The Heathens

by Ace Atkins

  “We can’t go upstairs,” Maggie said. “We’ll wake Halley.”

  “I’m just fine here.”

  “In the kitchen?”

  “We’ve done it before,” Quinn said. “Plenty of times when you were rehabbing me.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “It worked,” Quinn said. “Didn’t it?”

  Maggie reached for Quinn’s belt buckle and started to open up his blue jeans as they heard a soft knock and the front door start to open.

  “Hello?” Jean Colson called from the hallway. Quinn’s mother always having a knack for bad timing. “Brought y’all some biscuits and fried pies from town.”

  Maggie closed her eyes, took a long breath, and crawled out of Quinn’s lap. “In here, Miss Jean. I’ll turn the oven on.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “You sure you want this?” the Old Man, also known as Chief Deputy Marshal Dalton Ames, asked. “You being friends with this woman makes things a little complicated.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lillie said. “I pulled the pickup on those kids straight off. I wanted it. The girl and those kids headed into Memphis two nights ago.”

  “Tag reader on the state line?”

  “That damn minivan crossed into Arkansas yesterday morning,” she said. “I know those kids, their people, and how they think. I used to deal with the girl when I was a deputy in Tibbehah. A hellcat if I ever knew one.”

  “Is she violent?”

  “Mean as a copperhead.”

  “Crazy?”

  “Deep in that Byrd family DNA.”

  The Old Man leaned back into his padded leather chair, his brushy gray mustache dropping down over his lip. His eyes were hooded and his gray hair slicked back over his broad forehead. Ames had on a navy suit with a white shirt and a black tie, same as he’d worn the day Lillie had first met him. This morning, he didn’t seem too pleased to take Lillie off her current case file and approve a short-term transfer to Oxford.

  “Sounds like this might turn ugly.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lillie said. “Based on my interactions with the girl. And her boyfriend’s prior history. But when it comes right down to it, I also think I can talk some sense to her, make sure she knows she’ll get a fair shake back home.”

  “Even after she killed her own mother?” the Old Man asked. “Your friend.”

  “Even then,” Lillie said.

  “Okay, let’s cut through the bullshit,” the Old Man said. “No matter what they did or how they did it, nobody wants to see some U.S. Marshals gunning down some damn lovey-dovey teenyboppers on the run. I also can’t have any of my people shot because they’re trying to be fair and compassionate. You get my meaning?”

  “Understood,” Lillie said. “You’re telling me not to fuck this up. I’ll do my best to bring them back alive. But if that girl has other plans, well. That’s on TJ Byrd and Ladarius McCade.”

  “A hard take on a delicate situation, Deputy Virgil.”

  Lillie was dressed in her blue jeans, white button-down overlaid with a black blazer. She’d worn her best pair of boots and even touched up a little makeup for the occasion. She thought about it for a second and nodded.

  “TJ Byrd and Ladarius McCade?” he said. “Damn if that doesn’t sound like a couple of outlaws.”

  “Wish it was only them,” Lillie said. “Easier to deal with. That little girl, the one who took her momma’s minivan, is a mousy little thing. Kind of girl who goes to church twice a week, makes up her bed with tight little corners, and always hits the high school honor roll. How she threw in with these shitbirds, I have no idea.”

  “And the little brother?”

  “Nine years old,” Lillie said. “Different father than TJ. The way I understand it, TJ is pretty much the boy’s mother. Gina Byrd was never really around for the kid. The girl took over being the parent, making sure he was clothed and fed, went to school until all this shit went down. The kid won’t leave his big sister. He goes where she goes.”

  “Any leads in Arkansas?”

  “Not a one,” Lillie said. “Last contact was with McCade’s cousin, a two-ton stripper named Domino who works the pole at Dixie Belles. She said she gave the kids a hundred bucks and sent them all packing.”

  “Are they armed?”

  “Everyone carries a gun down in Tibbehah,” Lillie said. “Old ladies and toddlers alike.”

