by Ace Atkins
“You remember her?” Quinn said, looking over his desk at Lillie.
“Of course I remember Ansley Cuthbert,” Lillie said. “Wilder than a march hare. That girl ruined many a good Baptist at Tibbehah High. Remember when she posed in a bikini for the FFA Calendar? Standing in the mud by her boyfriend’s Jeep? That was a pretty big controversy in Jericho. More teenage boys were wankin’ to Ansley than to posters of damn Tiffani Amber Thiessen.”
“Yep,” Quinn said. “Tripled sales that year. I heard they went out and bought a brand-new tractor.”
“And what’s this shit about some dickless paramilitary assholes giving y’all trouble?” she asked. “When I couldn’t reach you, I called Reggie and he said two men had been stalking those reporters from New York. I hope you busted their ass good. You can’t come in to Tibbehah County and put your feet up on the furniture. Am I right?”
Quinn nodded to Lillie’s boots at the edge of the desk. She didn’t pay him any mind, leaning back in the hard wooden chair like she’d had a hell of a day. “So let me get this shit straight. Y’all went up to Memphis trying to find Ansley Goddamn Cuthbert and ran into Mr. Phillips, who, by the way, is a hell of a sweet man. How’s he doing anyway?”
“Fine.”
“And Mr. Phillips knew something about Ansley which made that crazy-ass girl a top-shelf priority? Because I can’t for the life of me think of one damn reason Ansley Cuthbert could be of any help to y’all on Brandon Taylor.”
“She was his girlfriend at the time,” Quinn said. “Mr. Phillips and Rhonda Taylor both say they were very close before he disappeared. Caddy and that girl Tashi Coleman tracked her down at a Memphis bar a couple weeks ago. She wouldn’t talk, but said some things that made Caddy think she’s the one who sent Maggie all those letters about Brandon and about the girl’s body on the Pennington land. If that letter was from Ansley, then she likely knows who that girl was and how she died. When I went back to find her and ask her about it, she’d blown town.”
“I know,” Lillie said. “I got your damn voicemail. We’ve already been over every inch of this crap. You know I do have a shitload of trouble on my desk? I had to drive over to Atlanta to pick up some man who’d killed two folks over a set of tires in south Memphis. And let me tell you something, that son of a bitch didn’t want to go quietly.”
Quinn reached into his humidor for a fresh Liga Privada, setting fire to it with his battered Zippo. He smiled at Lillie Virgil through the smoke. “I figured that’s why you missed the service for ole E. J. Royce,” he said. “You were too busy.”
“Yeah, that’s the reason,” Lillie said. “I hate I had to shoot the kid who killed him. I knocked that hat right off his head but he kept running. All that blood we found? No way he made it.”
“He had help,” Quinn said. “I guarantee those boys drove straight back to the Rez and are hiding out now.”
“Couple of button men,” Fannie said. “I’d rather find out who mashed that goddamn button.”
“Can’t ask Royce.”
“Nope,” Lillie said, shaking her head. “Did y’all have enough of the bastard to bury? Looks like his hounds got most of the prime cuts.”
“We had plenty.”
“A shame,” Lillie said. “I hope none of those dogs ended up with worms.”
Lillie stood up and pushed the chair back, leaning over the desk and snatching up Quinn’s cigar. She took a long puff, thinking on things, looking out the beaded glass of the window to the recreation area. It was Saturday afternoon, when families came to visit the folks in jail, setting up lawn chairs on the other side of the chain-link fence. They passed fried chicken and snack cakes through the fence, having family reunions, laughing, talking, arguing. One couple one time had tried to have sex through the chain links and it turned into a real mess.
“You found her,” Quinn said. “Didn’t you?”
“She’s out in my vehicle now,” Lillie said. “Why don’t you try and give me a fucking challenge sometime. How’d you know?”
“How long we know each other, Lil?”
