The Forsaken (3 page)

“Ain’t that something?” Stagg said. “What some folks might call ironic.”

“It’s my fucking religion,” Houston said. “I made it out. What I heard, you made it out, too. Where you get your start? You don’t look like you came from no trust fund, coming out the cooch with a silver spoon.”

Stagg just grinned at him, bony hands warming up on his coffee mug. He wore the tattersall shirt he’d bought on the Oxford Square during football season, with a red Ole Miss sweater-vest and pleated navy pants. He wasn’t ashamed to say he’d spent nearly three hundred dollars on a pair of handwoven moccasins to be worn with fancy socks. Stagg recalled when his momma made him and his brother exchange underwear on different days of the week because she hated doing wash. Stagg brushed at his chapped, reddened cheek, motioning away the waitress with the nice backside for a few moments while they discussed all the options Denny’s, America’s Favorite Diner, offered them.

“My people from Marshall County,” Houston said. “You heard of R. L. Burnside, the blues player? He was my great-uncle. Man could rip the shit out of a guitar. Women in France would rip their bras off and hand them over just to hear him play.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t know him?”

Stagg sucked on his tooth, rotating the warm mug in his hand. “I don’t listen to nigger music, Mr. Houston.”

Houston grinned wide, showing some gold teeth. Stagg knew the man would like him to cut through the shit, get right to the point, that this wasn’t about them becoming buddies and pals, but just how they would keep the goddamn Mexicans out of the city and keep a good thing going. There really wasn’t much to consider. Stagg moved it. Houston sold it. Now Houston wanted more of a cut and that wasn’t exactly surprising to Stagg. What was surprising is that Houston would want to be seen anywhere near Stagg, as you could bet sure as shit that the DEA or FBI or ATF or who the hell ever would be bugging their Banana Caramel French Toast this morning, wanting Stagg to follow his old pal and mentor Bobby Campo to the Cornhole Suite at the federal pen.

“You got kids?” Houston said.

“I got one.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy,” Stagg said. “Don’t see that it matters.”

“I got twelve kids,” Houston said. “I got two of them with a Mexican woman I met when hiding out from Johnny Law down in Mexico. You ever been with a Mexican woman? Whew. Damn straight, with all that sweet brown skin and black hair. I’d live down there if those motherfuckers hadn’t decided they wanted to have me killed.”

“Those Mex sonsabitches mean business,” Stagg said. “We had some of those boys in Tibbehah a year or so ago. They found out this local boy was trying to screw them out of a gun deal. Lord have mercy, they rode into
Jericho like they was Pancho Villa wanting to fill him full of a million holes.”

“They kill him?” Houston asked.

Stagg shook his head. “Gave himself up to the Feds. I’m still waiting to read about him getting shanked by ole Speedy Gonzales in the shower.”

Houston nodded. “Man, you a trip.”

Stagg studied him, tilting his head a bit. “Son, are you wearing two watches?”

“Yep,” Houston said. “One is platinum and one is gold. East Coast and Central.”

“May I ask why?”

“’Cause I’m expanding.”

Stagg laughed. Even through all that black shuck-and-jive bullshit that never made any sense to him, Stagg liked the boy. He liked that he’d called the meet, liked that he was going to ask for a larger cut, and liked that he’d crawled up from a world of shit to control his future. Stagg had been born to a manure salesman out of Carthage. Houston had come from a goddamn inner ring of hell in the Dixie Homes housing project.

“Sure you don’t want breakfast?” Stagg said. “It’s on me.”

“OK,” Houston said. “Maybe some of that French toast shit.”

“With the fruit or without?”

“All the way.”

“Figured that’s what we got.”

“Or maybe I want some of that goddamn Moon Over My Hammy,” Houston said. “But that don’t mean I’m gonna eat the whole thing. You can have your half and a few extra bites. I ain’t asking to go equal on this shit. Just give me a little of that ole Hammy and maybe some hash browns and shit and a sip of Coke.”

“I know,” Stagg said, holding up his hand, “ain’t nobody that goddamn stupid. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t in agreement.”

Houston snapped shut his menu. The waitress arrived and he told her
that he just wanted pancakes and hash browns and to bring a bottle of ketchup.

“A whole bottle?”

“You know, Mr. Stagg, you ain’t at all like Bobby Campo.”

Stagg nodded. “Appreciate that, sir.”

“I never sat down at the table with Bobby Campo.”

“He made a lot of mistakes,” Stagg said. “He was reckless. A fuckup.”

Houston readjusted his rose-colored shades and grinned. Two of his teeth were gold with diamonds inlaid. He smiled some more, adjusting each watch on each wrist. “Who you got up there by the door?” Houston said. “He don’t look old enough to shave.”

Stagg sipped some coffee. Put down the mug, warmed his hands as the heat curled up to his face. “Oh, just a new friend.”

