown

  Quinton looked carved from marble. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, his cold eyes just boring into Chantry like lasers. Oh yeah. He was on the right track, all right.

  “How’d it look to all your Klan buddies when your oldest boy got Julia pregnant with Tansy? I mean, here you were, the shining example of the master race, of white purity, and your own blood hooks up with a colored girl. Musta been a shock for you. How would you ever keep their respect now?”

  “Shut up.”

  Chantry smiled. Quinton hadn’t raised his voice, kept it low and soft, but there was a steely bite to it that betrayed him.

  “So you had to do something, didn’t you? Had to keep those good ole boys in line and let them know you were in charge. You’d never liked Ted much anyway. His mama wasn’t anything but poor white trash, like Jimmy Joe and the rest, and you—hell, you’re a Quinton. Your family founded this county, owned most of it, and even if your daddy had no sense of noblesse oblige, you sure did. Isn’t that what it’s called? The sense of duty to watch out for what’s yours? To keep what you own? So you killed Ted. That worked for a while. Got you even more respect. Saved your family pride.

  “Only now history’s repeating itself. Your grandson bailed on you, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. Grates on you that Chris doesn’t need your money, doesn’t it? He’s got Tansy’s money now. And he’s got Tansy. That’s gotta piss you off royally.”

  “I’m dealing with Chris. And that bitch he’s taken up with, too.”

  Chantry slammed his hands down on the desk and Quinton flinched. “I swear, if you do one thing to hurt Tansy, I’ll kill you.”

  Quinton pushed his chair back and stood up. Even at his age he had a commanding presence, tall and straight. He raised his voice for the first time. “Get out.”

  “I’ll go. Just remember what I said. You harm Tansy or Herky and I’ll make you pay for it. Maybe you’ll end up feeding the turtles with Ted.”

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” Quinton roared. “You come back here again and I’ll shoot you, I swear to God I will . . .”

  He had something small and shiny in his hand then, a .22 pistol that looked far too small for a man his size. Chantry laughed, and Quinton’s face went a deep red.

  Chantry turned away deliberately and walked to the door, half-expecting at any minute to hear the gun go off and feel a bullet in his back. He opened it, and stood for a moment looking at Bert Quinton.

  “If Herky isn’t released by tomorrow morning, I’ll see to it that the media gets all the information I’ve got. And if you think I’m bluffing, just try me. You might take me down, but I’ll take you with me.”

  Quinton fired, and the bullet zinged past Chantry and lodged in the staircase wall outside the door. Chantry looked at the hole in the wallpaper, then back at Quinton.

  “If that’s the best you can do, you’re slipping.”

  Maybe Quinton would have fired again. He wanted to, Chantry could see that, but the housekeeper had come running at the sound of the shot, and behind her came Colin and Laura. They all stopped just outside the door, staring.

  “Get him the fuck out of here,” Quinton shouted, “and don’t ever let him back in this house.”

  “I know my way out,” Chantry said, “but next time I come here, you’ll be sorry.”

  He was halfway home when his cell phone rang. Cinda sounded like he’d never heard her sound before: “What the hell did you say to my grandfather?”

  “A lot.”

  “So I hear.”

  He didn’t doubt that.

  “They’ve called his doctor, Chantry. He’s on the verge of a stroke. Just what did you do? Why’d you go out there?”

  “He had Herky put in a mental institution.”

  Silence. After a minute he thought maybe he’d driven into a dead spot where the cell towers didn’t reach; then she said, “I didn’t know that.”

  “He’s in Holly Springs. They won’t let him see anyone.”

  “How—?”

  “Miss Abby called me. She couldn’t find him and didn’t know what to do. Mindy asked around and found out what happened.”

  There was a shorter silence this time before she said softly, “I can’t ignore this any longer. There’s something terribly wrong. I’ve had enough.” He’d been half-expecting it, so wasn’t too surprised when she said she had to go and hung up. She was gone.

