The Forsaken (18 page)

J
ohnny Stagg always hated having to conduct his business in public, once a month, center stage, in the Tibbehah County Building, spending hours talking about things already been decided. But this was the law, had been the law for a hundred years or more, and, as he looked out into the seats, he was surprised to see them filled. The Board of Supervisors meeting wasn’t exactly a hot ticket in Jericho unless you planned on getting your road paved or wanted to complain about logging traffic. Most of the time, folks just asked for an improvement in public utilities, which didn’t have a damn thing to do with them. But here they were, country-come-to-town, wanting to know just what was going to be done about their sheriff killing a fellow lawman in cold blood.

Stagg waited for things to begin, taking center seat on the dais, right next to that fat old Chuck McDougal, who represented District 3, and Mr. Dupuy, who represented District 4 down in Sugar Ditch. Sam Bishop, Jr., ran things within the city limits of Jericho and was the son of a Boy Scout troop leader. Bobby Pickens ran things out toward Drivers Flat, District 5, down into the bottomland that was white, all the way to the border with the Choctaw Nation. You couldn’t rely on Bishop or Pickens. Pickens’s mind could be swayed, but Bishop thought his opinion mattered two shits.

“Call to order,” Stagg said. “Glad to see so many interested faces with us tonight. Mr. McDougal, would you please lead us all in the pledge and a short prayer?”

Dupuy was on his cell phone, talking to some woman he was courting. McDougal had been clipping his fingernails under the dais straight onto the floor. His daddy had been the biggest crook this county had ever seen and he’d have been the same if he’d had half a brain.

McDougal stood, pig-eyed and porky, and put his hand to the American pin on his chest. He gave a lot of effect to saying “under God,” as that had always been his election platform. He told people in Tibbehah that the government wanted to take the Lord out of schools.

Stagg stood, hand on chest, spotting Quinn Colson in the center row. He was in uniform and sitting with the county coroner, a nice-looking piece of tail that the sheriff was fucking. He looked right at Stagg. Stagg nodded to him. Quinn’s expression did not change.

“Lord, please grant our nation’s leaders, in particular our president, some sense of wisdom and Christian values,” McDougal said. “To represent this great God-fearing nation in the ways of our forefathers and not just immigrants.”

Lord, if that boy was dumb as dirt, Stagg thought, he’d cover a few acres.

Stagg watched the Bundren girl lean into Quinn, whisper something, and Colson smile. He couldn’t blame them. McDougal was a Grade A moron.

“Any comments or questions should be held until the end of the agenda,” Stagg said. “We got lots to cover and a packed house. So y’all please bear with us tonight. We’ll go as quickly and efficiently as always.”

There were grading projects, cell phone towers, and a new subdivision plot needed approving. All of them decided on weeks ago, kickbacks already divvied up. There were improvements requested to the old bridge over the Big Black. The Fire Department needed two new vehicles
because of those damaged in the storm, and there was a reimbursement needed for the town clerk for prep and copying of tax rolls.

“And we got some property to remove?” Stagg said. “From the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Colson?”

Quinn approached the dais, ramrod straight, and read off a request to remove a Vertex handheld radio, whatever that was, and a 2007 Ford Crown Vic. Both would be headed to salvage.

“We’re also having issues at the SO building,” Colson said. “The roof repairs were patch jobs and have started to leak. We need to look to a permanent solution, along with the damage to two of our holding cells.”

“Fine by me,” Stagg said. “Does the board have any questions?”

Stagg leaned back, stifling a yawn. This was the part of the show that he enjoyed. Colson had his hands flat on the lectern, not showing any emotion in that buzz-cut head of his.

McDougal cleared his throat and leaned forward into his microphone. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I got a few things to discuss that ain’t on this matter but having to deal with sheriff’s business.”

Stagg covered a slight grin with his hand.

“I’ve spent a lot of time out in my district, as I always do, speaking with my constituents who are concerned about this ongoing legal matter with you and Chief Deputy Virgil,” he said, coughing more into his hand. “Have you heard any new information when this inquiry will be done? I’d like to pass on some comfort to my people up in the hills.”