“Ansley won’t come inside,” Lillie said. “And she won’t talk to me. I found her at her girlfriend’s house over in Cordova. I never figured that girl to be a switch-hitter. But Ansley apparently is open to all kinds. Isn’t that something? She wasn’t happy to see me. Even said I could be a real raging bitch back in high school.”
“Who would ever say such a thing?”
“I know,” Lillie said. “Just fucking insane. Nearly made me want to slap the shit out of her.”
“You think she’ll talk to me?”
“She seemed to like you, Quinn,” Lillie said. “There’s something dark on that girl’s mind. And you’re gonna have to be the one to get it.”
* * *
* * *
“You can’t just show up like this,” goddamn Bentley Vandeven said to Fannie. “Even if the senator wanted to see you, this isn’t the place for a meet. Let’s all just sit tight, let me make some phone calls, and agree on a better location.”
Fannie Hathcock sat behind the wheel of her new Lexus LS 500 Sport, a little gift she’d given herself over the summer. Pearl white with black leather interior and chrome trim. She had the sunroof wide open on the drive down to Jackson, cracked now as she sat there with Bentley in the steakhouse parking lot, the kid trying to be cool and collected, a real fucking voice of reason.
“How’s Pastor Colson doing?” Fannie said. “Any luck getting in her pants? I heard she’s really locked that shit down. Doesn’t drink or drug anymore. Not fun at all.”
Bentley’s face drained of color. His face and front of his blue-and-white gingham shirt nearly soaked through on an unusually warm October afternoon. He didn’t wear any jewelry, only a gold watch that probably cost half as much as her goddamn Lexus. “What do you know about it?”
“I’ve known what you’re about since you brought the tip jar up to Tibbehah County for your fat-cat friends,” she said. “Remember, Bentley? I made it very clear I wasn’t Johnny Fucking Stagg and didn’t make political donations.”
“My relationship with Caddy Colson isn’t about business or politics,” he said. “And I’d appreciate you staying out of my private life.”
“Little too late for that, kid,” Fannie said, cracking the electric windows. “Be a good boy and open that glovebox. Hand me the pack of Dunhills in there. Was your daddy hoping you getting tight with Miss Caddy would lead to some good dirt on the sheriff? Sure seems like a lot of goddamn work for a man your age. Grown-ass women are a little different from that Ole Miss cooze you’re probably used to, all spray-tanned, manicured, and wide-eyed. You got to put in some real effort for a mature woman.”
Bentley seemed taken aback for a moment, opening his mouth as if he didn’t know what to say. But then he just shook his head, kneading his palm into his forehead and laughing a little. “I appreciate you driving down,” Bentley said. “There’s an Olive Garden right up the road. I’d be happy to buy you lunch and listen to any of your concerns.”
“Bentley?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do I look like the kind of woman who eats at a fucking Olive Garden?” she asked. “I just drove two hours down from Tibbehah County to have a face-to-face meeting in y’all’s little Honeycomb Hideout here. If the senator was ashamed to see me, he should’ve made it clear before I made the trip. I sure as shit am not about to drive back to Jericho without a meet.”
“They won’t see you.”
“Bullshit,” she said, blowing out a long stream of smoke, watching it float from her car out into the parking lot. “When did Vardaman start running y’all’s show? I remember a time when the establishment wouldn’t let a hick like him park cars at a place like this. You boys always liked making money, but when did you stop being any fucking fun? The hell of it is, I’m pretty sure Vardaman believes half the
shit he’s saying. Did y’all ever consider what’s gonna happen to y’all when they open the barn doors and those crazy folks come to suck at the state tit?”
Bentley, God love him, seemed to be sweating even more. She loved making him nervous. He looked down at the face of his phone and across the parking lot to the steakhouse. He was so damn fidgety that he looked like a man who needed to take a leak bad. Being in a parked car with Fannie Hathcock might damage whatever political career the kid had imagined for himself.
“He’s not here,” Bentley said. “I don’t know what you heard.”
