by Ace Atkins
“I promised to be diligent down here,” Jessica said. “You know, I’m a damn good researcher. But I never promised to be celibate.”
“Umm,” Tashi said. “That’s not an answer.”
“Oh my God, he was so dumb,” she said, laughing. “Didn’t last five minutes and then he tells me he loves me.”
“Ick.”
“Yep.”
“Is that it?” Tashi said. “That can’t be it. Is that the old man’s house?”
“Start recording,” Jessica said, slowing and turning up a dirt hill. “We’re here.” At the top of the hill was a ramshackle dwelling slapped together with old boards, tin, and lots of plastic sheeting. A big, rangy hound appeared at the top of the drive, baying and moaning. A half dozen more dogs, looking of the same breed and type, joined the hound. They were all white with patches of black and brown, long, droopy ears, and long legs.
“Son of a bitch,” Tashi said. “I’m not getting out. I hate dogs. A chihuahua bit me when I was a kid and I still have the scar.”
A little old man with jug ears came out of the house, bald and slump-shouldered, wearing nothing but a pair of khaki shorts and rubber boots. He held a big stick and started swatting at the pack of dogs. “Go on, git,” he said, yelling. “Git. You sorry-ass bastards.”
Tashi let down her passenger window. “Mr. Royce?”
The old man smiled and licked his dry, cracked lips. His face covered in white whiskers. Skin chapped red, with a bulbous nose. Clear blue eyes. “Didn’t I tell you little girls to call me Sweet Daddy? Y’all come on inside. These dogs won’t hurt you a bit. They ain’t nothin’ but bark.”
Tashi rolled up the window and turned to Jessica, who turned off the ignition. “OK. I’m not worried about the dogs,” Tashi said. “But this old coot? Holy shit.”
“Second-in-command under Sheriff Hamp Beckett.”
“Jesus.” Tashi nodded, took a deep breath, and opened the car door. “OK. OK.” The old man saw the big microphone in her hand as she moved toward him. He stared at her for a few seconds and then broke into a big grin.
“Didn’t think y’all would ever find me, did you?” he said. “Ain’t it pretty out here?”
* * *
* * *
“Why are we out here again, Sheriff?” Reggie Caruthers asked.
“Not a bad question, Reggie,” Quinn said. “Don’t blame you asking. But if I told you, you’d think I might’ve gone insane.”
“I heard you told the folks who owned this land you were looking for a body?” Reggie said, toeing at the dirt in the wide-open field. “And you might know right where to find it?”
“It’s probably nothing,” Quinn said. “And it’s probably best we keep this whole matter between us. I made a promise to my wife. And being a married man, you know what that’s all about.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Reggie said. “I been married five years longer than you. And I don’t lie to my woman about nothing. You know, she can tell anytime I’m not telling the truth. Like she can smell a lie on me. It’s best just to play it straight and do what she asks. If you don’t, you’re just gonna catch hell for it later. Might not be right away, but a woman sure won’t forget.”
Quinn nodded, watching big Chucky Crenshaw unload his CAT backhoe off his trailer. Chucky was a solid citizen, always quick to assist the sheriff’s office at a moment’s notice. Earlier that year, Chucky, who weighed in at a little more than four hundred pounds, had helped Quinn subdue a suspect high on bath salts by sitting on him until they could cuff him. Chucky unhooked the chains from the backhoe tracks and hefted himself up into the seat, his XXXL MISSISSIPPI STATE shirt hanging down below his knees, the ball cap on his head about two sizes too small.
“Damn,” Reggie said. “Where you think that man finds his clothes?”
Quinn leaned against the tailgate of his truck, the creek bed on the old Pennington property spread out in a Y, a big oak standing lone and proud in the middle of what used to be a cattle pasture. Before he’d called in Chucky, he’d found the creek, the oak, and the flat rock, just like the letter had described. Whoever had been pulling Maggie’s leg had at least known a little about Tibbehah County and the Pennington family, although the letter had been postmarked Southaven.