Quinn did not shuffle or move. His eyes just shifted from Stagg to McDougal’s puffy face and reddened cheeks.

“We’ve met with investigators from the DA’s office,” Quinn said. “We’ve answered all their questions.”

McDougal smiled wide. He puckered his mouth and shifted his eyes over at Dupuy’s midnight-black ass. Dupuy dressed tonight like he was on his way to a Sunday fish fry, with a five-button green silk suit with yellow hankie in the pocket. “Mmm-hmm,” McDougal said. “I guess we’re getting
some conflicting information. I just spoke to the DA’s office and they said you and Chief Deputy Virgil have been combative and unhelpful.”

“That’s a lie,” Colson said.

“Excuse me?” McDougal said. “Excuse me?”

“I said that’s a lie,” Colson said. “We have been cooperative in what was a justified shooting. If someone says different, they’re either uninformed or stupid.”

Dupuy jerked forward in his chair, eyes wide, Stagg enjoying a fine bit of old-time theater. “Come again, Sheriff? Come again? You don’t think y’all being investigated for killing Police Chief Chappell is important? You think this is some kind of joke? My people take it real serious. Mr. McDougal’s folks, too. I imagine you should know your place around here, Mr. Colson.”

As expected, Sam Bishop, Jr., and Bobby Pickens were silent. They were told to steer clear of things and that was exactly what they’d do if they wanted their projects to go through.

“Sheriff Colson?” Bobby Pickens said.

Stagg turned quick to look at that red-faced peckerhead. Pickens had his hands over his mouth, contemplating this dumb-shit move.

Colson stood there.

“Some on this board feel this investigation into the shooting last April is complicating your sheriff’s duties,” he said. “What do you say?”

“I can do my job the same,” Quinn said. “I stand behind my actions.”

“Yes, sir,” Pickens said.

That goddamn son of a bitch.

“At what point would you step down?” McDougal asked. “If you was arrested?”

From the crowd in the pews, Stagg saw that old drunk Sonny Stevens rise and walk down the aisle to stand with Quinn. God damn, this was fun. The only disappointment was Stevens seemed to be walking in a straight line. And when he started to speak, he didn’t slur his words. “This
line of questioning is improper,” Stevens said, “and could and might be slanderous. Sheriff Colson has not been accused of a crime.”

McDougal leaned back into his padded leather seat and belched. Dupuy looked down at his cell phone, starting to text. Stagg nodded and nodded, knowing he was going to have to get through to the whole town, and county, what exactly was at stake. “We’re concerned, Sheriff,” Stagg said. “We are worried about how this affects our people and the county you serve. We’re not saying it has to be permanent, but perhaps until the investigation is completed, you and Deputy Virgil should step down.”

“And when will that be?” Quinn said.

“I guess nobody knows that.”

“Seems to me,” Quinn said, “you know a lot of things before they happen or before they can be found.”

“Sir?”

“I got a busted radio and a patrol car that need to be junked,” Quinn said. “There’s been two burglaries in the county, nine drug arrests, eighteen speeding tickets, and fourteen cases of assault since we last met. That information has been printed and handed out, as always. Are we finished?”

There was a mood in the room, a shifting nervous energy that Stagg could sense and feel and hoped Colson could as well. Lots of whispering and glares among the business owners, the players, and the busybodies in Tibbehah life. No one seemed satisfied with Colson’s answer. He was being put on notice and everyone knew it.

Old Sonny Stevens leaned into Quinn, whispered into his ear. The young man and the old man walked out together. His girlfriend remained alone in the center seat, giving Stagg an
Eat shit and die
look. Damn, she had a fine little red mouth.

•   •   •

It was
early night,
darkness at 1930, as Quinn stepped out into the parking lot and saw the Big Green Machine parked sideways and off toward
the main road. He and Sonny had parted at the back door, Sonny wanting him to come to his office first thing and work on some strategies to keep the coyotes at bay. “Best thing is to stay focused on the job,” Sonny had said. “That way, when the shitstorm is over, you can hold your head high and stroll through the cannon smoke.”