“Then get him here,” Fannie said, looking down at the Cartier on her wrist. “I have all damn day to sit at the bar and make small talk with y’all’s friends until he shows up.”
“My father asked that you leave,” he said. “He didn’t like what you were saying up at the bar about a certain good friend of his and a Shetland pony.”
“I was joking,” Fannie said. “A Shetland pony’s too good for that man. The fat son of a bitch couldn’t get laid in a mannequin factory.”
“I’ll talk to my father,” he said. “Can I relay your message to him? Personally.”
Fannie shook her head, spewing more smoke. “No, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed whatever circle jerk y’all had planned today. But I have something your dear ole daddy and Vardaman need to hear live and in person.”
“Can you at least tell me what this is about?” he asked. “They’ll want to know.”
Fannie turned to him and patted his smooth face. “Back room, kid,” she said. “Tell those boys to open their fucking ears and cover their nuts. Vardaman’s world is about to get tossed inside out and Miss Fannie’s the only one who can make things right.”
* * *
* * *
“Did you ever tell Caddy we hooked up?” Ansley Cuthbert asked Quinn.
They’d stopped off on a county road between Providence and Carthage, a meandering logging road, skittering the edge of the National Forest. Ansley had told him where to go and where to stop, both of them not talking much since they left the sheriff’s office.
“Somehow, it never came up,” Quinn said, turning to Ansley as he sat behind the wheel, wondering what was so special about this stretch of road, five klicks from where they found Brandon’s body, eight from where they found the girl, and about twenty from the Hawkins property. “Did she know?”
Ansley shook her head, looking a lot different from the last time he’d seen her, drinking Coors down along Sarter Creek one summer evening, four-wheelers and trucks parked along the sandy bottom. He and Anna Lee had broken up for a few weeks—again—and he’d found some companionship with Ansley, going for a long ride out into the hills and Big Woods, listening to George Strait, drinking beer and fooling around in the back of his truck. That had been more than twenty years ago but somehow seemed like last week. Back then, Ansley had been a blonde, but now she had raven black hair, pale skin, and a sleeve tattoo on her left arm. Looking nice in a black-and-white-checked shirt and skinny black pants, hair done up like women used to wear back in the forties. A pinup in motion.
“Always knew you’d go back to Anna Lee,” she said. “I have to say, I’m kind of shocked y’all didn’t get married.”
“Yeah?” Quinn said, turning to her in the truck. “Me, too. Right up until the time she married Luke Stevens. And for a little while after.”
“Never goes quite the way you think it will when you’re a kid.”
“Nope.”
“We sure did have some fun that night,” Ansley said, smiling. “You were a wild man. Driving like you did.”
“We may have committed some violations.”
“I only recall two,” she said. “Damn. That was the summer before Brandon and all this mess.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said. “I always wondered why you dropped out and left Tibbehah.”
“Your friend getting murdered will motivate you to keep moving,” she said. “It was so damn horrible, Quinn. As bad as it gets.”
Quinn didn’t say anything. He figured her wanting to take a ride, telling him where to go, would be the start of something he couldn’t force. Lillie used to tell him the best way to get a witness talking was to shut your damn mouth and listen. He didn’t try to push her or fill the silences, only sat there behind the wheel, letting her mind take her back to November of 1997, months before Quinn’s graduation, right before she’d leave Tibbehah altogether and make a life in Memphis.
“They killed him,” she said. “I guess you know that already.”
Quinn waited.
“Do you want me to take you to the spot I last saw him?” she said. “It’s not two hundred feet from where we parked. Goddamn, my heart is beating so fast. I feel like I’m coming loose from my skin.”
“You don’t have to,” Quinn said. “We can talk right here.”
“I need to do it,” she said. “Makes things right after I started all this back in motion. I got Shaina Taylor to reach out to those girls. I sent those letters to Maggie. It’s disrespectful if I don’t walk my ass back to where I saw him die. Christ Almighty.”
