The Forsaken (11 page)

Quinn looked to Lillie. She frowned but stayed put. Royce had already stood, stranding between the couch and a cleared path through the junk to the kitchen.

“The report on the second crime was incomplete,” Lillie said. “And we can’t seem to put our hands on the evidence you logged.”

“Forty years ago?” Royce said. “Hell. Come on, let’s eat some pie.”

“Thirty-seven,” Quinn said.

“Long time.”

“Yep,” Quinn said.

“What’s it matter now?” Royce said.

“One of the victims has made an inquiry,” Quinn said. “A cold case always matters to those who’ve inherited it.”

“Kind of like shit rolling downhill?” Royce said.

Lillie nodded. She finished her cigarette, dropped it in a nearby Maxwell House can, and stood.

“Wish I could help y’all,” Royce said, “but I been retired for twenty years. Sure wish your uncle was still with us. He’d know. Lots of things he didn’t put in a report like they do now. He was a lawman, carried thoughts and ideas with him until he could follow through.”

“Until he ran out of time,” Quinn said.

“He was a fine Christian man,” Royce said. “What people said about him being on the take was pure and complete bullshit.”

“Appreciate your time, Mr. Royce.”

“Did y’all try and ever talk to Stagg?” Royce said. “I know y’all’s history, but he might know something that could help.”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“I don’t think a man can fart in this county without ole Johnny T. Stagg knowing about it.”

Lillie walked out of the shack without a word, tugging on her sunglasses as they walked back to the Big Green Machine. “Hmm” was all Lillie said before Quinn cranked the engine.

“That wasn’t much help,” he said.

“Sometimes I forget how much I hate this fucking county,” she said.

“You don’t mean that.”

Lillie was quiet, mirrored glasses reflecting the road ahead.

Q
uinn removed his Beretta M9 at the door, locked it away in his Army footlocker, and took a seat at a long kitchen table with his mother and Jason. Jean had made fried chicken that night, along with collard greens and cornbread. She brought Quinn a cold Bud, knowing he wanted one before he even asked, Jean Colson never being the kind of mother to turn her nose up at her children drinking beer. She was a woman who bought wine by the box.

As they ate, they listened to Elvis’s
Moody Blue
album, a personal favorite of Jean’s. She especially liked “If You Love Me, Let Me Know,” a song she used to sing to Quinn and Caddy as babies and later to Jason.

“What happened to Boom?” Jean asked.

“He’s at The River,” Quinn said. “Caddy said he’d met a girl there.”

“If it’s the one I’m thinking about,” Jean said, “he better watch out. She’s a fast operator.”

“He doesn’t tell me much,” Quinn said. “Not about that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“His personal life.”

“Y’all have known each other your whole life,” Jean said. “I find it hard to believe there are some subjects off-limits.”

Quinn shrugged. Jason refused to eat any collard greens, but seemed good with the chicken and cornbread. He sat right next to Quinn, pushing his small shoulder up under Quinn’s arm as he told him about some kids who’d been mean to him on the playground.

“How old are they?” Quinn asked.

“Old,” Jason said. “I think they’re in first grade.”

“That old?” Quinn said, chewing off a bit of fried chicken breast, still hot as hell inside and good and spicy. His momma did something with the meat before she cooked with milk and Tabasco. “What’d they say?”

Jason shrugged. “They said I smelled.”

“Why’d they say that?”

Jason shrugged. He looked embarrassed.

“What’d you do about it?”

“I said I’d kick them in the privates.”

Quinn started to agree with his nephew, but Jean held up her hand and gave him the eye. “You know what today is?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Wednesday?”

“It’s Elvis’s birthday,” she said. “You know he would have been seventy-nine?”

“You don’t say,” Quinn said. Jean going on again and again about Elvis Presley. Just part of the deal with having dinner with his mother.

“I bet next year they’ll have a big thing at Graceland,” she said. “But, for the life of me, I can’t imagine Elvis at eighty. I think maybe it’s best he died when he did and never had to get old. I saw him a year before he died. And, yes, he’d gained some weight. But that voice. That voice never left us.”

“No kidding, Momma,” Quinn said, having heard these stories since he’d been Jason’s age.