Boom had done a fine job on the used F-250, Quinn making damn sure to furnish his own vehicle rather than take the tricked-out truck Stagg and the Board of Supervisors had offered when he first took office. This one had a big engine, dually pipes, a roll bar, KC lights, and no strings attached. The Army-green paint gleamed in the fluorescent light from a recent waxing. He hit the unlock button in his coat pocket, his breath coming out in cloud bursts, and got halfway there when he spotted Stagg’s man standing close to his vehicle.

“Cold night, ain’t it?” the man called Ringold said.

Quinn nodded, maintaining eye contact, and opened the door. Hondo was inside, sleeping in the back on a horse blanket. Hondo stirred, yawned, and got to his feet.

“Mr. Stagg would like you and him to meet,” Ringold said.

“What’d you call that in there?”

“In private.”

“If Stagg wants a meet,” Quinn said, “tell him to call Mary Alice at the SO. I’m off duty.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a fresh La Gloria Cubana. He punched the bottom, lit the end, and propped a boot on the truck’s running board.

“It would be in y’all’s best interests.”

“How do you figure?” Quinn said, smoke filling the air.

“Mr. Stagg has a proposition.”

“Should have said it tonight,” Quinn said. “I don’t make deals in back of a jerk shack.”

“You’re a hard one, Ranger,” Ringold said. He grinned a little, wearing a snug-fit denim jacket, Carhartt khakis, and tan combat boots. He kept
a chrome Sig Sauer on his belt, as was his right. There was no doubt the man had a permit, but he’d check anyway.

“Good night,” Quinn said.

“Which battalion?”

“Third Batt,” Quinn said. “Fort Benning.”

Ringold nodded. “I knew some of you,” he said. “You know Ricardo Perez?”

“I do,” Quinn said, hanging there, door open. Hondo moved up to the driver’s seat and stood there, poised, growling nice and low.

“I figured,” he said. “I knew him at Fort Bragg.”

Quinn nodded. Ringold waited a beat, like he wanted Quinn to ask him about Bragg and the Special Forces, but Quinn stayed silent, staring at him. Quinn had heard Ringold had been 82nd Airborne and then Special Forces, but him knowing Ricardo was the first proof of it. Ringold brought it up because he wanted Quinn to know who he was dealing with.

“Can I ask you something, Sheriff Colson?”

Quinn nodded.

“Ain’t it hard to slow down?” Ringold said. “Some days, I feel like I’m just itching out of my skin for a little action.”

“What you do now is your call.”

“And what is it that I do?” Ringold said, a streetlight shining off his bald head. He rubbed the stubble on his beard and grinned.

“You walk behind Stagg,” Quinn said.

“Sure,” Ringold said. “But not too far, Sergeant.”

Quinn shrugged. The man was compact and hard, short and muscled, still dressing as if he were on patrol in Kandahar. His eyes were very light, with a strange intensity that was either high intelligence or batshit crazy.

“So you’re saying no to a meet?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mr. Stagg is a man of compromise.”

“We could sit here for the rest of the night and debate what Mr. Stagg is a man of,” Quinn said. “But I’ve got better plans.”

From the reflection in his truck’s side mirror, Quinn saw Ophelia Bundren wandering out of the county building, speaking with Sam Bishop, Jr., and Betty Jo Mize of the
Tibbehah Monitor
. The old woman leaned into Ophelia, whispered in her ear, and Ophelia walked away with a smile. She joined Quinn at his truck and he opened the passenger door, helping her up into the seat of the tall truck.

Ringold nodded to Quinn as Quinn passed him at the front bumper, neither man moving out of the way, Ringold closing in on Quinn’s personal space. Ringold just stood in Quinn’s headlights, flat-footed and immobile, as he backed out and turned out of the lot and onto the road.

“Just what was that all about?” Ophelia said, staring.

“He wanted to give himself a proper introduction,” Quinn said.