by Ace Atkins
“I don’t want to run anymore.”
“You call driving from north Mississippi to Hot Springs running?” Chastity broke free and touched her index finger on her lips. “Do you really have a gun?”
“ ’Course I do,” the country girl said, reaching into her other pocket, showing her a little pistol.
“Can you hold it on me while you explain your demands?” she said. “Real mean. Convincing. Wave it around like you’re crazy as hell.”
“I don’t have any goddamn demands,” TJ said. “Only the truth.”
“If you got Chastity Bloodgood, the whole world will listen,” Chastity said. “Be in charge, TJ Byrd. Control the conversation. I learned that from my father. When you have something that people really want and desire, they’ll do anything in the world to get it.”
“I don’t see how kidnapping you is going to improve our situation.”
“What can I say?” Chastity said. “I’m an attention-grabber. Once folks are listening, you can sell them on any story you want. Say you didn’t want to do it. But it was the only way. I don’t know. Just some shit like that. You’re a good talker. I’ve seen you do it with your gang. Some real inspirational shit.”
“We’re not a gang,” she said. “That’s all made up.”
“Well,” Chastity said, widening her eyes and smiling. “You are now. No other choice. That’s what you tell the world. They left you but no other choice than to hold me hostage until this Chester Pratt tells the damn truth.”
SIXTEEN
Saw you on television this morning,” Quinn said. “That must’ve been tough. Talking about what happened to Gina?”
“You bet, Sheriff,” Chester Pratt said. “Brought up some rough emotions for me. Whew-wee. I had a rock in my throat so big I could barely talk.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, sir,” Pratt said, sitting across from Quinn at the sheriff’s office. Looking contrite and small in the hard office chair that creaked as he crossed his legs. “But I figured it was best for the public to know about the youthful menace out there roaming free.”
“Funny thing,” Quinn said. “I never heard that story before, about how TJ Byrd threatened your life. Why didn’t you mention it to me?”
Reggie Caruthers hung loose by the closed door, arms crossed and listening after starting a recording of the meeting. Cigar smoke floated thick in the air, as Quinn hadn’t cared to open a window or turn on a fan.
“You hadn’t?” Pratt said. “One of the first things I told Sheriff Lovemaiden when he sat down with me. Sometimes I don’t know what I told him and what I told you. So many things mixed up in my mind. But she damn sure did. That little girl told Gina that if we tried to stick her up in that Christian girl school that she’d shoot us both and Ladarius McCade would strip our bodies like car parts.”
“That doesn’t sound like TJ.”
“Really,” Pratt said. “And just how well do you know that little girl?”
Quinn wasn’t sure how hard to push Chester, not sure he was ready to lay out everything he knew. He figured the best way was to take it casual and easy, act like he just had a few innocent questions that maybe Chester could answer for him. Quinn tapped at the cigar ash and took a draw, letting the smoke curl into the ceiling and the silence hang in the air. The cigar was a nice Undercrown, bold and spicy on his lips.
“She was angry,” Pratt said. “Unbalanced mentally. Did you know she carried her dead daddy’s pistol with her? A little .38 that she wore on her hip up under those sloppy old flannel shirts. Just in case you get to cornering her, I’m warning you that the girl won’t go down without a fight. No, sir. Don’t let her cute little face and pug nose fool you. That girl is definitely Jerry Jeff Valentine’s kid. Meaner than hell.”
Quinn wondered exactly how far Chester would fly back on his heels when it got down to his business and personal finances. He drew on the cigar again as the sun started to shine a little through the dark clouds and yellowed the old hardwood floors. He looked to Reggie and Reggie nodded back, the two working together so long they could read their thoughts.
“I heard TJ recently came into some money,” Reggie said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Jerry Jeff’s mother died in the care of a nursing home in Corinth,” Quinn said. “Some kind of insurance settlement with the family?”
“Gina may have mentioned something about it,” Chester said. “I don’t think it was much money. Whatever it was.”
“We heard it was around twenty-five thousand dollars,” Reggie said.
“That a fact?”