Chucky backed the backhoe off the trailer and moved slow under the tree and toward the creek. It was a gray, overcast day, the creek running free after the rains from the week before, cottonwood trees, crooked and slanted, shadowing the slow-rolling water. Quinn walked over to the flat rock and pointed to Chucky, stepping back to let the man work. There had to be plenty of snakes around here. Quinn had spotted a copperhead sunning itself on a rock amid the ripples.
“How far down you think?” Reggie asked.
“I was told ten feet.”
“Who said that?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “Man, would you watch ole Chucky work. He could peel a damn grape with a backhoe.”
“A true artist,” Reggie said. “He the man to call if you got work and don’t want your yard all tore up. He picked up that stone and set it aside like he was using his own hand. He still working down at Cobb’s after ole Larry was put in jail?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Quinn said. “He told me he liked to work for Tonya a hell of a lot better than her daddy. He said Larry was always trying to cheat him on his overtime, keeping him working sunup to sundown, sometimes making him come in on Sundays, and never giving him a nickel more.”
Chucky dug down deep into the earth, pulling out big plugs of brown and then reddish sandy soil, turning the backhoe and setting down the dirt in a neat pile behind him. As Quinn had asked, he dug the hole ten feet down, working until Quinn and Reggie could get down there with shovels and poke around a bit.
“Heard Lillie got her ass chewed out at the Marshals’.”
“She’s on administrative leave,” Quinn said. “I don’t think she minded it too much. Lillie said she was glad to spend some time with her daughter up in Memphis. I think they were going to go up to Arkansas to camp and hike. What she did, shuffling the paperwork, might’ve gotten her fired.”
Reggie nodded, something on his mind but not sure he wanted to say it. He and Quinn just stood there under the gray skies, shoulder to shoulder, watching the dirt pile up in a mound as neat as an ice cream scoop. Reggie finally said, “Damn, Sheriff. That night didn’t have to go down like that. When Cleotha—’’
Quinn held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear that talk again. Those men knew what they were doing. They stole the cruiser from an auction yard. No telling where they got those uniforms. It was all a big lie. They played us. How were you to know?”
“Don’t matter,” Reggie said. “I should have never let them roll into the sally port without any notification. I heard you caught a little hell from the supervisors.”
“Skinner made a point of asking if it all had actually happened,” Quinn said. “Said he wants to start an inquiry on whether those killers were actually there.”
“What’s that old man talking about?” Reggie. “Goddamn. That’s the craziest shit I ever heard. Those men weren’t there. Shit, I seen them. One of them held a damn gun on me.”
“He’s trying to say I killed Wes Taggart because of Boom and then made up the whole thing. Skinner’s wanted me gone since he took over for Stagg on the board of supervisors,” Quinn said, walking back toward the hole. Chucky waved to him from the seat of the backhoe, his face covered in sweat, the little hat on his head down into his small brown eyes. “Grab us some shovels. Now comes the fun part.”
“Never dug for a body before,” Reggie said. “How long is this gonna take?”
Quinn remembered digging into the sand in Iraq, just outside an abandoned hospital. The Rangers were on a search and rescue for some captured soldiers and found a freshly dug pit. They used their entrenching tools and then their hands to dig
into it, getting only about three feet down when the smell hit them. Battle-hard kids in his platoon had to walk away every so often to vomit, then come back and keep digging till they had pulled all the bodies out of the ground.
“It’s probably nothing,” Quinn said, reaching for the big shovel and heading for the hole. “Right? Would’ve been hard to keep something like this quiet.”
* * *
* * *
“Did you bring what I asked for?” E. J. Royce asked, licking his old cracked lips.
Tashi didn’t like it—in fact, she knew it broke some ethical rules—but the old man had insisted they bring a bottle of Fighting Cock whiskey and two packs of Lucky Strike cigarettes; Camels, if they didn’t have his brand. Jessica pulled out the whiskey from the paper sack and handed it to the man, Royce craning his head to see if she had forgotten his smokes. She grabbed the two packs of Luckies and handed them over. He sliced the cellophane with a thumbnail and shuffled out a cigarette, plucking one in his mouth and lighting it with a Bic. He settled into a ratty old La-Z-Boy, kicking back, popping out the footrest, and saying, “Damn, now. Sure is nice to have a couple fine little ladies present.”