  Cold sunshine filtered through bare tree branches and onto the road. He turned the car around and kept going, left on Highway 1, headed over to 61 and up to Tunica. He’d had enough, too. Enough hitting that brick wall. Coming back to Cane Creek had been the worst thing he could do. He hadn’t found out anything he’d thought he would.

  Except that he still felt the same about Cinda.

  He ended up at the Grand Isle. He wasn’t sure why, except maybe that he’d been there so much to see Tansy and he was familiar with the layout. Slot machines held little interest for him, and he played a hand or two of blackjack before he wandered over to the bar and buffet.

  Restless, angry, disappointed, he sucked down a few branch and bourbons. It helped take the edge off and eased his throat. He wasn’t used to so much talking.

  “Hey, Chantry.”

  He turned around. Donny Ray Caldwell leaned against a column gilded with stuff made to look like a palm tree, and grinned real big.

  “Hey, Donny Ray. What’s up?”

  “Boys night out. Patty’s gone off with the girls, and we got together and come up here to unwind a little after work. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

  There wasn’t anything to say to that so he just shrugged. Donny Ray kept talking.

  “Helluva lot of trouble a few months ago. You sure do have a way of stirring up things. Always did.”

  “If you’re trying to make me feel better, Donny Ray, it’s not working.”

  “Yeah. Guess not. Wanna come join us? Just a couple of guys I work with.”

  Donny Ray’s friends called him dude, made crude jokes about tits and ass, and hit on the waitresses. Chantry got bored pretty quick. He drank more bourbon and branch. He’d get rip roaring drunk and get a room in the hotel. Forget everything for a while.

  Lights flashed, people laughed, and the room noise got deafening. He drank until he didn’t give a damn, couldn’t think about anything. Not even Cinda.

  It was the steady pounding of a hammer that woke him first. His head hurt, his eyes wouldn’t focus, and all he could hear was that damn pounding. What the hell—?

  Somebody leaned over him, somebody big and blue. Chantry’s eyes crossed. He tried to make sense of it, but nothing came to him. The last thing he remembered clearly was standing in the lobby of the Grand Isle and wondering how they got a ship inside the hotel. He blinked, and his vision cleared enough that he knew he was in his own bed.

  A fist grabbed the front of his shirt, and before he had time to wonder why he was wearing a shirt in bed and how he’d got back to his bedroom, he got dragged out of bed and thrown on the floor. A wave of nausea washed over him and it was all he could do to keep from throwing up on the black shoes about an inch from his face.

  Then someone slapped cuffs on his wrists and hauled him to his feet. Damn. Had he tried to drive drunk? Everything was a blank. Just vague images came to mind. It was hard to think when he had to fight the urge to throw up.

  Voices assaulted him, harsh, demanding. It took a moment to translate what they wanted. Then he understood.

  “What? Arresting me for what?”

  “Murder.”

  Chantry’s stomach heaved. He had to breathe deep before he asked, “Who am I supposed to have killed?”

  One of the officers shoved him forward. “Like you don’t know.”

  “Humor me.”

  He was in his sock-feet, and they walked him outside to the patrol car, shoving his head down to push him inside. He landed on the hard plastic seat, struggled to sit upright. A deputy put one hand atop the car, leaned in
a little bit.

  “You fucked up bad this time, Callahan. Killing Bert Quinton is gonna get you the chair.”

  Chantry sagged weakly. He tried to wrap his brain around that but it didn’t make sense. He hadn’t gone back out there. Hell, he’d been too drunk to see past the end of his arm, and he wasn’t stupid enough to drive. But how had he gotten home? And that was his car sitting there in the alley behind the carriage house, no dings or dents that he could see. Oh damn.

  It felt all too familiar to be back in a cell. Nothing like being arrested for murder to sober a man up pretty quick. Now if he could just get rid of his hangover.

  So Quinton was dead. He couldn’t drum up even a shred of sorrow about that, even if he’d wanted to for Cinda’s sake. He felt bad for her, but that was about it. Not that there weren’t plenty of other assholes ready to take Quinton’s place. The fall-out should be interesting to watch. From a safe distance.