Jean pretended she was about to throw a drumstick at Quinn’s head. But she instead put it down and picked up her wineglass. Elvis had moved
on into “Let Me Be There,” with the Stamps providing background vocals, J. D. Sumner giving a lot of bottom of soul. His voice something almost supernatural.

“He did this song,” Jean said. “I saw it. I heard it.”

“You knew Elvis?” Jason said, eyes brightening.

“I saw Elvis Presley seventeen times in concert,” Jean said. “He once touched my hand.”

Quinn looked up from his chicken, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “And I’m betting he gave you a yellow scarf, too.”

“You want a spanking, Quinn?” she said. “You’re not too damn old.”

Jason found the idea of Uncle Quinn getting a spanking to be the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He laughed and laughed.

“Well, I bet you didn’t know this,” Jean said. “I once went up to Graceland to meet him. This was only a few months before he died. When we got up there, he was upstairs in his bedroom and wouldn’t come down. I heard his voice at the top of the steps, but when I turned to look, Elvis was gone. All of it very strange. Hard to remember.”

“With Dad?” Quinn said.

“Your dad was friends with some of Elvis’s bodyguards,” Jean said. “When he found out I how much I loved Elvis, he took me to Memphis on his motorcycle. We stayed down in the Jungle Room and listened to music. We played pool downstairs until dawn. He had the kindest old black woman who cooked for him. She made your father and me some eggs and bacon. At Graceland. Can you imagine?”

“You’re right,” Quinn said. “You never told me that story.”

Jean took a big sip of wine. She shrugged back at Quinn. “Part of it was a pleasant memory,” she said, “if certain folks hadn’t been a part of it.”

Quinn nodded, brought his empty plate to the big farm sink, setting in the stopper and starting to fill it with water. He added in a box of suds and went ahead, starting with the glasses on the counter.

“Leave it.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Leave it.”

“You made dinner.”

Soon, Quinn was elbow-deep in the sink, and Jean was slow-dancing with Jason to “She Thinks I Still Care,” getting ready to put him to bed. After he finished the dishes, Quinn grabbed a La Gloria Cubana and wandered down to the fire pit. He added some branches and dry leaves, and then some busted-up logs, to the ring of old stones. In the fall, he’d cut some trees for firewood and left some large logs on each side of the pit. It had been so cold, he hadn’t had much company lately. Caddy was still at The River.

Halfway into his cigar, a truck pulled into the driveway by the house and he heard the telltale squeak of Boom’s old door. He was a hulking shadow, making his way from the hill, where the farmhouse was perched, down to the stone pit, taking a seat on a log across from Quinn. The fire crackled between them, Quinn poking at it with a long stick.

“Watching a fire sober isn’t as much fun as when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Quinn said.

“You like to think on things,” Boom said. “I used to drink to turn all that shit off.”

The right arm of his coat had been neatly cut and pinned at the elbow. Lately, Boom didn’t wear the prosthetic outside the garage.

“You got a smoke for me?” he asked.

Quinn reached into his ranch coat and found another cigar. He stood and passed it to Boom’s left hand. Boom bit off the end and Quinn lit a stainless steel Zippo etched with an America flag.

Boom got the cigar going, blowing out the warm smoke into the cold air.

“I tried you at the office,” Boom said, “but Mary Alice said you were out with Lillie.”

“Went out to see E. J. Royce.”

“That motherfucker is crazy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Left you a message,” Boom said. “Guess you didn’t get it.”

The logs had started to smoke and flames started to rise high off the dry oak as Quinn poked at the edges. The red oak smelled very good and sweet on a cold January night. The cigar smelled of rich, aged tobacco and a cedar wrapper.

“I was working on Kenny’s engine today,” Boom said. “You know he really does need a new vehicle? That Crown Vic has about had it. A true piece of shit, even with my touch.”

“Working on it.”

“Well, I had my head up under the hood, doing my thing, minding my own business.”

Quinn smoked the cigar and watched the fire. The sky above him was big and black, speckled with a million stars. Everything bigger out in the Mississippi hills, wilder in the country.