“Funny how you being all cool with the meet and greet and all that shit.”

“Me and you got a good thing going,” he said. “If someone were to try and break it up, I just want to make sure he knows he ain’t invited.”

“I think you and me gonna make a fine team,” Houston said. “Don’t let anyone fuck with my people.”

“Good to hear that, Mr. Houston,” Stagg said. “Much appreciated.”

Y
ou could just marry Ophelia Bundren and move into her house in town,” Lillie Virgil said, “or y’all could just move in together. Everyone in town knows y’all are screwing like rabbits anyway. People say you’re the first warm thing that girl has held in her hand in a good long while.”

Quinn hadn’t been inside the sheriff’s office two minutes when Lillie had walked into his office and started talking about his personal life. It usually took her at least four or five. Lillie was his chief deputy and was never really good at appropriate workplace conversation.

“I met with Stevens,” Quinn said, tossing his ball cap on the desk and taking off his ranch coat. He hung the coat by the door and sat down behind his desk, propping up his cowboy boots. “He thinks the DA may go after murder charges on both of us.”

“Hot damn.”

“Seriously, Lillie?” Quinn said. “This might go to the grand jury when they’re in session. They’re going to say I killed Leonard Chappell in cold blood. And that you shot those three men yourself.”

“Well, that would make me look pretty impressive,” Lillie said. “But how exactly do they say I killed the two other men?”

“Stevens said you brought two rifles with you,” Quinn said. “That’s the reason the bullets don’t match.”

“Sure,” Lillie said. “That’s logical. Right as we start shooting, I put down my weapon and pick up a new one. How much money exactly did we make off this little deal we masterminded?”

“Two hundred grand, give or take a few pennies.”

“Well, cut me in when you can,” Lillie said, sitting at the other side of Quinn’s desk. “I heard that new Walmart is definitely a go.”

Mary Alice gave Lillie the stink eye as she came in and laid a hot mug of coffee on Quinn’s desk. Mary Alice, who’d worked at the office for twenty years with Quinn’s uncle when he was the sheriff, seemed to have a problem with Lillie’s profanity and familiarity, all of a sudden. She looked a bit pious upon leaving the office.

“Stevens also thinks they might have a witness,” Quinn said. “Two rifles. Premeditation, to get that cash. You can find shitbirds to say anything for the right price.”

“Bring on some two-bit con saying he was squirrel-hunting in the hills,” Lillie said. “Love to hear what he says. Watch ole Sonny tear his ass up on the stand. He’s one hell of a lawyer when he’s not drinking. By the way, how’d he seem today?”

Quinn tilted his head. “Sober,” he said. “At least, while we discussed the important stuff.”

Lillie shook her head. She nodded, thinking about what he said and then grinned very wide. “But I’m right about Ophelia?” Lillie said. “You gonna move to town and let Jean and Caddy take over the farm? Hot meal. Hot bed. The coroner right there at your disposal.”

“Lillie,” Quinn said, motioning to the door. “I have work to do.”

“She’s all right, Quinn,” Lillie said. “She really is. Just because the woman embalms folks doesn’t make her an abnormal person. She’s the same as us only she’s dealing with the shit that no decent person would
want to handle. I’d say she’s a stand-up person and loves the hell out of you. You can see that right off.”

Mary Alice walked to the door and peered in. “Sorry to interrupt y’all’s discussion of important matters but looks like Miss Thomas on County Road 112 had a break-in last night, says someone took her Sanyo television set and some clothing of a personal nature.”

Quinn winked at Mary Alice. Lillie scooted her butt off Quinn’s desk. She was strong and athletic, with curly light brown hair in a ponytail and wide hips and legs. She had on jeans and a
SHERIFF’S OFFICE
jacket today, lace-up boots, and a Glock on her hip, although as the former star of the Ole Miss Rifle Team she preferred a Winchester. If Lillie had wanted to take out every person at that airstrip last spring, she could’ve done it without much thought or effort. That’s what was going to make the DA’s argument make sense to a lot of folks.

“Why’d someone want to steal Miss Thomas’s panties?” Lillie said, walking to the door. “The woman weights nearly three hundred pounds.”

“Maybe they needed a tarp.”

“I’ll go with that theory,” Lillie said, walking from the office. “And think about what I said, Quinn. Life is all about simplification.”

•   •   •

Diane Tull
had come back to Jericho fifteen years ago after her second marriage ended in Scottsdale, Arizona, and she found she could raise her teenage boys better back home. So she’d returned, trying to take back at least some of the crap she’d said about Tibbehah County, gritted her teeth, and started back to work at the Jericho Farm & Ranch. Her mother had run the place after she’d gotten remarried, this time to a gentle farmer named Shed Castle, whose family had owned some kind of dry goods store in Jericho since the early 1900s. Mr. Castle had died two years ago, and Diane’s mother used to come in with her to help out until her dementia meant she just put things on the wrong shelf. The Farm & Ranch
was now Diane’s place, selling fishhooks, bullets, seeds, and feed every day of the year except Sundays, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.