“We were surprised to hear from you,” Tashi said, taking a seat on the cleanest place in the room, which happened to be an overturned milk crate. Jessica just stood, holding the microphone while they spoke, a rangy old dog rubbing his butt against her leg. “What changed your mind?”
“Oh, hell,” he said. “I don’t know. I guess I figured you all were getting sold a bill of goods in Jericho. Hearing a lot of fucking dog shit in town about Hamp Beckett. I don’t know if you girlies know it or not, but I was his top damn deputy. Fucking Deputy Goddamn Dawg from 1973, when he come into office, until 1993, when I done retired the first time. Shit. Where are my fucking manners? Y’all want to open up this bottle with me, sit down, and tell a few lies?”
“We’re not into lies, Mr. Royce,” Jessica said, her blue hair pinned back close to her head, dressed in jeans and borrowing Tashi’s Doc Martens for the day. “We would like to know any facts you can offer.”
“You said you retired in ’93?” Tashi said. The wind popped the Visqueen sheeting outside his bare windows, the floor littered with fast-food sacks and empty packs of cigarettes. Old coffee cans overflowed with spent butts and the shells of sunflower seeds.
The old man grinned as he watched his dog stand up and place his paws on Jessica’s chest. “Damn, old Cooter’s nearly tall as you. Don’t you turn your back on him, though. He can get romantic real fast. He ain’t a true gentleman like me.”
“You said ’93,” Tashi said, writing down the dates and a few questions on her mind. “Brandon Taylor disappeared in ’97.”
“Oh, I know. I know. I remember all that shit like it was yesterday,” he said. “Hold up.”
The old man snatched back the lever on the La-Z-Boy and sprang to his feet, walking into a little cove that served as a kitchen, an old farm sink sitting up on concrete blocks. He found a couple of dusty jelly jars and took them back to where they’d gathered, placing them onto a table fashioned from plywood set atop more blocks. “How about a drink?”
“No thank you,” Tashi said. She leaned into where he sat, waiting for the old man to get to the damn point, but having the sinking feeling he was just lonely.
“Y’all met Miss Mary at the Fillin’ Station,” Royce said. “The old woman told me y’all was OK. That maybe you were getting some bad information about Sheriff Beckett and I could set y’all straight on the whole matter.”
“Mary,” Tashi said, crossing her legs, studying the old man’s hollow face and crooked yellow teeth. “That’s why you decided to see us?”
“Well,” Royce said, face splitting with delight. “Didn’t hurt I’d heard some fellas on the Square say y’all were a couple damn New York hellcats, pretty as could be.”
Tashi looked over to Jessica, Jessica looking like she just might puke. But both of them having to take it, sit there and watch this old creeper drool over them, sucking on a Lucky Strike, as he unscrewed the top of the whiskey. He poured it out in all three dusty glasses.
“You heard Hamp was a crook?” Royce said. “Didn’t you?”
Tashi didn’t answer, studying the blank page of her notebook, tapping her pen on it.
“Maybe heard it from his own flesh and blood?”
Again, nothing from Tashi or Jessica, both of them trained to let those long, sweet silences sit and hang there, knowing a source, especially a lonely old bastard like E. J. Royce, would just fill the silence.
“Well,” he said, finally. “It’s all a fucking lie. Sheriff Beckett was two-time lawman of the year in the state of Mississippi. Never a more true or honest fella ever walked in Tibbehah County. That sack of shit Johnny Stagg did his dead-level fucking best to besmirch his name. And then his smartass nephew had to come back to town with head hanging low, like Hamp done something he shoulda been ashamed of. That man—listen to me now—never took a fucking bribe. He never stopped bird-dogging the bad guys. Hell, he was cut from the same cloth as Wyatt Earp and Matt Dillon. I can see him now, standing nearly six foot five, shoulders wide as an ax handle, and keeping that ole .44 on his hip. He was ready, ladies. Always cocked and ready.”
“Ready for what?” Tashi asked.
