The Heathens

by Ace Atkins

  It wasn’t too long until he passed into Parsham County, god’s country. so please don’t drive like hell through it. A nice little advertisement for a true shithole in north Mississippi. Parsham was a landlocked little county without a major highway, a decent body of water, or a town worth a shit. About every tree had been harvested, the few factories they had shut down, and now they’d even closed most of the chicken houses on account of their troubles with immigration last year. If it hadn’t been for Stagg busting free of jail and getting back home, Parsham County might’ve dried up and blowed away.

  Kay Adams kept singing about closing up the honkytonks and throwing away the key so that her love might come on back home. A mile or two over the county line, Stagg saw the place he’d been looking for, an old catfish buffet shut down years ago. Weeds grew free and wild in the gravel parking lot and the roof of the one-story building looked to be falling in on itself.

  Stagg got out of his El Dorado and shut the big swinging door, feet crunching on the gravel until he got up close to the front door, open wide and full of electric light. Sheriff Bruce Lovemaiden was inside, kicking around the building, looking at the grease stains and busted trays across the old concrete floor. Stagg had bought the place for almost nothing but the back taxes, keeping it in his back pocket like most of his assets over in Parsham, a decent little place to do business now that his investment dollars weren’t welcome in his own home county.

  “Ever eat frog legs here?” Lovemaiden asked.

  “Can’t say I did,” Stagg said. “Catfish wasn’t worth a durn. Greasy and soggy. Folks here might’ve stayed in business if they’d learned a few lessons from Pap’s. That catfish is so crispy, you can chomp on those fish bones.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “How do you feel about a good ole juke joint opening in this spot?”

  “We’re a dry county,” Lovemaiden said.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “Well,” Lovemaiden said. “I’m sure the supervisors can take the matter under consideration for a donation. Or two.”

  “Sure they would,” Stagg said. “Never met a Mississippi county supervisor that wasn’t crooked as a tomcat’s peter.”

  This was the first time Stagg had been in the building. He had handed the key over to Lovemaiden some months ago to make sure no one tried to loot what was left to be looted. There was some kitchen equipment in the back, a big stove and a walk-in freezer. He knew a boy over in Abbeville who could fix durn near anything and make it good as new. Best as Stagg saw it, folks over in Parsham liked to get drunk. And he’d be glad to help ’em chill the beer, maybe bring over a few good old country acts from down in Starkville, get the heartache and fistfighting stoked up again.

  “Deputies been on patrol regular,” he said. “Here and your other properties, Mr. Stagg.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Stagg said.

  Lovemaiden shifted in his old boots, hands on his waist, looking Stagg up and down. “That is why you wanted to see me?” he said. “Right?”

  Stagg scratched at his neck. “You ever heard of some boys called the Nixes, father and son who do a little larceny now and then? Maybe some rougher stuff.”

  “What do you mean rougher stuff?”

  “Harassment,” Stagg said. “Beat folks up for money. Maybe worse.”

  “You mean ole Flem and his boy?” Lovemaiden asked. “Shoot, yes, I know that sorry bastard. I ran that family out of this county a long time ago. There’s something wrong in their heads. Maybe ’cause they’re so damn short. I won’t say they’re retarded or nothing, but they’re animalistic in their ways. That old man, who ain’t really that old, younger than me, got caught diddling his niece a few years ago. I mean, these people ain’t right. Dirt eaters and all that.”

  “Well, Flem and his boy have been bothering a friend of mine.”

  “Don’t know how I can help you,” he said. “They ain’t in my jurisdiction. That’s all on your buddy Quinn Colson now. Haw. Haw.”

  “Just wondered what to expect of them,” Stagg said. “I been away for a spell. I’d never had dealings with them, and then a woman works for me said she believed they’d come over from Parsham. Some years back.”

  “They’re crafty little shits,” Lovemaiden said. “I’ll give ’em that. Took me six deputies and some plain and honest threats to kick them and their whole sorry-ass family out of here. But I’ll tell you what. Crime in this county fell about fifty percent with the Nix boys gone. I shit you not.”

  “Maybe they won’t be trouble for much longer,” Stagg said, checking out the ceiling and the big pools of stagnant water dappling the concrete. “I’m working on a quick and practical solution.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Lovemaiden said. “Say, you haven’t heard any more about those kids who broke loose? We had our deputies out looking since they left Tibbehah. I don’t know where they’re at. But they sure ain’t in my county.”

  Stagg nodded, placing his hands in the pockets of his pleated trousers, and rocking up on the toes of his brand-new penny loafers. “My heart breaks every time I think what she and that black boy did to her momma.”

  “Hell,” Lovemaiden said. “Thank God you didn’t have to see it.”

  “You knowed that colored kid, too,” Stagg said. “Caught him a few times busting in windows over here?”

  “A time or two,” Lovemaiden said. “He’s a nice boy with sticky fingers.”

  “He been in your jail recently?”

  Lovemaiden scratched at his cheek, his head with reddened cheeks roughly the size of a damn basketball. His bloated belly extended so far out from his tan trousers that it appeared that the buttons could pop off his shirt.

  “A long time back,” he said. “Maybe two-three years ago. Stealing cars before he could drive legal.”