  The Old Man twisted his big chair and gave that long, cold stare at Lillie. He’d already made up his mind but he wanted to make sure Lillie felt the weight of his decision. He didn’t blink once, an American flag pin on the lapel of his crisp ironed suit jacket, as he smoothed down the long mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll grant the temporary transfer to the North Mississippi Task Force.”

  “But?”

  “No buts, Lillie,” he said in his graveled, rough voice. “Just don’t make me look like a damn old fool. You do and I’ll make sure you and Charlie Hodge get assigned to Parchman pickup duty. You and me both know how that fucking van smells.”

  “Like shit.”

  “Don’t track this stuff back to the house,” he said. “Comprende?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Jean Colson placed the platter of fried pies on the center of the kitchen table and walked over to the coffeepot to help herself. The old place where she’d been born and raised always felt warm and familiar, a lot more now that Maggie had joined the family. When it had just been her aging brother, Hamp, the place was nastier than a rat’s nest. And with Quinn it had been so pin neat, it seemed as if no one lived there at all. But now there was color and life, the sound of laughter and grandchildren tromping up and down to the old loft, reminding Jean of what it had been like when she was a kid, all those years ago.

  “You smell like smoke,” Jean said. “Thought you were cutting out those nasty cigars?”

  “I’ve cut down some,” Quinn said. “And I’m running again.”

  “That’s good,” Jean said. “Especially for a man who could barely walk this time last year.”

  “He’s a work in progress, Miss Jean,” Maggie said. “He’s wearing a twenty-pound vest on his runs and even hung a pull-up bar in the barn.”

  “Yep.” Quinn grinned. “Even cut down on the whiskey.”

  “Good,” Jean said. “Are you still finding those old bottles my brother hid around the house?”

  “We found two this summer,” Maggie said. “Stuck up under the house and wrapped in newspaper from the seventies. Your brother really went to great lengths to hide his drinking.”

  “Only person he was hiding it from was his wife,” Jean said. “To everyone else it was plain as day.”

  Jean’s brother had been eighteen years older, a man she barely knew but knew all too well at the same time. Like Quinn, he’d gone into the Army, fought overseas, and came home to work for the sheriff’s office before becoming sheriff himself for decades. He’d been a good man with plenty of failings, the sum of those years ending with him shooting himself in the head out of guilt not five feet from where she was sitting. God. She was so glad for the bright cheery paint and new windows Maggie had added to the house.

  “Do you mind picking up Brandon from school?” Maggie asked Jean. “That’s during Halley’s nap. And Quinn’s been hit hard this week.”

  “I know,” Jean said. “Poor Gina Byrd.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Quinn said. “It’s a real mess.”

  “She and that McCade boy really do it?” Jean asked.

  “Maybe,” Quinn said. “Maybe not. Not too many kids kill their parents. And Gina Byrd didn’t exactly keep the best company in Tibbehah County.”

  “I heard those kids were charged with murder?”

  “Not much else we could do,” Quinn said. “Some evidence was disco
vered at their trailer. And those kids fled town.”

  “I’ve known that boy’s mother and grandmother for ages,” Jean said. “They’re a fine family. How did he get mixed up in all this?”

  “Well,” Quinn said. “Ladarius McCade does break into homes, smash windows out of trucks, and steals cars. Same as TJ Byrd. They’ve been in and out of the sheriff’s office since they were children. That’s why they ran. They don’t believe anyone would listen.”

  “Especially not that nasty sheriff from over in Parsham,” Maggie said, joining Jean and Quinn at the table and reaching for a fried pie. Jean glad to see Maggie finally eating something a little unhealthy, that woman always talking organic this and ethically raised that. You had to live a little.

  “Lovemaiden?” Jean asked. “Lord. I haven’t heard that name in years. He used to come over here and fish with your uncle out on y’all’s pond. Did he mention your uncle when you saw him?”

