The Innocents (11 page)

•   •   •

M
illy had said good-bye to her momma and her sister before the game. Now, she needed to find a place away from Jericho where she could just live for a while. When she got on her feet, she could make things right. She could send back the money to Miss Fannie, talk to her daddy about those stupid threats. The only thing she wanted was to get some breathing room and figure out a way for folks to hear her. The last few years had felt like screaming underwater with no one hearing or seeing what she was saying.

Milly drove away from all the cars and trucks bunched together behind the stadium and past the fat little deputy standing at the edge of the road. She figured she’d ride through Jericho, ’round about the Square, to see who was about. Maybe she’d see her sister or run into Joshua—maybe wanting to see Joshua more than anybody. He was the only one who believed her, believed in her, until things became such a goddamn mess.

The Square looked good that Friday night, calm and empty, with most everyone at the game. A few boys had cut out early, parking their jacked-up trucks and custom muscle cars up by the gazebo and veterans’ memorial. A couple boys from high school added to the monument now. One of them had gotten in her pants once, then he’d gone off to Afghanistan and got blown to bits. She was glad she gave herself to him before he left. He wasn’t a handsome boy—pimply face, big Adam’s apple—but he’d been kind and sweet. About the most you could ask for.

Even though it was August, the old oaks twinkled with white Christmas lights, and at least two of the storefronts shone with light. Pizza Inn and the Panda Buffet. The others were either closed up for the night or closed up forever. The old movie house that had been one church or another Milly’s whole life had been bought up last year and redone. They had a cheap marquee on it now, a special double feature of
WHITE LIGHTNING AND
GATOR. SPECIAL APPEARANCE BY
STUNTMAN JASON COLSO
N!

She headed north out of town, past the old post office, taking the new bridge over the Big Black River, a gentle curve of concrete lifting her way up above the dark waters and sending her on toward Yellow Leaf and then beyond toward Highway 45 North. Her old Kia sputtered and coughed, the incline of the bridge being maybe more than it could take. She checked her gas, knew she had enough to at least get to Tupelo, but as soon as she heard the pop and saw all that steam, she
knew she was screwed. That burned antifreeze smell filled the car, the engine shut down, and only through damn gravity was she able to roll down from the bridge and turn onto the landing where folks set their boats into the river in the spring and summer. As the Kia rolled to a stop, she rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Steam hissing through the cracks of the hood.

Milly made two phone calls and then walked to the water’s edge, where she smoked a cigarette and paced up and down the muddy bank.

Twenty minutes later, she saw a car turn off the end of the bridge and wind down toward her. Milly waved to the car, the headlights lighting up high and bright in her face. She had to use a forearm over her eyes so she could see who’d given a shit enough to come help.

The door opened. Milly saw the face and stepped backward, tripping over her own legs. “Get the hell away from me.”

F
inally rolling,” Indiana Jack said, calling in to dispatch in Memphis. “Shipper was having equipment problems.”

“Make sure you stop by the office,” dispatch said. “You need to get your permit books updated and those IFTA stickers.”

“Ten-four,” Indiana Jack said. “I’ll be headed backwoods on the way to Wally World. May shut down for an hour if I’m having shutter trouble.”

“Drive safe,” dispatch said. “See you back at the mother ship.”

Indiana Jack hung up the CB and thought about a warm bed, hot breakfast at the Flying J, a T-bone and two eggs sunny side up, side of grits, and a pot of hot coffee. He’d be sleeping in until Monday, get a couple days with his wife and their two grandkids. Maybe go to the zoo or the Bass Pro Shop. He’d been living down South now for the last four years, having met Sheri online on that farmersonly.com, not that
he was a farmer, but he wanted a woman who was looking to meet a regular joe. Sheri was a good woman, a stout widow with four kids and eight grandchildren. She ran her own business, a knitting supply company in Cordova. Indiana Jack and her had been cohabitating now for the last two years and things couldn’t be better.