  Lovemaiden held a Styrofoam cup to his lips and spit. He stood there under the weak light of the few fluorescent bulbs that still worked and waited for Stagg to ask him the favor he’d mentioned on the phone. Stagg always liked to draw matters out—going ’round and ’round added a little drama and emphasis.

  “I sure would like to see those kids get what’s coming to them,” he said. “I was thinking earlier today that Ladarius McCade might’ve made a few friends over here in Parsham.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe one or two boys who recall him talking about his little girlfriend?” Stagg asked. “And maybe what they’d been planning to do to her momma?”

  Lovemaiden spit again. “Figure someone with that kind of information would get a little compensation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “But it would make me feel a mite better to pass along that money through the law, let them decide just what that upstanding young person would deserve.”

  “Some of the boys come in and out of my jail would kill their sister for twenty bucks.”

  “That a fact,” Stagg said. “Sounds like y’all need more to do over here in Parsham. How’d you feel about adding some brass poles around this establishment? Sure would give something for the young women to do. Provide jobs and such. And sure would tickle the men around here.”

  “I thought you were out of that kind of business, Mr. Stagg?” Lovemaiden asked, grinning and spitting again. “Got right with the Lord and turned over a new leaf.”

  “Yes, sir,” Stagg said. “Yes, sir. But I’m also always looking for ways to invest in the infrastructure and small businesses of north Mississippi.”

  “You want me to find you a jailhouse snitch.”

  “Yep.” Stagg winked at Lovemaiden and grinned. “If it ain’t too much trouble.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “They blocked the driveway,” Holly said. “Ain’t no way we’re getting out.”

  “Maybe we can all pile in your momma’s minivan,” TJ said. “Bust righ
t through that roadblock and just keep on driving. How about that?”

  “How far you think we’d get?” Ladarius asked. “Two, three miles, maybe. This ain’t Tibbehah County, TJ. They got police all over the damn place.”

  They stood huddled together in the dark and the quiet of the mansion, hearing the rain and the wind outside. John Wesley came into the living room, dragging his small suitcase, Holly already trying to explain to him why they had to leave this big, nice mansion in the middle of the night. She told him there was an even better place down the road, a place filled with ice cream and hot dogs and more video games than he could play in a year. TJ walked to the front window and looked down the driveway, seeing the two police parked sideways. Blue lights flashing without a siren.

  “Fuck me,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re gonna give up,” Chastity said. “Walk outside with your hands in the air and put your faith in a higher power to make things right?”

  “Don’t be so damn stupid,” Holly said. “There’s nothing else to do.”

  “Bullshit,” Chastity said, turning to Ladarius. “I just hope that you and little John Wesley didn’t use up all the gas in the boat this afternoon.”

  “We didn’t go too far,” Ladarius said. “So cold out on that water I about froze my nuts off.”

  “Y’all head on down to the boat,” Chastity said. “I’ll turn on some lights upstairs to confuse them. Just don’t get all stupid. Be quiet walking down there. Those steps can get slick as glass. And nobody—I mean nobody—say a goddamn word.”

  Holly had her arms wrapped around herself, shivering like she was cold although they’d cranked the heat up plenty in that big old house. She tried not to make eye contact with TJ but when she did, she just closed her eyes and shook her head from side to side.

  “You got a better idea, Holly Harkins?” TJ asked.

  “I don’t want to leave,” John Wesley said. “Why can’t we stay here, TJ? Why are those policemen here? What’s going on? Nobody tells me nothing.”

  TJ turned to her little brother, losing her temper for just a second, and telling him to shut the hell up and let her think. John Wesley looked to Holly, who grabbed him by the hand, and marched out to the patio where Ladarius and Chastity waited. The glass doors open, wind and rain blowing on into the marble floors. Chastity motioned for them to come on, so she could get to what she wanted to take with them. TJ figured if they were real quick about it, maybe they could get on the boat and out onto the water before Chastity caught up.

  “And don’t even think about leaving without me,” Chastity said with a wink, dangling the boat keys in her hand.

  “You gave the keys back?” TJ said to Ladarius as the girl disappeared up the winding marble staircase.

  “How’d I know the cops would show up?” he asked. “Hell.”

  They ran out into the rain, John Wesley and Holly first, bending over and heading down the steps and down toward the dock. TJ got halfway when the flashlight spun on her and she heard a man’s voice telling them to stop. Ladarius pushed her on ahead, TJ feeling the water soak up into her fancy suede boots and her hair cling to her head. The man yelled some more and she nearly slipped at the landing, Holly reaching out for her, offering a hand as she crawled on board. The boat open with only a canopy overhead. John Wesley found a seat in the back, clutching his suitcase, looking mad as hell.

  “We’re fucked,” Ladarius said.

  “Not yet.”

  “Sure we are.”

  “Come on,” Holly said. “Come on. Start the damn engine, Ladarius.”

  “I don’t have the damn keys.”

  “Then do that thing you do with the cars,” Holly said. “Right? Do I have to draw you a goddamn map?”

