The Heathens

by Ace Atkins

  “What they’re saying about TJ and Ladarius are a bunch of lies,” Holly said. “I saw the news. They’re trying to turn this damn family tragedy into some kind of redneck Romeo and Juliet. Miss Byrd didn’t care at all who TJ was seeing. She was always too stoned or drunk most of the time. Like a damn zombie. She didn’t know when TJ was coming and going from the trailer. You know the Byrds. You know their ways.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “TJ’s not all bad,” Holly said. “She does what she does to take care of John Wesley. If she and him didn’t steal shit, they wouldn’t have anything to eat. TJ’s been keeping the lights on in that house since she was thirteen.”

  “Her little brother shot at one of my deputies,” Quinn said. “Right after they broke into the old Pritchard place back in December.”

  “Y’all never proved that.”

  “TJ took everything they stole up to a fence in Ripley,” Quinn said. “By the time we got onto it, everything was long gone.”

  “Those Pritchard boys didn’t need it,” Holly said. “One of them’s dead and the other over in Parchman.”

  “That doesn’t make it free for the taking.”

  “TJ may be a thief,” Holly said. “But she’s not a killer.”

  Quinn nodded. The waitress refilled his cup of coffee as Holly ordered the All-Star Special. Two eggs, grits, toast, bacon, and a waffle on the side. Quinn’s phone started to buzz, a call from Lillie that he sent straight to voicemail.

  “Holly,” Quinn said. “Where the hell are those kids headed?”

  “I don’t know if I should say.”

  “You should understand I’m the best chance of getting ’em back safe.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “Some folks are sure TJ did this, especially with the history between her and her momma.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Your word, huh,” Holly said. “This is turning into some real Bonnie and Clyde shit out there, Sheriff. Ain’t it? That’s why I run off like I did. I didn’t want to stick around and see how the picture might end.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You said you knew this girl’s mother?” Charlie Hodge asked, he and Lillie halfway to Texarkana by now. The billboards and little roadside towns lit up in the dark night, whizzing past the windows, a little bit of rain tapping at their windshield.

  “Yep,” Lillie said. “She was a friend until she went and fucked herself up.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Mainly by a real piece of shit named Jerry Jeff Valentine who sported a mullet and drove a black Monte Carlo SS. Black with red racing stripes.”

  “Say no more,” Hodge said. “That the kids’ daddy?”

  “The girl’s,” Lillie said. “Turned out to be a real hero himself. Drove himself off a bridge and into a creek when that girl was little. Her brother had a different daddy altogether, but don’t ask me his name. They’re just the Byrds, keeping that same family tradition going from a hundred years back.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Town fuckups,” Lillie said. “Gina could’ve been different. She wasn’t like all the rest.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “Meaner than a damn snake,” Lillie said. “I can’t recall how many times I had to make a call on their trailer after she and her momma got into it. One time, she beat up Gina pretty good, bloodied her momma’s nose and left bruises all over that poor woman. TJ fought me, too. Kicking and scratching, while I dragged her out by her damn ear. Something’s wrong with that girl. So much meanness. I heard she and that boy Ladarius McCade sure made a pair. He got her into boosting cars and trucks, smash and grabs, and house break-ins. He’s been in and out of juvie most of his life. Jesus Christ, poor Gina. Did you see the photos of her body after they poured it from that barrel?”

  “Wish I hadn’t.”

  “Those kids ain’t gonna go easy,” Lillie said.

  “You think they have some kind of plan?” Hodge said.

  “What do you think?”

  “Based on my years as a U.S. Marshal and immense wisdom tracking felons?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d have to say, I’ve got no goddamn idea, Lillie,” Hodge said. “Kids are like any other felon, making up the song as they go.”

  “Cowardly her bringing her little brother along.”

  “You got a real problem with this young girl,” Hodge said.

  “Gina Byrd deserved better than giving birth to that hellcat,” Lillie said. “I can’t quit thinking about what those damn kids might’ve done to her. It’s not even human.”

  “Texarkana will give us four of their units,” Hodge said. “We got six marshals from the task force. How do you want to play this?”

  “That’s not up to us,” she said. “Now is it?”

  * * *

  * * *

  “I got to go back with you?” Holly Harkins asked, her Waffle House plate completely cleaned. “Don’t I?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said.

  “What am I being charged with?”

  “Well,” Quinn said. “That depends. Where do you think they went after leaving Hot Springs?”

  “They talked about Texas,” Holly said. “Maybe finding a way to get some money and head on to California.”

  “What’s in California?” Quinn said.

  “Swimming pools and movie stars,” Holly said, offering a sad smile. “All that shit. That wasn’t TJ’s idea. That was that girl Chastity.”

  “And who’s Chastity?”

  “Spoiled little rich girl,” Holly said. “Her daddy owns a Chevy dealership up in Fayetteville. She caught us squatting on her lake house. We thought the place was abandoned. Got weeds growing up all over the damn place. Didn’t look like anyone had been there for a long while till that girl comes busting in, pulling a gun on Ladarius while he was cooking up some steaks. She’s the one who talked TJ into getting on Instagram and telling her story about what happened with Chester Pratt.”