Quinn nodded. He’d seen the cashed check from Jericho First National yesterday. The money coming from a law firm in Tupelo that specialized in settlements and payouts on lawsuits and the like. He wasn’t exactly sure how Gina got the money out of TJ’s trust and into her account, but it appeared the firm had taken a sizable chunk to get it released.
“Maybe that’s why they ran off like they did,” Pratt said. “Wind at their back, dreams of living wild and free on her mawmaw’s death money.”
“I don’t think TJ ever saw a dime,” Quinn said.
Chester nodded, fumbled a bit with the phone in his hand, absently scrolling through messages. He wouldn’t keep eye contact with Quinn, acting like meeting with the sheriff was just a momentary inconvenience. Quinn looked over to Reggie and Reggie shook his head slightly, recognizing Chester for being Chester.
“Something important?” Quinn asked.
“Nope,” he said. “No, sir. Just hoping to get word on those kids. I spent the morning with Pastor Quick. Half the town is praying they get caught and don’t hurt no one else.”
“You’re that sure they did it?” Quinn said.
“I most certainly am,” Pratt said. “Just what are you getting at, Sheriff? I hope you’re not trying to make this whole deal into a real whodunit. You done already put out an arrest warrant for those delinquents. I don’t know why you’re harassing a grieving man just trying to run a small business in this town. Do I need to reach out to my lawyer?”
Reggie pushed off the doorway and walked around Quinn’s desk, taking a seat in another office chair not two feet from Chester Pratt. Pratt looked to the deputy and then across the desk to Quinn. His face shone with a little sweat, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“Why would you need your lawyer?” Reggie asked.
“Shoot,” he said. “Sounds like y’all are trying to accuse me of something.”
“And what would we be accusing you of?” Quinn asked. “We’re just trying to understand a little more about Gina Byrd’s affairs.”
“What’s it matter about her money?” Pratt said. “She’s dead. It don’t matter if she was a millionaire or a gosh-dang pauper. Those kids sure as hell killed her and now are out running from the law. If I were you, I’d spend more time trying to track them down before they murder someone else, and stop harassing me.”
Quinn tapped his cigar. He looked over at Reggie, who just sat sideways by Chester, staring right at his profile, not shifting his eyes a bit. If Quinn had been on the hot seat, Reggie’s stare would’ve made him a little nervous, too.
“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” Quinn asked.
“No, sir,” Pratt said.
“You sure?” Quinn asked.
“I’m sure,” he said. “I mean, goddamn. I got a fucking funeral to put together. Ophelia Bundren told me the state people are bringing Gina back home tomorrow. After they finish up with whatever it is they’re doing.”
Quinn didn’t speak for a long while. He set down his cigar and picked up his coffee mug. Reggie sat still in the office chair, watching Chester Pratt go back to his phone scrolling and pecking, scrolling and pecking, his right leg jumping up and down like a piston.
“One thing, Chester,” Quinn said. “Was Gina your partne
r in Bluebird Liquors?”
“ ’Course not,” he said. “Where’d you hear something like that? My brother, Ronnie? Don’t put too much stock in his lies, Sheriff. He’s a goddamn used car salesman. Me and him been on the outs for a long while. Hell, he’d sell me down shit creek for a nickel.”
“Ronnie didn’t say that,” Quinn said. “I’m saying that. Gina Byrd gave you almost nineteen thousand dollars back in August. Just what was that about?”
The entirety of Chester Pratt’s face shifted and contorted, locking into a grimace, like a man who’d just swallowed a plug of tobacco. His leg stopped pumping up and down and he appeared to hold his breath as his eyes roved from Reggie Caruthers to Quinn.
“I don’t think that’s any of y’all’s business,” Pratt said. “That’s a personal matter.”
“Everything in a murder investigation is personal,” Quinn said. “Don’t you think, Reggie?”
“You bet, Sheriff.”
“I’m done here,” Chester Pratt said, standing up and pushing the chair hard behind him. “You got any more questions or accusations, how about you call up Sonny Stevens. I came over here during business hours out of respect to you, Sheriff. But seeing you don’t have the same for me, I’ll be getting back to work.”