  “Constantly,” Quinn said. “He said he respected Uncle Hamp because he went along to get along.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think it means he believes I was too hard on Johnny Stagg when I came home,” Quinn said.

  Jean decided not to ask any more questions on that subject, as talking about Johnny Stagg always led to unpleasant conversations. That crooked SOB was a stain on the county, an aberration of what kept her tied and close to Tibbehah County, and the thought of him now being out of federal prison turned her stomach. She forked off a small piece of fried pie and took a bite. She smiled, moving on to something else. “How about you, Quinn?” she said. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Apple?” Quinn asked.

  “Peach,” Jean said. “Maybe some apricot, too. I didn’t ask, Miss Graves being so sweet to make us extra.”

  Maggie smiled from across the table, her daughter-in-law always making her feel welcome and at home, although she believed she may have interrupted something by showing up a little early. She reached out and patted Maggie’s hand and smiled back, being so thankful to God that she’d come into her son’s life. A full house with two healthy children and a strong family is all she’d ever hoped for Quinn, not just an empty house filled with cigars and whiskey and old memories, like it had been for poor old Hamp.

  Maggie had just cut into her pie when they heard Halley’s cries from the baby monitor.

  “I’ll check on her,” Jean said.

  “No, ma’am,” Maggie said. “It’s feeding time. But I’ll take that help a little later.”

  Jean and Quinn watched Maggie leave the kitchen and heard her bounding up the steps into the loft. When she turned back to Quinn, she could tell something was on her son’s mind and asked him about it.

  “Mom, you know Chester Pratt, don’t you?” Quinn asked.

  “Chester Pratt?” Jean said. “Is he mixed up in all this mess?”

  “He was seeing Gina Byrd.”

  “Good Lord,” she said. “That man is nearly my age. What was he doing with a woman that young?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hmm.” Jean Colson gave Quinn a look and shook her head. “She had to have been drawn to his money, because it sure wasn’t his looks. Chester Pratt hit the damn lottery when he got that liquor license out by the highway.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Chester was supposed to partner up with his brother,” Jean said. “But they had a falling-out. Real nasty from what I heard. Rough words between those two that maybe came to blows. You know his brother, don’t you?”

  “Ronnie?” Quinn asked. “I thought Ronnie Pratt died.”

  “He was real sick last year,” she said. “But he made it through. I think this whole business with Chester was what gave him the heart attack. I saw him at church two Sundays ago and he said he’d handed all his family troubles to the Lord.”

  “Lay your burdens down,” Quinn said. “Especially one as heavy as Chester.”

  “Don’t even joke about things like that, Quinn Colson,” Jean said. “Do you have any earthly idea how many folks prayed for you in this county after what happened?”

  Jean still wasn’t able to say out loud that her son had been shot four times in the back. She only referred to his injuries as “the events” or “that time” even though she heard Quinn proudly kept the bullets in a mason jar on his desk. He thought of them as some kind of trophies.

  “Ronnie Pratt,” Quinn said. “You think he’s still holding a grudge against Chester?”

  “How many times must my brother sin against me and I forgive him?” Jean asked.

  “I get the concept of seventy-seven times,” Quinn said. “Although it’s often a hard thing for me to wrap my head around.”

  “Still,” Jean said, picking up the plate of fried pie. “I can’t imagine that Chester cheating him out of that liquor store business sits right with Ronnie. Why are you asking?”

  “Just double-checking on some things.”

  “I don’t like that look in your eyes.”

  “Too many things are trying to force my hand with those kids,” Quinn said. “Like deep and clear footprints that lead your ass right into an ambush.”

  “Must you use that vulgar language?”

  “Only when it’s fitting,” Quinn said, smiling. “Appreciate the information, Momma. Sometimes it helps that everyone in this county knows each other’s private business.”

  “Are you calling me a busybody?”