  Even with all the yelling and the cold rain out on the water, Holly swearing took TJ back a little. She looked up the hill and saw two large hulking figures on the stone patio, twin flashlight beams flicking across the boat and their eyes.

  Ladarius reached up under the dashboard, feeling for wires and controls while TJ watched the flashlight beams bobbling and twisting down the stone steps, those cops getting closer and closer. She grabbed Ladarius’s arm and squeezed it, closing her eyes, praying like hell that all the bad deeds that boy had done wouldn’t jinx them. They just needed a little kick, a little electric spark on that starter and they could get across the lake and maybe find a new way, find a new path to keep on trucking west.

  The motor started.

  She opened her eyes and hugged Ladarius. Ladarius laughed but then stumbled back as Chastity told him to move his ass, the blonde princess already seated in the captain’s chair, her key cranked in the ignition, pulling the boat back into the cold black water. The men yelling for them to stop, radios in their hands squawking while they raised their hands in the lights on the dock.

  Chastity slid the throttle into high and the front of the boat nearly lifted from the water, throwing TJ and Ladarius down to the deck, Holly and John Wesley huddled together in the seats, cold and shivering from the rain.

  SEVENTEEN

  The bad weather moved in later that night, Quinn back at home, sitting in the parlor with Maggie, a warm glass of Four Roses in hand and Tanya Tucker on the turntable. Maggie loved “What’s Your Mama’s Name” and “Blood Red and Goin’ Down” and took any chance she had to slip the record into rotation with Quinn’s Charley Pride and Waylon. Both of them understood that the classic age of country was long gone, along with common sense, moral responsibility, and the good ole family farm. On a rainy night, the farmhouse seemed like a time capsule, with its high ceilings, beaded board walls, and seed glass windows. Sometimes Quinn could still smell his grandfather’s old cherry pipe tobacco despite all the new paint.

  Maggie believed it was ghosts. Quinn blamed fluctuating temperatures.

  “Was this her first album?” Maggie asked.

  “Second,” Quinn said. “After Delta Dawn.”

  “She’s just a baby,” she said. “But sounds like a woman.”

  “Experience can do that to a kid.”

  Quinn had kicked off his boots at the front door and locked away his gun for the night, although he kept a loaded shotgun hidden and out of reach of the kids. He’d hung up his uniform shirt, radio, and service belt. His phone, as always, remained on and at his side, the idea of having a night off or even a full night’s sleep never an option. Maggie motioned to his empty glass.

  “That went fast.”

  “Just the one,” Quinn said, looking at his watch. “Headed back in at oh-five-hundred.”

  Maggie joined him up on the couch, resting her head in his lap and staring up at him. Both Brandon and Halley were asleep. The baby monitor, not unlike Quinn’s radio, remained on and connected with the loft upstairs. The parlor soon went quiet, the A side of the record finishing, whooshing in that center space and waiting to get flipped. Both he and Maggie too damn tired to get up.

  “You think those kids are still in Arkansas?” Maggie asked.

  “Lillie said they were in Forrest City yesterday,” Quinn said. “Their minivan threw a belt.”

  “And now?”

  “Lillie heard they’re headed west.”

  “No other plans?”

  “I figure TJ wants far out of Tibbehah County until we finally arrest Chester.”

  “What’s Lillie say?” she asked. “About everything you found out?”

  “Lillie has a personal history with the Byrd girl,” Quinn said. “And her mother. I don’t think she’s gonna believe anything until I get something solid.”

  “Like what?” Maggie said. “A full confession?”

  “Maybe,” Quinn said. “Chester’s digging himself in deep. Lying about threats from TJ and about taking money from Gina. The problem is that he was up in Oxford around the time we believe Gina was killed.”

  “Ar
e you sure?”

  “Reggie drove up and checked out his story,” Quinn said. “He was there, drinking at the Library bar with a crew of old frat boys.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yep.”

  “So he hired someone?”

  “Or two,” Quinn said. “If you can believe TJ, two men attacked her momma. I’ve subpoenaed his bank records, phone records, and security footage from the Bluebird.”

  “And?”

  “That’s gonna take a while,” Quinn said. “I just wish TJ had trusted me before she ran. I think she knows plenty about Chester and her momma and could’ve helped us out. I should’ve tried harder.”

  “Sounds like she had her mind already made up about you.”

  Quinn stood up and stretched before flipping over the album. He walked over to the old rolltop desk that had been his grandfather’s and reached for the bottle of bourbon. He watched for Maggie’s reaction, as Quinn had hit the bottle a little hard after his shooting, but Maggie didn’t say a word. She just stretched out on the sofa, hands under her head, enjoying a little rest before Halley’s midnight feeding. She knew Quinn was done with the booze and the pills, a momentary lapse in judgment caused by pain.

  “If Gina Byrd cut a man so bad she thought he was dead, he would’ve gone to a doctor.”

  “Checked the hospital,” Quinn said. “Checked the clinics. First thing I did.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” Quinn said, taking a slow sip, sitting back down, Maggie’s head falling back into his lap. She had her reddish hair in a bun, freckled face scrubbed of makeup, little mouth pursed while deep in thought. She wore one of his old U.S. Army sweatshirts, loose and well-worn over a pair of faded jeans.