Chester Pratt headed for the door and Quinn listened as the man’s tasseled loafers slapped down the hallway and out to the front door. Reggie switched chairs and pulled up the seat Chester had been in. His tan uniform was stiff and creased that morning, the silver star polished and gleaming.
“Damn, that man sure is guilty,” Reggie said.
“Yep,” Quinn said.
“ ’Least now we know the why,” Reggie said. “Just not the how.”
“Any word back on those prints from Gina’s Nissan?”
“Nope,” he said. “What about that blade you found under her seat? Want me to send it over to Batesville? Maybe see if they can rush things up.”
“A rush at the lab?” Quinn said. “It’ll be six months before we see the report.”
“Probably,” Reggie said. “How ’bout I run down some of Pratt’s recent bankruptcy filings? See just how far his ass is in debt?”
Quinn nodded, checked the time, and picked up the phone to call Lillie Virgil.
“I also want a deputy watching the liquor store and Chester’s house,” Quinn said. “Tell them to use that old GMC we have in impound. He knows we’re onto him but let’s not make a point of it. Not yet.”
Hello. My name’s TJ Byrd and it’s come to my attention that several falsehoods and downright lies have been spreading about me since my momma got killed. Now to set the record straight, and I don’t have longer than a minute, I had absolutely nothing to do with my mother’s murder. The real reason me and Ladarius left Mississippi was on account of being harassed by the sheriff and his people who were sure we were guilty from the word go. The only thing I’m guilty of was washing blood from my momma’s clothes and helping her bust free of town after two men attacked her outside the Southern Star. And now, just this morning, I saw that dirty, lowlife son of a bitch Chester Pratt, who, by the way, owes me a great deal of money, go on local TV to spread lies about me and Ladarius McCade making threats on him and my momma’s life. This all’s on account of them wanting to ship me up to the Wings of Faith School in Missouri in an effort to brainwash me and make me wear long skirts and my hair up in a bun. But that damn dirty lie has shown me that Mr. Chester Pratt, owner of Bluebird Liquors in Jericho, Mississippi, is hiding something. Something like the fact that my momma gave him nineteen thousand dollars of my money without telling me. Sure would be convenient for ole Chester if I wound up in some prison. Think about that, y’all. Just think about it.
“Good,” Chastity said. “Just perfect.”
“Are you sure?” she said. “Want me to do it again?”
“No, ma’am,” Chastity said. “That was raw and real and hit the mark. I’m not going to trim one second of it. Good light. Sweet face. You’re what my grandma called wholesome.”
They shot the whole thing in one of the dozens of guest bedrooms, nothing much more than an unmade bed, a chest of drawers, and a big leather chair. Someone had hung framed pictures of flowers and fish up on the wall. It could have damn well been anywhere.
“And what about the kidnapping part?” TJ asked. “When are we going to do that?”
“Next post,” Chastity said. “Figure we’d shoot that shit down in the cellar. That way my daddy can’t really tell we’re at Firefly. Maybe tomorrow morning. Right when folks are just reaching for their phones.”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do,” Chastity said. “We already decided. Don’t go back on it now.”
Chastity left the room, eyes locked on the screen, while TJ sat down on the unmade bed in the harsh overhead lights. Chastity had turned two more lamps on, without shades to brighten things up a little. TJ took a long hard breath, wondering if going on Instagram wasn’t one hell of a mistake, when Ladarius walked into the room and took a seat beside her on the bed. He looked as if he knew what she was feeling, maybe even sensing it down in the living room, and had come for her, wrapping his arm around her, drawing her close.
“TJ,” he said. “I love you and all. But we better get loose from this crazy bitch or we’re all going to jail.”
“She wants us to pretend to kidnap her.”
“Kidnap her?” he asked. “You shitting me? If we don’t have enough problems, you want to add that on the police’s list? Two murder suspects kidnapping some rich white girl. It’s time to pack up and get gone. We got enough gas to make it to Fort Smith. Like we said, let’s just keep going until there ain’t no more road.”