  “No, ma’am,” Quinn said. “Just a well-informed woman of the community.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Chester Pratt had a splitting headache, paying for last night when he’d drained half a bottle of Beam and passed out on the kitchen floor. He woke up late, drank two Miller Lites with some Goody’s headache powder, and made sure Bluebird Liquors was up and running by ten a.m. By eleven, he’d left the day manager at the register and headed into town to grab some breakfast at the Fillin’ Station diner. Chester knew there wasn’t a thing that some fried meat, a plate of eggs, and some black coffee couldn’t solve.

  He sat there in the back corner of the restaurant, right by the partition to the banquet room where kids usually got handed out Little League trophies, and during darker times the Klan used to meet up on Thursday night as plain and regular as if they were the damn Jaycees. Chester’s daddy had been there; his uncle, too. Somewhere in storage, Chester had been handed down his uncle’s purple robe, never having the time or inclination to toss the damn thing in the dumpster.

  “You look like you need a refill, sweetie,” said the waitress, a kindly old woman named Miss Mary who’d been waiting tables since Methuselah was in grade school.

  “Appreciate that.”

  “Can I get you something else?” she asked. “You haven’t even touched that bacon.”

  “No, ma’am,” Chester said. “Just feeling a little poorly this morning. My stomach ain’t right.”

  “Well,” Miss Mary said. “There’s been a flu going around. Hope that ain’t it.”

  “Truth be known, ma’am,” he said, “I got the kind of sickness you find at the bottom of a bottle. My own damn fault.”

  She smiled at him and winked, refilling his coffee and bringing him an extra ice water. Chester felt as if he sat there another twenty minutes, he just might be able to make it through the day at the liquor store and be able to come to some kind of plan that would appease ole Johnny Stagg. The last thing in the world he wanted was to split the damn deed with that man. There was no cornholing in the world like getting cornholed by the devil himself.

  At that very moment, on cue and on time, those two nasty-ass sonsabitches, the Nixes, walked through the front door of the Fillin’ Station, bell jangling over their little heads and stubby little arms while their coal-black eyes wandered over the open restaurant. Miss Mary told them they could take a se
at up at the counter, but those old boys weren’t here for the country ham and biscuits. They walked straight on over to where Chester Pratt sat wearing sunglasses and in need of some alone time, taking a seat at the booth right next to his and accepting a menu from old Miss Mary.

  Neither man, father nor son, said a damn word. Grunting and breathing up behind him. Chester reached for the coffee, not liking the way his hand shook as he lifted it to his lips.

  “I heard they done quartered that woman,” the young one said, speaking low and conspiratorial. “Left the head on the body but cut off the arms and legs. Cleaned her out like you would a deer.”

  The old one grunted some more. They both snickered a bit.

  “Whoever done that gonna ride the damn needle at Parchman,” the young one said. “Guess the law got to decide if it was her kid or not.”

  “Wadn’t no kid,” the old man said, croaking out his words. “Kids don’t have no ability to strip that body like it got done, have the fortitude to pickle that woman in a concoction of bleach and special chemicals.”

  “What you thinkin’, Daddy?”

  “Son,” the old man said. “I got me some good information it had to be some old fella got jilted by this dead whore. I figured this man got himself the best pussy he’d had in a coon’s age and went crazy.”

  The Nixes laughed and laughed but quieted down as Miss Mary wandered on up to the table and took their orders. They spoke low and respectful as they asked for the Fillin’ Station lunch plate with extra onion rings and two jumbo sweet teas. Chester didn’t turn around after Miss Mary left, his eggs untouched, holding his hands around the coffee. Working with these two pieces of dogshit might’ve been the dumbest thing he’d ever done in his life. They weren’t about to just walk away and wait until things shook out to get whatever else they thought was coming.

  “You think that woman might’ve had a cell phone on her?” the young one asked.

  “Don’t know,” the old one said. “If she did, mighta been all kinds of things on it.”

  “Text messages,” the young Nix said. “Secret recordings of them doing the dirty and them coming to blows. Shoot. I could see that shit getting loaded up there on the World Wide Web. Being viewed more times than one of those cats playing old-time tunes on the piano.”