  “I saw it.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “I think I’d like TJ to drop the act and talk sense to me.”

  “She ain’t gonna do it,” Holly said. “She doesn’t trust you. She says you’re as crooked as everyone else and all you care about is throwing her ass in jail.”

  “That’s not true and she knows it.”

  “She may take a few things that don’t belong to her,” Holly said. “My momma says that girl has sticky fingers. But she has a good heart. I promise you that.”

  “Where are they headed, Holly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But if you had to guess?”

  “This ain’t something I want to guess on,” she said. “I’m too worried about what’s gonna happen. Now they plan to pretend like TJ kidnapped Chastity. Chastity can convince TJ of damn near anything.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “More attention,” Holly said. “More views. All that stuff.”

  Holly looked out the Waffle House window and started to cry, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. Quinn drank some black coffee and waited as someone plugged a quarter into the jukebox and an old Mac Davis song came on. “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.” Their waitress began to slow dance with a potbellied trucker in all denim and pointed-toe boots.

  “This sure is a weird place at night.”

  “Not much different in the day,” Quinn said. “A rest stop for folks wanting to be somewhere else.”

  “Chastity’s dad had this room downstairs,” Holly said. “It was a secret room in the basement filled with more guns than I ever seen in my life. Chastity loaded a big bag full of them before we took that boat across the lake.”

&
nbsp; Quinn dropped his forehead into his right hand. Sleep wouldn’t come anytime soon.

  “She ain’t going quietly,” Holly said. “That’s for damn sure.”

  Quinn reached for his phone and called Lillie Virgil’s cell.

  TWO

  Five days ago

  Quinn Colson had just fallen asleep beside his wife Maggie and their four-month-old daughter Halley when he first learned Gina Byrd was missing. Maggie was nursing the child in bed, Halley’s midnight feeding, as Quinn answered his phone and heard from his second-in-command, Reggie Caruthers, that he’d just left Chester Pratt’s house where he’d taken the report.

  “Pratt says Miss Byrd hasn’t been seen in days and he can’t get any answers from her daughter.”

  “Maybe she got smart and ditched him,” Quinn said. “Chester Pratt’s old enough to be her daddy.”

  “Pratt says he went out to the Byrd place this afternoon and saw a mess of blood on some dirty towels out in a burn pile,” Reggie said. “He tried to get some answers from Gina Byrd’s daughter, and the girl pulled a gun on him.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “The girl said Pratt was trespassing on her land,” Reggie said. “The kid’s only seventeen.”

  “Doesn’t make her less dangerous,” Quinn said. “You know we’ve had trouble with her before. What kind of car does her momma drive?”

  “Oh-seven Nissan Sentra,” Reggie said. “Blue. Already got the boys out looking.”

  “And you want to know if we should wake up the Byrds?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go ahead and make a wellness check,” Quinn said. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “You know me, Sheriff,” Reggie said. “I’m not scared of nothing. But those Byrds are a different breed. Don’t know how they’ll react seeing a black man in uniform rolling up to their trailer in the middle of the night. They still fly the stars and bars out on the county road. Not just the regular one, but the one with Hank Jr.’s face in the center.”

  “Hank Jr. just kind of solidifies their position on things.”

  “Sure does.”

  “Well, shit,” Quinn said. “You think I might have better luck?”

  Reggie didn’t answer. Quinn took a long breath, already knowing the answer, and said he’d call when he got on the road. He crawled out of bed, careful not to disturb Maggie and Halley, Maggie looking up and asking what was going on in a whisper. She had bright green eyes and an upturned nose and a face full of freckles that made her look like a kid when she didn’t wear makeup. She was a free spirit who worked as a nurse, devoutly practiced yoga, and had grown things in their family garden Quinn didn’t think possible. She and her son Brandon had brought life and color back to their old farm.

  Maggie had one of Quinn’s old flannel shirts open over her breast. Quinn looked over her half-naked body and smiled.

  “Maybe when I get back . . .” Quinn said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Ranger.”

  “Worth a shot.”

  “The Byrds again?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “I heard you say Chester Pratt,” Maggie said. “I know he’s been dating Gina Byrd for a while.”

  “Pratt called the sheriff’s office and said she was missing,” Quinn said. “He’s worried something happened to her.”

  “Like what?”

  “No idea,” Quinn said. “Sometimes I feel less like a sheriff than a damn babysitter around here. Sounds like some family business between the Byrds and Pratt. He’s too old to be catting around with that woman.”

  “You’re older than me.”

  “Only by a couple years,” Quinn said. “Chester Pratt is almost twice her age. And I don’t think he has any intention of making an honest woman out of her.”

  “That would be a tall order.”

  “Hard,” Quinn said. “But true.”

  “Last time I saw Gina Byrd, I had to stitch up her forehead at the hospital,” Maggie said. “She was pretty doped up and we tried to get her to stay. I think she was on the edge of an OD. Someone had cracked a bottle over her head at the Southern Star. Wasn’t her first time in the ER.”