Jack knocked it down a gear as he slipped down the snake of the new Big Black River Bridge, headlights lighting up a fine early evening. He reached for some coffee from the Thermos cap and took a big sip. He’d been running and gunning since Mobile at four a.m. He didn’t mind being a company man. He’d been working for Walmart since he moved to Memphis. It wasn’t a bad thing knowing you had steady work, not having to hustle a load.

Jack kept on the radio to listen, never being the kind of driver to get ratchet jaw. He drank some coffee. Set the AC on high to dry the sweat off his face and keep him awake. He punched up the next stop, computer calculating the mileage and his fuel load. The back road to the highway had plenty of rolling green hills and lots of cattle. He could see himself settling down in a little place like this county. Maybe getting some acreage, building a shop to tinker around with once Sheri got tired of minding store.

Indiana Jack shifted down and hit a steady fifty, the night shining bright under a full moon, signs leading him back to 45. He rolled past a couple of rural churches, two convenience stores, and a cinder-block beauty shop called Nanette’s.

“Breaker, breaker,” he said. “This is Indiana Jack slow-rolling to Memphis. On channel one-nine. High Plains Drifter, you got your ears on?”

High Plains Drifter, a coffin hauler out of Batesville, answered right back, calling him a sorry so-and-so, just as a bright patch of light caught
Jack’s eye. He shifted down, the bluish light nearly stepping in front of him, and he saw the bright light was a human form, someone walking, and he hit the brakes, nearly losing the whole rig as it slid for another forty yards to a hard, skidding stop. Burnt rubber hung heavy in the air. Indiana Jack hopped out of the cab with the shipping blanket he kept on the jump seat and ran toward whatever it was, thinking something was maybe playing with his mind. But he knew when he saw a bluish orange flame walking down the centerline.

“Sweet Jesus.”

Indiana Jake ran toward the thing, covering up the smoldering fire with the old gray blanket, trying to smother the flame that just wouldn’t die. The body was small and frail, with bright red skin beyond belief. Never a praying man, Jack began to pray over and over, call out to Jesus on the main line, or whoever was listening, to help this screaming, crying little mass. It had no hair and not much of a mouth. Words, or something like it, were coming out between the screams. There were eyes in all the burned flesh staring right at him, trying to say something.

He ran back to the truck and grabbed his cell phone and called 911. “Help. We got a dying woman out on 421, a half mile or so from 45.”

“What’s the medical emergency?”

“It’s a girl,” Indiana Jack said. “She’s been set on fire, god damn it. Y’all come on right now. She ain’t gonna make
it.”

W
ill she make it?” Lillie said.

“No way,” Ophelia Bundren said. Lillie had called Ophelia, the county coroner, right after the Burn Unit in Memphis. The helicopter blades on the medevac started to spin, kicking up dirt, grit, and plastic bottles from the bridge where it had landed moments ago. Ophelia turned away, black hair covering her face, as she closed her eyes.

“Jesus, God,” Lillie said. “I’ve never seen anything like that. And I hope to never again.”

“EMTs pumped her full of morphine,” Ophelia said. “There’s that.”

Ophelia was two years younger than Lillie, two inches shorter, but prettier, dark hair and eyes and a tight red mouth. She didn’t talk a lot, but when she did, it was often explosive. She’d once thrown a steak knife at Quinn Colson when she found out about him and Anna Lee.

“How could she be alive?” Lillie said. “After all that? Christ, the girl was walking while on fire.”

Ophelia shook her head. The helicopter lifted up high and big over the Big Black River, red light pulsing on the tail, and dipped its nose toward Memphis, flying fast and away. Ophelia walked to the edge of the bridge and held on to the wall, taking deep breaths. She just kept on shaking her head, looking like she might toss her cookies.

“Her mouth was the worst of it,” Lillie said. “Someone had poured something into her before they lit her up. She kept on trying to talk, tell me something, but nothing made sense. I didn’t know who or what I was looking at until we ran the tag on her car. Now I see her eyes. Her eyes were bloodshot but focused. She wanted us to know who did this.”