  He tried to figure out how they thought he’d killed the old man, but nothing came to mind. Quinton had been alive when he left Six Oaks, and Colin and Laura and the housekeeper could testify to that. Maybe he’d just had a stroke and the cops overreacted. Cinda had said they’d called the doctor to come out.

  Whichever, he wasn’t as worried as he probably should be. It’d all sort itself out. He hadn’t done it, and this time, he had plenty of witnesses to back him up, as he told the cops. Donny Ray had probably brought him home. He’d vouch for him being too drunk to function, much less kill anyone.

  And this was a great example on the evils of drinking more than he should. It’d been years since he’d been this stupid. Back when he was fresh out of boot camp in January 1991 and had found out he was headed for Iraq. That’d been Quinton’s doing. Just like this time.

  Christ, he always seemed to play right into the old man’s hands. And now Bert Quinton was dead and he’d never know just why Mama had stayed in Cane Creek. That might be a blessing. He couldn’t change the past. All he could do was his best to keep it from screwing up the present.

  At midday they gave him back his clothes and released him. No charges were being filed yet, which meant they hadn’t been able to fabricate any that would stick.

  “We’re releasing you until further investigation,” Gordon said, fixing Chantry with a hard look, “but that doesn’t mean you’re free to leave town.”

  Gathering up the stuff they’d taken from his pants pockets, Chantry shrugged. “Mind telling me just how Quinton died?”

  Gordon didn’t say anything for a minute. He looked angry, probably because he had to let him go. “That’s not information we’re giving out right now.”

  “Not until the autopsy results are back, then,” Chantry guessed, but Gordon gave nothing away.

  When Chantry stepped outside, a cold wind was blowing but the sun shone bright in the sky. The police department was on the edge of town, and his car was at the carriage house. It wasn’t too far a walk on a nice day, but he was still rocky with bourbon residue and the lack of a coat. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, Chantry stuck his hands in his pockets and set out for a long walk without his shoes.

  By the time he reached the courthouse square, he was shivering pretty badly. A car pulled up next to him and stopped. He looked over. Cathy Chandler leaned across the seat to open the door. “Get in.” He slid inside and she turned the heater up full blast. “You look frozen.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “Guess you just like walking in freezing weather without your coat and shoes.”

  “Not so much.”

  “So no one would stop and pick you up, huh?”

  He looked over at her. She’d stopped at a four-way stop sign and looked back at him. He shook his head. “Had a few slow down to look, but none brave enough to stop.”

  “It’s all over town that the police arrested you for murdering old man Quinton.”

  “Well, I am the first one they think of whenever there’s trouble. What’d you hear about it? Quinton, I mean. How he died.”

  “The police aren’t saying much, but everyone knows anyway. Somebody stabbed him a few dozen times, the way I hear it. Blood everywhere. Sukey—she cleans for Mrs. Pritchett sometimes, too—said it looked like hog killing day in Quinton’s office.”

  That explained why the cops had checked out his clothes so carefully. Looking for blood traces. That’d obviously worked in his favor, since they hadn’t found any.

  Cathy turned into the alley that ran behind the carriage house, and stopped in the spot where his car used to be. He stared at the vacancy.

  “The police towed your car,” Cathy said, and he nodded. That made sense. And it should help clear him when they didn’t find anything.

  He reached for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime. Hey Chantry—” She put a hand on his arm. “I know you didn’t do it. But Gordon’s running for sheriff, and if he can catch whoever killed Quinton, he’ll win. I wouldn’t trust him not to do what he can to make a quick arrest.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “I’m not saying he’d invent evidence, just . . . misinterpret it.”

  Chantry looked at her. “You okay, Cathy?”

  She gave him a wan smile. “About to be a lot better. I’m moving, taking Chelsea and getting out of here. I’ve got a cousin in Houston that said I could stay with her until I get a job and get on my feet. It’s for the best. Too many memories here. You know about that kind of thing.”