They crawled out of the truck, Quinn, in his boots, hopping down to the gravel, Ansley leading the way over a little ditch and through some brush and vines into an endless pine forest, stretching up into the hills and for thousands of acres beyond Tibbehah County. The location wasn’t completely lost to him now, knowing they were within two or three miles of Vardaman’s lodge. He’d once crisscrossed this very road looking for escaped convicts named Esau Davis and Bones Magee.
“Brandon and me were just friends,” she said, walking beneath the tall pines, feet soft on the copper-colored needles. “We might’ve fooled around a little. But mostly we were good pals, going to movies, hanging out at Mr. Phillips’s house, playing gags on folks at church camp. That kid was a real joker, always looking to put his thumb in someone’s eye.”
She kept walking, moving faster than Quinn, stopping for a moment to find her place, sunlight coming down through the tall trees, spinning for a second and then finding her way again, heading up a hill and coming upon what looked to be an old cabin falling in on itself, the rock fireplace still standing tall. “I knew I could find it.”
Quinn wanted to ask the who and the why but knew Ansley would get to it, her eyes shining with memories, false eyelashes fluttering, crying as she walked, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “I’m the one who told him about the parties,” she said. “Mr. Stagg would pay us just to be there. You didn’t have to fool around or nothing. He said those men just liked pretty young faces bringing them barbecue and whiskey. Pleasant company. He said if you wanted to get frisky, it was all on you. You know how Mr. Stagg talks.”
“Straight out his ass,” Quinn said. Ansley had stopped down at the old house, nothing but rotten wood and a few panes of busted glass. Maybe a hunt cabin back in the day, or someone’s little home, way out from Jericho and civilization. Quinn used to love discovering these old places as a kid, knowing from an early age how quickly nature could take back what man had tried to claim. No matter the abuse, the woods knew how to grow again and heal itself. That was one of the reasons he found so much solace and comfort walking among the trees, whether hunting or just hiking. A strange comfort coming over him now.
“I never told anybody what they did to Brandon, because I knew only two things could happen: they might put me in jail or they might kill me. And nothing would happen to them,” she said. “At first, what we did was Brandon’s idea. But I got in on it, too. Our families didn’t have a lot of money and that fall we made more money than I could ever have imagined. We almost didn’t know where to put it all.”
“Brandon’s father thought Mr. Phillips had given it to him.”
“Mr. Phillips?” she said. “Brandon’s father was a real asshole. He couldn’t stand Brandon hanging out w
ith adults outside his family. That man didn’t even like his kids leaving the house. When he found Brandon’s shoe box full of hundreds, he whipped the shit out of him. Gave him a black eye.”
Quinn nodded, hands on hips, turning around, looking for a trail or path leading out. He dropped a pin on his GPS, knowing he’d be back here for a long while, taking pictures, documenting everything Ansley Cuthbert had to say.
“Brandon was a hell of a photographer,” Quinn said. “Wasn’t he?”
“I’d tell him where and when and he’d get that lens as long as your arm on his camera,” she said. “He had fun doing it, laughing like hell about how fat and stupid those men were. It’s how we got in with Skylar. She was our age but a dropout. I’m sure that wasn’t her real name. I think she was from somewhere over in Alabama, another runaway who came down to Tibbehah to work at the Booby Trap. The girl was funny as hell. Knew damn-near everything. Kind of organized the young girls for their duties. She’d bring in boxes and boxes of Victoria’s Secret bikinis and all. Skylar would help us with our makeup and hair, making sure we looked just right at those parties.”
“Did you know Vardaman?”
“I knew who he was and that the cabin was his place,” she said. “But he really wasn’t there too much. He’d more kind of host these things, make sure all his boys were having a good time, fine young tail serving them chilled shrimp and gallons of scotch. They’d shoot skeet and ride four-wheelers. The ones who weren’t from Mississippi had the most fun of all. Tibbehah County for them was like going to the far side of the damn moon.”