“Someone wanted that little girl shut up fast.”

“You OK?” Lillie said.

“You bet,” Ophelia said. “I’ve seen some things half as bad.”

“Good.” Lillie put her hand to her own mouth and walked down the road to where the flares had been set, burning down to their final sparks. She stepped off a good two or three paces before she ran toward the edge of the bridge and lost her lunch.

“It’s OK,” Ophelia said. “It happens.”

“Fuck it all,” Lillie said. “I don’t want anyone seeing me be sick. I’ve worked a lot of homicides. It’s, just, the smell. God damn, it’s all over me. It’s her. Burning. It’s all on me.”

“Lemon juice and bleach mixed with water,” Ophelia said. “If that doesn’t work, I have strong soap at the funeral home. You can take some.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “Every damn day.”

“Old people die,” she said. “What gets to me are the kids. Or bad accidents. People with parts missing. Or their faces real fucked-up. But
I promise you, I have never seen anything like this. Ever. Did you say she was walking?”

“Some old trucker from Indiana stopped her,” Lillie said, wiping her mouth, looking around to see who may have seen her throw up. God damn it. Everyone looked intent on watching that helicopter, a bunch of folks stopped on the side of the road to pray. “Someone needs to buy that old boy a drink. He’s a goddamn mess. He said she was all lit up like a candle, seeing fire in her mouth and over her back. He knew it was a girl from her screams. He kept on talking about those screams, how it was so high-pitched, he couldn’t get it out of his head. And that man had been in fucking Vietnam.”

“Christ Almighty,” Ophelia said. “I sure as hell hope no one wants an open casket.”

“Don’t worry,” Lillie said. “I’m no expert. But I don’t think that’ll happen.”

“Who is she, Lil?”

“Teenager named Milly Jones,” Lillie said. “Her father filed a missing persons report on her two days ago. Said she’d been messing around with drugs. He told us he’d heard she’d been stripping, maybe turning a trick or two.”

“Boyfriend?”

“You can bet your ass we’ll find out,” Lillie said. “This kind of hate, meanness, doesn’t have a place in this world. Only a goddamn animal would do something like this.”

“In my experience,” Ophelia said, “animals are more kind.”

“Did you get photos?” Lillie asked. “For after.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lillie nodded and shook her head. Her mouth tasted metallic and she spit on the bridge. She wanted very badly to take a shower in lemon
juice and bleach, maybe burn her whole uniform. A hot wind shook the trees off the Big Black. In between the passing cars and occasional whoop-whooping siren, you could still hear the old river turning and churning. That was a strange comfort.

“Oh, shit,” Ophelia said. Her black hair blew across her face and dark eyes, catching in her mouth. Ophelia still was wearing the black uniform of the Bundren Funeral Home.
Serving Jericho’s Families Since 1962.

Lillie looked toward the end of the bridge and in the darkness she saw Quinn Colson talking with Kenny and Kenny, pointing their way. Ophelia had done her best to stay clear of Quinn since things had gone Deep South. That knife being thrown had been the punctuation in their relationship.

“Will they release the body back to the county?” Ophelia said.

Lillie nodded. “Might have some state people take a look, too,” she said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Ophelia said. “I’m pretty good. But I’m better at putting together than taking apart. I’m just damn glad you’re the sheriff right now.”

“Hadn’t you heard?”

Ophelia swallowed and shook her head. There was a great deal of noise and light at the foot of the bridge. An empty ambulance bucked up onto the asphalt from the landing. Lillie had taped off pretty much the whole area. Kenny, Reggie, and the rest were out with flashlights. It was going to be a long night. News crews coming in from Jackson, Tupelo, and Memphis.

“I offered Quinn a part-time job,” Lillie said. “Until he heads back to Afghanistan.”

“Why the hell does he just keep coming back?” Ophelia said. “He should’ve gathered up that trophy and left a long time back.”