  “Yeah. Reckon I do. Make sure the next guy you hook up with is the right one. You deserve the best.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she leaned forward suddenly and kissed him right on the mouth, a quick kiss without passion, just a goodbye, he guessed. Then she sat back.

  “Take care of yourself, Chantry Callahan.”

  “You too, Cathy.”

  He got out of the car and shut the door, and turned toward the house. Cinda stood in the open doorway, and he wondered if she’d seen Cathy kiss him.

  She just waved a hand at Cathy though, and stood back as Chantry went in. The door closed behind them both and they stood there in awkward silence for a minute. Did she think he’d killed her grandfather? Years of experience had taught him that people usually believed the worst, but this was Cinda. It was important that she believe in him.

  “You doing okay?” he asked finally, and she nodded.

  “Better than I thought I’d do. Hope you don’t mind me being here. It . . . I just had to get away for a little while. Phones, reporters, relatives—my mother’s coming back. And Daddy’s on his way up from Jackson. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with all of it.”

  “You’ll do fine. You’re strong. You’re a—”

  “Quinton?” she interrupted, and smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Not by me.”

  “No. Not by you.” She looked indecisive, then turned to go into the kitchen. “I put on some coffee. Thought when you got out you might need some. Bud Casey said you had a good alibi, but he’d defend you if you need him.”

  “It shouldn’t come to that. There’s no evidence to link me to . . . to his death. Cinda, I’m sorry you’re hurt by all this.”

  “You didn’t do anything, Chantry. I know that. Someone killed him, but it wasn’t you.” Her mouth twisted into a faint grimace. “You’d never run away if you had.”

  He wasn’t so sure about that, but didn’t say it. Seemed like he’d been running most of his life. From something, toward something, in circles. Just running.

  “Chris is on his way home,” she said when she’d poured them both a cup of coffee and they sat on the couch in the den, not close, not touching, but like strangers. It felt odd. “He’s bringing Tansy with him. She cancelled the rest of her west coast tour.”

  “Dempsey will be glad to see her again so soon.”

  It was all he could think of to say that wouldn’t sound insincere or stupid. Cinda nodded. She ran her thumb around the rim of the cof
fee mug, stared down at it like she was reading tea leaves, and he let the silence drag out a while. He’d never been good at this kind of thing. Felt awkward, deficient, unable to console someone else’s grief when he’d never even learned how to acknowledge his own.

  Unspoken words built a wall between them. Last time he’d talked to her, she’d said she’d had enough and hung up. Now her grandfather was dead and the police thought he was responsible. What did Cinda think? She had to know he didn’t do it or she wouldn’t be sitting here with him now, but she didn’t seem grief-stricken, either. Maybe she was good at hiding how she felt, too.

  “I was furious with him, Chantry.” She looked up. “Granddad. I went to see him after I talked to you. I told him that I knew about some of his shady business dealings, I knew that he’d cheated people. And I told him that I knew what he’d done to Herky. We quarreled. He finally called to get Herky released until he can get a fair examination and appraisal to see if he can continue to live on his own. But I could see that he didn’t want to, that he’d rather hurt Herky to get at you than be fair. I told him I’d had enough. I just . . . he’s not the man I always thought—hoped—he was. He’s not . . . wasn’t . . . the man he pretended to be. It’s a hard thing to realize after all these years.”

  He knew how that felt, the disillusion, the grief and anger that came with it. There wasn’t a whole lot he could say to make her feel any better about it, either.

  When the phone rang, it startled him, and he grabbed for it. He didn’t know who he expected to be calling, reporters, maybe, but he just said “Yeah” into the phone instead of his usual greeting.

  “Chantry?”

  “Mikey. What’s up.”

  “Come home.”

  “Uh, can’t do that right now, sport. You okay?”

  Mikey sounded funny, his voice all strange, thick-sounding. There was a brief pause, then Mikey said, “No. I’m not okay. It . . . it’s Shadow. He’s dying, Chantry. I need you to come home. Please.”