The Fallen Read online

  “Doesn’t matter much now,” Quinn said. “That’s all chickenshit. You really think Fannie Hathcock is trucking women through Tibbehah without anyone noticing?”

  “I know it,” she said. “And they’re not women. These are little girls. Most of them can’t speak English. Coming up from the Coast and over from Texas. Vietnamese and Mexican girls. She’s part of some kind of fucked-up pipeline to big cities where they get to work off their passage.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I know.”

  “You need to do better than that.”

  “Not until Ana Maria and Tamika are home,” Caddy said. “You start kicking around and shooting folks and I’ll never find them. These folks will make sure they damn well disappear.”

  “I’ve been sheriff, off and on, for about five years now,” Quinn said. “I may have picked up a few things about how to run an investigation.”

  “You do what you need to do,” Caddy said. “And I’ll do what I need to do. If we meet in the middle, so be it.”

  The Blackwood Brothers had moved on to one of Quinn’s favorites, “Jericho Road,” making him think of being a kid and believing the song had been written about his hometown. The words always making more sense to him in that context. Caddy rocked back on forth on her feet, hands deep in her pockets, looking at Quinn and waiting for him to get on with it or let her go.

  “They sound pretty good,” Quinn said, “for a second act.”

  “Why don’t you come on in and take a listen?” she said. “We can talk later.”

  “Who do you know at Fannie’s?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Can I meet them?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Not now. I’m not sure if ever. It might get them killed.”

  “Or save their ass.”

  “They trust me to do the right thing,” Caddy said. “This is something that’s weighed heavy on them for a long time. They came to me to help them with their burden, not get them in trouble.”

  “You might consider that the sheriff’s office and the Feds might do a hell of a lot better than some crazy woman and a one-armed mechanic.”

  “Do I need to remind you these girls are fifteen, cast off like damn pieces of trash by their families? They’re being ripped inside out every damn day, making what you did at Ranger school seem like child’s play.”

  “Is your contact inside the barn?” Quinn said. “Listening to the Blackwoods and ready for a plate of pit chicken?”

  Caddy looked up at Quinn but didn’t answer.

  “Bring ’em out,” Quinn said. “Right now. I’ll protect them. Make sure no harm comes their way.”

  “Not up to me.”

  “But you’ll ask?”

  It was on to “Why Me,” and the band really leaned into it, heavy drums with wailing guitar, the entire barn seeming to sing along. “So help me, Jesus, my soul’s in your hand.”

  “Can’t beat the classics,” Quinn said.

  “Jamey Dixon once told me that there was no replacing real gospel music,” she said. “He said all that new praise music wasn’t worth two shits.”

  “He was a pistol.”

  “It’s not what you think,” Caddy said.

  Quinn didn’t answer but knew where she was headed. He just looked at his kid sister and waited.

  “Momma believes I can’t let this go because of what happened to me.”

  “And what do you say?”

  “I say I got to do a lot of good to make up for a lot of bad.”

  Quinn shook his head and turned to a ditch to spit. He walked toward his sister and wrapped her in his arms, pulling her in close and kissing the top of her head.

  • • •

  Wilcox waited up most of the night, knees drawn up to his chest, sitting on a pile of bricks, smoking endless cigarettes and looking for the doc to finish with Cord. Opie had wandered out into the woods around the airfield, knowing and expecting the worst. Wilcox not believing it, thinking Sergeant Jonas Cord was Kevlar-plated and bulletproof. Sometime after midnight, the doctor, a rangy old man who smelled of gin, walked outside the Quonset hut and placed a hand on the redheaded woman’s shoulder. Wilcox watched them sort it all out as shadows cast by a bright light shining from a pole in the alley between the hut and another building.

  The redheaded woman, Hathcock, crushed a cigarette under her foot and walked toward him. Wilcox stood up, cold outside in his T-shirt, blood dried across it and his forearms.

  “Cord’s dead,” she said. “What do we do with him?”

  “Maybe say a few words or sing some songs,” he said. “Goddamn, woman, you got a way with words.”

  “No need to sugarcoat it,” she said. “Don’t you Marines like it straight? I would’ve arranged for a band to play ‘Stars and Stripes Forever,’ but I got shit to do.”

  Wilcox moved up to Fannie, lifting back his hand and wanting to slap that smile off her face. But he stopped himself, seeing her face had grown wet, her teeth in a wild grin, but she was crying all the same. Her upper body was shaking, lip quivering.

  “Oh, fuck it.”

  “That all you got, Marine?” she said. “‘Fuck it.’ Isn’t this what you wanted? Cord told me all about the feeling of battle and brotherhood that y’all miss so much. You know damn well that he’d have rather died shooting it out with some bad motherfuckers than towing cars and busting fat women for sticking jewelry up their coots. He wasn’t right in the head. And, if I can be honest with you, neither are you.”