•   •   •

O
rdeen forgot to get his momma some whole milk. She’d asked him three damn times already and then he came home without the milk and she’d sent his ass back to the Gas & Go. You back-talk her and you’re in a world of hurt. Sammi was there, as always, his face all fucked-up, cut and bruised. He should’ve known Ordeen didn’t have shit to do with it. That was between him and Nito. Nito was fucking crazy, Ordeen thought, walking down the aisle with the freezer buzzing on high at midnight.

“Five ninety-five,” Sammi said, when Ordeen set down the jug.

“For a gallon of fucking milk?”

“Five ninety-five.”

“That’s bullshit, man,” Ordeen said. “You fuck people ’cause you can. ’Cause if we don’t pay that much, you send us down to Jericho. Cost that much in gas.”

“Cost me that much in gas,” Sammi said. “Five ninety-five.”

“Shit,” Ordeen said, reaching into his pockets. “Bullshit, man.”

“Bullshit?” Sammi said, handing back his change. “Bullshit? OK. Bullshit.”

“C’mon.”

Sammi put his fingers over his bruises and cuts, swollen lip and half-closed eye. “Yeah, I know that real bullshit. You and Nito. You all bullshit, man.”

“Wadn’t me.”

“You don’t ride with him?” Sammi said. “In the
Here Kitty Kitty
car? You his boy. I know it. You ride with him all over the place, doin’ whatever y’all doin’. Schemin’ some shit. I know that.”

“Thanks for the milk, Sammi.”

“Y’all really think you can win?” he said. “Just the two of you?”

“What kinda shit you talkin’ now?”

Sammi sat back down on a stool behind the cash register. He ran his hand over his face like an old man, not a kid who hadn’t turned twenty-one. “Come on,” he said. “You don’t know? Nobody gets out of that Miss-i-ssippi, right? This is a place to live till you die. And then they just scrape you off the highway like a fucking animal.”

“You high?”

Sammi jumped up so fast, Ordeen thought he had a gun and was about to shoot his ass. But then he just reached over and turned an old-fashioned little TV around so that Ordeen could see the screen. Late-night news from Memphis—only they say they down in Mississippi. A white woman standing in front of a bunch of flashing ambulance and cop car lights. Down below, Ordeen read on the screen:
BURNING GIRL F
OUND WALKING JERICHO
, MISSISSIPPI, HIGHWAY
.

“What the fuck?” Ordeen said.

“Don’t forget your milk.”

“Who burned up?” Ordeen said. “Who burned up?”

“Milly,” Sammi said. “Little Milly Jones. God damn this place.”

Sammi ran his hand over his sweating young face again. He reached for a half-finished Coke and took a big ole swig. “She was nice to me,” he said. “Real nice. She looked at me and smiled at school. Nobody did that. Not you two fuckers.”

“Milly’s dead?”

Sammi pushed the gallon of milk across the counter. He slumped down into his crossed arms, laying his head over his elbows. He didn’t
turn as Ordeen snatched up that milk jug and walked out into the hot night. Damn, his head was fucked-up. Milly Jones was dead? That didn’t make no goddamn sense. The milk felt cool in the palm of his hand, the cracked asphalt at the Gas & Go still giving off heat.

Nito was parked by the do-it-yourself car wash behind the convenience store. He had the water wand in his hand, hosing down the tires, big rims, and the soap off the windshield and hood. He flashed a bright gold smile at Ordeen, car shaking for the bass inside, but Ordeen couldn’t really hear the music above the spray.

Ordeen shuffled out a cigarette, sweating deep through his T-shirt, and sat on some concrete blocks, waiting for him to finish up.
Milly Jones burned up.
Maybe dead.
That was some fucked-up shit. Nito started the car, the engine growling from the twin exhausts, windows dark as hell, and rode up to where Ordeen waited with his momma’s milk.

Nito Reece didn’t say nothing, just tapped that gas, and made that electric-blue machine purr.