“Well, I heard Chuck McDougal out in the lot talking to Mr. Dupuy,” Boom said. “I had the bay door open and they didn’t even know I was there or I could hear them.”

“Dumbasses,” Quinn said. “What’d they say?”

“They gonna smoke your ass at the supervisors’ meeting,” Boom said. “Dupuy guaranteed his support to ask you to step down until the DA has cleared you. McDougal is going to say this shooting is an embarrassment to our great county.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“Both of ’em,” Boom said.

“Sometimes I wonder why I came back.”

“Sometimes?” Boom said. “Shit, I wondered that from the first moment you stepped foot back in Jericho.”

Boom clenched the cigar in his teeth and grinned. The wind fluttered
his empty right sleeve. Quinn took another puff of his cigar and tossed it deep into the fire.

•   •   •

On the
front porch
of her old bungalow two blocks from the Jericho Square, Diane Tull kept a collection of wind chimes, now tinkling and twirling in the January wind. Diane was getting ready for bed after spending the last hour talking with her son Patrick, who’d just moved back to Phoenix and found work at a bookshop in Scottsdale. Her other son, David, didn’t call as much. He lived in Nashville, waiting tables during the day and singing for tips outside Ernest Tubb Record Shop at night. Her second husband, their father, had been a frustrated singer/songwriter who thought of himself as the James Taylor of the Southwest, singing about Indians and sunsets. At first, he’d seemed charming to Diane. Later, she knew he was completely and utterly full of shit.

Diane was glad to be in her own home, one of the fortunate folks who’d gotten through the storm with a place to live. A big oak had crushed the roof over her living room, but she’d never had to move out, all the repairs going on under a blue tarp while she was at the Farm & Ranch. She’d even gotten a few improvements to her kitchen with the insurance money: new counters, new sink, and a brand-new dishwasher.

When did her life get so boring that she got excited about a damn dishwasher?

The wind chimes clicked and spun outside, cold wind whistling through windowsill cracks and under the doors, making a bad racket, enough to make people in town nervous, the way they were now, whenever a storm blew through. Diane took off her wet towel and changed into some gray sweatpants and a white tank top, finding a spot on her bed to read a new novel by James Carlos Blake until she fell asleep. She’d be back at work at seven a.m. to sell that feed and seed.

Diane heard the creak of the slats on her front porch and the clunk of boots.

Diane closed the book and stood, listening to the soft-thudding footsteps outside, and then turned off the bedside lamp to see a little better in the dark.

The front porch light had already been turned off and at first she thought it was Hank Stillwell again, drunk as a goat and not having any sense of decency about the time. But even in the darkness, she could tell it was a young man with long hair and a beard, walking from end to end on the front porch, reaching up and touching a glass wind chime, making the sound stop for a moment and then start again as he moved away. He leaned toward the window to her living room and peered in for a long moment.

Diane Tull kept a loaded J. C. Higgins 12-gauge under her bed and knew how to use it. She got to her knees, reached through the boxes to find it, and pulled it up on top of her thighs, squatting there and listening.

The man walked off the porch and down the steps. She stood and peered through lace curtains again, seeing nothing of him, wondering if maybe he’d been at the wrong house looking for the wrong person. Since the tornado, lots of folks didn’t know one end of town from the other, all the wayfinders and landmarks ripped out in a few seconds.

She caught her breath and walked back to the kitchen, shotgun in right hand, for a cold drink of water. The wind blew violent as hell outside, Diane wishing she’d never collected so many of those damn chimes, people always bringing them to her now from vacation spots. There were wind chimes from New Orleans, Gulf Shores, and even a set from New York City, with little chimes hanging beneath the Empire State Building. Now all she needed was a goddamn cat to let the town know she’d gone crazy.

She laid the shotgun on the kitchen table and drank the cool water. The wind knocked hard outside, tree limbs brushing the window. And
then there was a sharp buzz and flickering of light and her damn power was out.

“Son of a bitch.”

She lit a candle, finished her water, and had turned back to the bedroom when she saw the bearded man looking through the back door window straight at her.

She dropped the glass, it shattering to the floor. Diane reached for the shotgun as she heard the rattling and twisting of the knob.