  “Where’s the money?”

  “It’s safe,” Fannie said, wiping her face. “We’ll talk about that later. But right now we need to get you stitched up and cleaned up and down the road. I got friends. I can get Cord FedExed wherever you like.”

  “Damn, you’re a cold-ass bitch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Fannie said. “Now come on inside with me and get that leg stitched up before our doctor drinks another pint of gin. We ain’t got his ass long.”

  “Get me a new car, level the split, and we’re gone.”

  “Shit,” she said. “What did you hear about a fucking split? Y’all got twenty percent. None of you could’ve found that honeypot without the help of my friends. They got paid. I got paid. Don’t worry, there’s enough to keep you knee-deep in pussy for a long while.”

  “You got him killed,” Wilcox said. “I didn’t want to do it. He couldn’t say no to some redheaded snatch. How long did you have to suck his peter before he said yes?”

  Wilcox heard a rustling in the woods and reached for his gun but saw it was only Opie walking toward them. The kid had his black hood up, arms around his waist, looking just still and dead-eyed. His pale skin looked damn near blue in the artificial light.

  “How’d it go?” Opie asked.

  Wilcox shook his head. Opie pulled the hood off and walked over to a big pile of bricks and kicked the shit out of them, making noises somewhere between a choking sound and a cry. If he still felt something, Wilcox might’ve been upset himself. Instead, he felt so damn numb he could stick a knife through his hand.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Wilcox said. “Control yourself.”

  “What do you want?” Fannie said.

  “We want our money,” Wilcox said. “All of it.”

  Opie stopped making noise. He looked to Wilcox and swallowed, pulling his .45 and marching toward the Hathcock woman. But she didn’t look scared, not one goddamn bit, just shaking her head like she thought both of them were stupid as hell coming all this way from Memphis with a half-dead Marine and a GMC Yukon splattered with so much blood it looked like triage.

  “You get what you get,” she said. “I don’t change my deals. You should have asked Cord.”

  “You want me to ask him right now?” Wilcox said. “I can’t. Because he’s fucking dead in some kind of stupid-ass
shit show that you laid out for him with his cock down your throat. You must’ve made it all seem like a cakewalk through goddamn Candyland.”

  The Hathcock woman was shaking, Wilcox not sure if it was from grief or the cold. She had on a thin black dress, already looking the part of the grief-stricken widow, lace around the tips blowing in the wind. “I’ll get you a car fueled up and the trunk packed,” she said. “Then y’all need to leave.”

  “Opie?” Wilcox said. “This woman wants to fuck us both in the ass. And I’m in no mood.”

  “What’s the plan, Sarge?”

  “We take this bitch, kick in a few doors, and get back what we took,” Wilcox said. “She doesn’t do a damn thing for me. I ain’t into red snatch.”

  “Yes, sir,” Opie said, snatching up the woman by her right arm and marching her back toward the huts.

  Wilcox heard a big rumbling of engines and a dozen or so ugly motherfuckers on motorcycles came riding, slow and easy, down the busted road from behind one of the hangars. The light shined so bright and hard in Wilcox’s face that he lost sight of Opie and the big hut where Cord had died, the Hathcock woman twisting away from Opie and running off toward the bikers. A big, ugly, long-haired motherfucker dismounted his scooter, came up and caught the Hathcock woman with his hand. The other holding a shotgun. Wilcox and Opie leaving their damn rifles in the Yukon.

  “Damn, that woman’s one tricky bitch,” Wilcox said.

  “I’m not leaving without Cord,” Opie said. “They’ll have to kill me.”

  “Don’t let them have the pleasure,” Wilcox said. “Remember that time back in Zamindawar? Those Taliban fucknuts in the rocks?”

  “We killed ’em.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause they thought we’d left,” he said. “They fucking cleared out and went back to the compound.”

  “And what did I do?”

  “You pulled out the javelin and smoked all their asses,” he said, the men walking side by side through the darkness. The growling engines covering their conversation.

  “Damn, that was fun,” Wilcox said. “I never saw Cord laugh so much in his whole goddamn life.”

  22

  “Do you get the Memphis news at your farm?” Jon Holliday asked. “Or are you too far in the damn sticks?”

  “Another bank?” Quinn said.

  “Not a bank,” Holliday said. “A little mom-and-pop restaurant run by some drug dealers. Place got shot to shit. They’ve got five dead, one man wounded. I think it may have been your boys.”

  “Team Trump?”

  It was nearly eight, Quinn back home at the farm, going for a short run up in the hills with his fifty-pound rucksack, feeding the cows, and eating bacon and eggs straight from the skillet. He was showered and shaved when his cell buzzed. Hondo made a lot of racket munching his kibble from his bowl, looking up at Quinn, staring with those mismatched eyes.