Royce reached down for the glass of whiskey and quickly drained it. He looked up with shiny eyes and smiled. “Go on, now, take a drink. I ain’t doing this shit alone. Y’all brought the whiskey. You want me to talk, then we’s gonna have a little party.”
Tashi took a deep breath and swallowed. “What do you know about Brandon Taylor?”
Royce widened his eyes and gestured around the room, offering his bounty of booze and cigarettes. Tashi ground her teeth and reached for the glass, looking to Jessica, who just stood by with the mic and shook her head. Jessica, unlike Tashi, had some limits. She looked like she wanted to body-slam the old man and get the hell out of there. The room smelling of kerosene and cigarette butts.
The dog moved over toward Royce and settled down by the chair, Royce lighting up another cigarette and pouring himself another drink.
“I was working for a pest service then,” he said. “I was doing exterminator work on all kind of critters. Damn fire ants to opossums and snakes. How’s the whiskey? Smooth? Ain’t it?”
Tashi hadn’t tried a drop. She nodded.
“When that boy got lost, Hamp called me in like he did from time to time,” he said. “I was kind of what you might call an honorary deputy at that point. I helped him with some interviews, checking on some things, walking them Big Woods for days trying to find out where the boy might’ve gone.”
“On the phone,” Tashi said, “you said you were there when they found the body.”
Royce tugged on the whiskey and looked her right in the eye. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Won’t forget that long as I live. Damn animals got to him. Coyotes. They was just moving into Tibbehah County back then. We ain’t never had no coyotes when I was a boy. What those creatures did to that kid? Lord. I just prayed his momma never saw him like that. But I guess y’all read all about that mess in the report.”
“There was no report,” Jessica said.
“What’d you say, doll?”
“I said there was no report,” she said. “Everything has been lost.”
Royce started to laugh, and then the laugh developed into a coughing fit. He stubbed out the cigarette and poured himself a third shot, closing one eye and studying Tashi’s nearly full glass.
“Lost, huh. That sounds like Quinn Colson’s doin’.”
“What does?” Tashi said.
“How about you come on over here a little closer and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I’m quite comfortable here.”
“You’d be a lot more comfortable in my lap,” he said. “You or the blue heeler o
ver there. Don’t you girls worry. I don’t bite. I’m no more harmful than your ole grandpa. If you don’t like whiskey, I got some butterscotch hard candy in my pant pocket. Come on, now, don’t y’all be shy.”
“Why’d you mention Quinn Colson?”
“How long you girls been in town?”
“A few weeks.”
“And I guess y’all been fooled by that young man,” he said. “’Cause he’s tall and handsome and pretends to stand on the right side of the fence. A goddamn war hero, is probably what he told you. Trying to get your panties hotter than a damn skillet.”
Tashi shook her head. “He never said a word about his military record.”
Royce snorted. “That kid was a damn wild card from the word go. Not a bit different from his no-’count daddy, who lied to anyone who’d hear him out about how he did all Burt Reynolds’s stunts and was fucking thick as thieves with Clint Eastwood. One time he showed me this hat he got, said it belonged to James Arness and the man gave it to him before he died. I’m a trained lawman. I never believed that shit for a second.”
“What’s any of this have to do with Brandon Taylor?”
The old man drew on a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger and smiled, letting out a big cloud of smoke. “Well now, then,” he said. “We’re getting down to the meat in the bone. I’d say it has to do with about all of it. Hamp Beckett was as fine a man who ever walked this earth. But he had one goddamn blind spot. And that was his sister’s boy. He’d sell out me, anyone else he knew, trying to look out for Quinn. That kid should be in goddamn jail, you ask me.”
“For what?”
The old man started to laugh again and the laughing only led to another coughing fit. “Dang,” he said. “Mary said y’all were some hot-shit reporters from up North. Don’t tell me the media is as goddamn stupid as they are corrupt. Y’all want to know what happened to the Taylor boy, you might start looking at our current sheriff. Those two liked to hunt the same ground, following the same buck. And maybe the same girl. Didn’t he just marry a woman named Maggie Powers? Wadn’t she sweet on that Taylor boy? Damn, girls.”