“That’s no plan.”
“You got something better?” Ladarius asked. “Besides playing dress-up with Miss Chastity with her fancy-ass clothes and high-dollar underwear? Tying her to a chair for some kicks?”
“How do you know about her underwear?”
“She gave me a little peekaboo in the kitchen earlier, bending down so I could see the goodies down her sweater. Don’t get mad. Wasn’t no way to look away.”
“I got worse things on my mind than you checking out Chastity’s goodies,” TJ said. “You see Chester Pratt on TV?”
Ladarius nodded, reaching his free hand into TJ’s lap and squeezing her fingers. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, breathing in and keeping quiet. She was glad he was there, standing tall with her while she figured out this big shitshow.
“Chester wants us to burn for what happened to Momma,” she said. “Only a guilty man would lie like that, wish some harm would come to a bunch of kids. John Wesley’s just a boy. It’s like Chester wants us to get caught, maybe shot up and killed.”
“Man’s gonna shit a damn brick when you tell the world about him taking your money.”
“He wanted me and Momma out of the way,” she said. “I see it now.”
“Now you thinking straight,” Ladarius said. “I never did like that bastard. Always calling me boy and Brother Ladarius, like it was olden times and we running ’round the plantation. That man ain’t nothing but white trash, his neck so damn red it looks like it’s on fire.”
“Come on,” TJ said, turning to Ladarius and kissing him hard on the mouth. “Let’s get gone before Chastity knows what’s happening. I’ll tell her as we’re leaving.”
Ladarius nodded, squeezed her hand again, and kissed her on the temple. Just as Ladarius got to his feet, John Wesley ran into the room and pointed to the windows. “The police are outside,” he said. “I seen one of them roll by the house and put on their high beams. Holly and Miss Chastity been running around turning off lights and locking doors. What’s happening, TJ? Are they gonna shoot us? They won’t try and kill us? Will they?”
* * *
* * *
John
ny Stagg knew every twist and turn of the state highway that ran from Jericho crossways up to New Albany. He used to ride with his daddy, back in the day, to deliver truckloads full of cow shit to the farm supply outside Pontotoc, Daddy Stagg smoking nickel cigars and singing old hymns to himself, lecturing his young boy on the dangers of likker, gambling, and nekkid women. The old man got so riled up about the whole thing that it didn’t do nothing but drive Stagg headlong into that world, snatching up plots of land around Tibbehah from old folks until he had enough money to buy the Rebel Truck Stop outright. He couldn’t really fault Chester Pratt for his many ambitions, doing all he could to find leverage in north Mississippi, but one thing Stagg’s old daddy taught him was ain’t nothing gonna grow without seeding your land with some rich and fragrant bullshit. If it hadn’t been for the county supervisors, which he later ran, and for some good judges and folks in law enforcement, Stagg could’ve never stacked the deck on his eventual success.
Stagg played the radio as he rode up and down those small brown hills, passing family farms, trailers, fillin’ stations, and pine thickets. He played a real Lonnie Irving classic about a trucker named Pinball from a cassette tape he sold at the Rebel, Greatest Hits of the Road Vol. 5. He tapped at the wheel as he drove, well aware of every little hamlet, every godforsaken country community and crossroads that he passed through. He waved to colored children playing by the side of the road and was cautious as animals sometimes crossed his path; a couple mangy dogs and several deer running like hell from a pasture, jumping a barbed-wire fence, and jetting straight ahead in the twilight. Good Lord Almighty. This was some wild country, awake and restless before nightfall.
Lonnie Irving switched over to a rocking little number, Kay Adams singing “Little Pink Mac.” Stagg recalled seeing her sometime on Hee Haw, or maybe it was the old Buck Owens show, the one they said was broadcast from the Buck Owens Ranch, if there ever was such a thing. Stagg figured maybe so much of what he remembered about the old days wasn’t real at all, no more than that Old West town he was constructing in the vacant titty bar.