•   •   •

Q
uinn saw Wash Jones arguing with a highway patrolman and pointing down the hill to where the techs, EMTs, and sheriff’s deputies had gathered by the boat dock and the shell of the Kia. The helicopter had taken what was left of his daughter to Memphis and it looked as if Wash was about to punch someone in the jaw if he didn’t get answers. Quinn remembered Wash from when he used to drain his uncle’s septic tank, leaning against that stinking truck and telling racist jokes about Mexicans and blacks, wishing they’d go back to their own goddamn countries. Quinn headed up the hill to meet him. About halfway there, he pointed to Quinn and called out his name. He called Quinn “Sheriff” in the confusion.

Quinn nodded to the highway patrolman and the man let Wash duck under the yellow tape. He looked a mess, wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a
Duck Dynasty
T-shirt. He was unshaven and red-eyed and out of breath by the time he met Quinn. His camo ball cap read
MAKE A
MERICA GREAT AGAIN
.

“What the hell’s going on, Quinn?” Wash said. “Nobody is telling me nothing. Kenny called me at the house and said that Milly had been in some kind of accident. I get down here and folks are talking about her being set on fire. Lord Almighty. Set on fire.”

Wash breathed hard and shook his head. He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand and swallowed hard.

“She’s in rough shape,” Quinn said. “She’s been burned pretty bad.”

“Did she get in a wreck?”

“We don’t know what’s going on,” Quinn said. “A trucker found her walking a little ways from here. She couldn’t tell us what happened. We found her car down by the landing, nearly gone.”

“Milly,” Wash said. “Lord. I need to get to Memphis. I need to be there.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “We can get highway patrol to get you up there fast.”

“She’s gonna be all right?” he asked. “They said she was walking. If she was walking, it means she’s alive. Strong.”

Quinn put his hand on Wash’s shoulder. He smelled like Jack Daniel’s and cigarettes. He looked Wash straight in the eye and shook his head. Wash Jones began to cry, dropped to his knees, and wrapped himself with his meaty arms. He sucked in a lot of air and started to wail. Some EMT ran up the hill toward him, worried the old man was having a heart attack.

“It’s the girl’s father,” Quinn said. Quinn got down to a knee and
patted Wash on the back just as Lillie appeared from down by that burned-up Kia.

“He needs to get to Memphis,” Quinn said. “Faster the better.”

Quinn took one arm and Lillie the other and hoisted him back to his feet. He coughed and sputtered, wiping his face, composing himself and then spotting Boom Kimbrough hooking up what was left of the white compact. The entire vehicle had been burned up quick and hot, windows busted out and tires melted away. Wash swallowed again and shook his head. “My little girl,” he said. “My little girl. My sweet little baby.”

“Mr. Jones, did you hear from Milly after she went missing?”

Wash didn’t answer.

“Mr. Jones?” Lillie said with a little more force than the man needed right now. “I need to know if you’ve seen or heard from Milly in the last forty-eight hours.”

“No,” he said. “No. I ain’t seen her. Who done this? Who the hell done this to my daughter? Christ Almighty. I’m going to kill them. I’m going to fucking kill them all.”

“Who?” Lillie said. “Mr. Jones? Who do you want to kill?”

Wash Jones wasn’t listening, back turned, while he lumbered back up the hill. He spoke to the highway patrolman and the patrolman opened the rear of his cruiser. A second later, the flashers were going and the siren sounding to get the crowd who’d gathered on the closed bridge out of the way.

“He called his daughter a whore.”

“He didn’t do this,” Quinn said. “He’s a lousy drunk. But he’s not a killer.”

“He said she’d shamed her family by dating blacks and working the gold pole.”

“She worked at the Rebel?”

“That’s what he said,” Lillie said. “Said she’d lost all respect for herself and her family.”

“Does her mother know yet?”

“Reggie Caruthers is driving her and Milly’s sister to Memphis right now.”

“What’s this I hear about the new owner of the Rebel?”

“She’s a piece of work,” Lillie said. “Come on. Good a time as any to meet her.”