  Quinn leaned down and pulled the sheet up around Maggie and over Halley. The little girl cuddled against her mother and nursed herself back to sleep, bow lips parted and softly snoring. Quinn gave his little girl the lightest kiss and reached for his boots and blue jeans.

  * * *

  * * *

  A little after one a.m., Chester Pratt drove back to Bluebird Liquors to get his gun. He’d locked up and left without it earlier, clearly not thinking right, and knew he’d have to have some protection back home. Some crazy shit had been happening around Jericho, and he sure didn’t want to be caught with his pants around his ankles.

  He parked his new black Mercedes, leased with an option to buy, behind the white cinder-block building and looked around to make sure no one had followed.

  Pratt was kind of rangy looking, with a sallow face and the deep tan of a man who either owned a boat or cut grass for a living. Pratt had done both. His eyes were blue and clear, hair a light sun-faded blond compliments of Miss Nancy who worked at Shear Envy over on the Jericho Square. Miss Nancy made sure to help Chester get rid of the gray and keep the same shaggy look of the KA pledge he’d been back at Ole Miss in ’79. He’d only made it two semesters, but that had been two more than anyone in the Pratt family. Despite his short time in Oxford, he remained a true and steadfast Rebel fan, never missing a home game or a party in the Grove.

  Pratt unlocked the back door and went straight for his office, careful not to cut on the overhead lights or that neon bluebird sign outside just in case some thirsty trucker over at the Rebel thought he was open. The last thing he needed was to get in a confrontation with some good ole boy begging him for a pint of Fireball. Pratt opened up his office, turned on his desk lamp, and reached into his middle drawer, looking for his big Smith & Wesson 686 loaded with seven .357 rounds.

  The gun was polished silver with walnut grips and as comfortable in his hand as the fellow up at that luxury gun store in Oxford told him it would be. He knew it would take the nuts off a bull elephant at three hundred yards. The problem was he couldn’t seem to find the damn thing, reaching up into all the salesmen business cards and pens and a mound of unpaid bills.

  “Quit looking,” a man said behind him. “Ain’t in there.”

  A flashlight beam shot out from the doorframe and into Pratt’s eyes.

  “Who are you?” Chester Pratt asked. “What the hell you doing in my business?”

  “Figured I’d just let myself in, Mr. Pratt,” the man said. “That okay with you?”

  “Who sent you?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

  “I don’t want no trouble,” he said, squinting into the bright light. “Take what you want. You like Pappy Van Winkle? Hell, I got a bottle of Pappy 23 right behind you. Take it. Take the gun. Just leave me the hell alone.”

  “I’m more of a beer man myself,” the man said. “Mexican food and hard liquor’s always tough on my stomach.”

  “Beer?” Pratt said, standing up. “Hell. I got a cold case in my trunk.”

  “Sit your skinny ass down and listen up,” the man said.

  Pratt did as he was told. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Pratt,” the man said. “It’s high time for a come to Jesus about your current and most precarious financial situation.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Quinn drove up into the hills, well beyond the hamlets of Fate and Carthage, to a one-lane logging road that sliced a diagonal line through the northeast corner of Tibbehah County. Reggie was waiting for him by a gravel drive that ran up to the Byrd trailer, which was lit up like a kerosene lantern. The trailer was an older model, w
ith a homemade wooden porch built out from the front door. A dozen or so broken-down cars were parked alongside and up into the eroded hills that had been logged out a long time ago. The Byrds were one of those families who seemed to thrive in a collection of chaos and filth.

  Quinn stepped out of the Big Green Machine, a big-tired F-250 with a roll bar and KC lights, a grille guard with a winch, and a Kawasaki four-wheeler parked in the bed. His cattle dog Hondo stayed put, not being able to hop in and out of the truck like he used to.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” Reggie said.

  “I was up.”

  “Halley sleeping much?”

  “Every few hours,” Quinn said. “I keep asking Maggie if I can help and she keeps saying only if I can grow a set of tits. What kind of answer do you have for that?”

  “I got four kids, Sheriff,” Reggie said. “Man needs to know when to keep his mouth shut. I promise that will save you a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “Appreciate that, Reggie,” Quinn said. “You ready to roll?”

  “Yes, sir,” Reggie said.

  They both got back into their vehicles, Quinn taking the lead and driving up the hill to the old trailer. They parked but didn’t get two paces when the front door opened and a teenage girl walked out. She was short, barefoot, and in blue jeans and a cutoff T-shirt advertising Elijah Craig overlaid with a flannel shirt. It was the second thing Quinn noticed after the double-barrel shotgun pointed right at them.

  “Evening, TJ,” Quinn said.

  “I was here all night,” she said. “Ask anybody. Don’t try and blame me for things I ain’t never done.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Quinn said, glancing over at Reggie. “You mind lowering that weapon at two law enforcement officers?”

  “I know my rights.”

  Hondo started to bark from inside the truck. The cattle dog wasn’t a big fan of guns.

  “I’m sure you do,” Quinn said. “And I know mine, too. I came to check on your momma. I heard she’s missing.”