Diane took down the sign for holiday hours but didn’t put up a new one, figuring most people should damn well know by now when she opened and closed.

She set to work separating a new order of Carhartt work pants to the right sizes on the shelves when Caddy Colson and her son, Jason, walked in the door. Jason, who was five, said hello, not really looking at her, and ran straight over to the glass case where she kept the pocket watches and knives. Since he’d been three, he’d had his eye on a huge bowie knife that he said his Uncle Quinn would love. The kid had a deep country accent, which always seemed a bit odd to Diane on account of the boy being black, or half black. Caddy had come home with him some time back after some trouble in Memphis.

“No guns, no knives,” Caddy said. “Don’t you even ask.”

Diane said hello and set down the pants. Caddy handed her a handwritten lists of things she needed to resupply The River Ministry: four bags of manure, twelve of mulch, two large bags of dog food, and one of cat food. She also planned to plant several rows of mustard and collard greens.

“When did y’all get a cat?” Diane asked.

“Showed up after the storm,” Caddy said. “Jason wanted to keep it. Quinn being Quinn, he couldn’t say no. Said we needed the help at the old house with the mice.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“Having my place torn to shit with no insurance and then having to move in with my momma and brother into a house that was built in 1895? Not exactly heaven.”

Diane smiled and took the list behind the display counter. Jason was still enthralled with all the outdoor gear for fishing, hunting, and hiking. Quinn had told her the last time he was in that Jason may even be a better
tracker at his age than Quinn had been. That was something. She’d heard Quinn Colson had been some kind of kid hero back in the day with his outdoor skills. Daniel Boone, Jr. There was a story about that, headlined
Country Boy Can Survive
, when he’d been lost in the woods as a kid.

Caddy was a couple years younger than her brother. Slender and fair, her blond hair recently cut boy-short. She wore a pair of Levi’s and a snug western shirt with snap buttons. No makeup and no jewelry. Still, Caddy Colson was feminine and petite, with men all over town liking to watch her walk.

Diane rang up the bill and told old Carl to get the manure and the feed and put them in back of Ms. Colson’s truck. Carl just grunted, as that seemed to be the limit of his vocabulary.

“I’ve been thinking . . .” Caddy said, writing out the check.

Diane held up her hand. She knew where this was headed.

“I want you to talk to Quinn,” Caddy said. “Something made you tell me what happened, and maybe it was the storm, or time, or pressure, or whatever, but people need to know.”

“Did I mention rubber boots are on sale this month?”

“I’m serious, Diane,” Caddy said, leaning in and whispering. “I know what it’s like. I know what it’s like to have evil in your life. If you don’t address what’s inside, it will eat away at you until you die.”

“My insides are fine,” Diane said. “I eat right, stay away from processed foods. Drink in moderation. By the way, I’m playing a set at the Southern Star with J.T. and a few other fellas. This band called Outlaw.”

“I thought it was Tull and Friends?”

“That didn’t sound as good,” Diane said. “Reminded me of a cruise ship revue or had people thinking Jethro Tull, which we’re not about.”

“You’re looking too good for the Farm & Ranch,” Caddy said.

Diane stepped back and did a little twirl. Even at fifty she’d kept herself in shape, giving up the cigarettes and the crap food, going for walks and hikes, healthy living she’d learned out west. The same place she’d
developed an appreciation for good boots, turquoise, and silver. She’d become more in touch with her Cherokee side, finding out they weren’t just into worshipping trees and rocks like her daddy had said, finding out there was a lot of wisdom from her ancestors that had been kept from her. Besides, the whole western thing worked good for the cover band. When she wore feathers and turquoise against her dark skin and black hair, people still told her she looked and sounded just like Jessi Colter. And she’d always shoot back, “If only I could find my Waylon.”

Jason wandered up to the register, laying down some lures and a tub of catfish bait he’d found in back. Without a word, Caddy slid it across and paid, this time in cash. The little boy took the sack and wandered out to the concrete platform and watched as Carl loaded down an ancient F-250 that had been Quinn’s before he’d gotten that big official sheriff’s truck.

“I appreciate it, Caddy,” Diane said. “I do. But more time won’t matter. It’s been thirty-seven years.”

Caddy reached out and touched Diane’s wrist and said, “I’ve been praying for you. I told you my story. Quinn has his own. We’re all still here and tougher for it.”

“That’s the Tulls,” Diane said. “On our headstones. We know how to endure.”

“Better to live,” Caddy said, smiling as if reading Diane’s thoughts and walking out the front door, the bell above jingling shut. “Quinn’s waiting to hear from you.”