  “A masked man took over a wing shop on EP,” Holliday said. “Shot the cook when he didn’t move fast enough into the cooler. Second man ran in from the back door of the restaurant to help out. Both men, mind you, armed with AR-15s. Then folks heard what they said sounded like a war zone coming from behind that back door, which was the dealers’ count room. Memphis PD has a damn bloodbath in there. Only money left was on the dead.”

  “Whew.”

  “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer crew,” Holliday said. “Twin brothers by the name of Shortbox and K-Bo and couple of their shooters. Witnesses made the news last night. All of them talking about men in Trump masks.”

  “Video?”

  “Nope,” Holliday said. “Those boys knocked out the cameras and shot the server. Police think they maybe can rescue some of it. But descriptions match, beyond just the MO and masks.”

  “Vehicle?”

  “Some women in a wig shop next door saw a black Yukon hauling ass,” Holliday said. “Police are looking for it. But, damn, you know how that goes. Needle in a shitstack.”

  “Our boys are branching out.”

  “And getting bolder,” Holliday said. “What did I say? Five dead? Hate to say it, but it will be lots more to come unless we catch ’em.”

  “Sounds like a fucking mess.”

  “Just spoke to a buddy in Memphis homicide,” Holliday said. “He’s pretty sure that the Twins took out one of our boys. There was a nasty blood trail that dragged all the way from the count room into the parking lot.”

  “A lot of blood?”

  “Too much blood for anyone to live,” Holliday said. “Or, at least, so I was told.”

  “You want me to drive up?” Quinn said, checking his watch. Setting down the half-empty skillet for Hondo. “Will take me an hour or so.”

  “Not much to see,” Holliday said. “Or do. I just figured you’d want to know.”

  “Listen, man,” Quinn said. “Something else has come up. I may need your help on a situation down here.”

  “I’m not exactly Tibbehah County’s favorite son.”

  “With the beard off and those tattoos covered with one of those government-issue suits,” Quinn said, “nobody’ll know who you were. You look halfway respectable, for a Fed.”

  “Down there?” Holliday said. “Now, that’s saying something.”

  “How much do you know about human trafficking?”

  “Enough to make me want to puke,” Holliday said. “Worked a case a couple years ago where we found twenty undocumented girls working a motel down by the airport. Some shitbags had it set up like a real rabbit factory, each of the girls turning over a few dozen johns a day.”

  “Shit.”

  “Sound familiar?”

  “I have a friend down here,” Quinn said. “She does some community outreach and came in contact with two teen girls. The girls went missing and my friend did some digging without letting us know. These girls might have been forced into something like your Memphis deal.”

  “This connected to the Hathcock woman?”

  “What do you think?” Quinn said.

  “Y’all have a CI in that place?” Holliday said. “If not, that would be damn nice to have. When I worked Stagg, I picked up on a lot. But probably only knew half his business. Expect Hathcock to be cut from the same cloth.”

  “My friend has a source.”

  “And who’s your friend again?”

  “No names,” Quinn said.

  “What about the source?” Holliday asked.

  “Inside the titty bar,” Quinn said. “I suspect it’s one of the dancers. But they won’t speak to me. They’re scared shitless of that woman.”

  “Anyone see the two missing girls at her place?”

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone seen these girls taken against their will?”

  “Nope.”

  “Damn,” Holliday said. “Call up the DA. Y’all got a hell of a case.”

  “I do have a local pimp I can turn,” Quinn said. “He’s made statements to my friend that he sold the girls to Fannie Hathcock. Guy named Blue Daniels. As mean as he is ugly.”

  “That isn’t much,” Holliday said. “But something. How can I help?”

  “Talk to some of your close and personal shitbirds about girls coming up from north Mississippi,” Quinn said. “If my county is being used as some kind of way station, I want to know. I’ll keep on working to bring this dancer in and get close to Fannie.”

  “From what I heard about Fannie Hathcock, she’s twice as smart as Stagg.”

  “Stagg had the disposition of a shithouse cockroach,” Quinn said. “But he wasn’t dumb.”

  “I hear Fannie’s got better friends.”

  “Like who?” Quinn asked, reaching for the front door. He let Hondo run free down the steps into the field for his morning duty.

  “You heard of the Syndicate?” Holliday said. �
��Some real peckerwoods from New Orleans who came in after Katrina? Real old-time Dixie Mafia shit.”

  “I thought all that was long gone.”

  “No, sir,” Holliday said. “I just wondered how long it’d take to move up your way. And just what would make it worth their effort.”

  “Now we know.”

  “Let me see what I can find out.”

  • • •

  Wilcox waited until first light to knock on Maggie’s door. He had more class than to wake her up in the middle of the night like she’d done at Crissley’s. Sometime around six, smile on his face, and pant leg soaked in blood, he waited for her to answer. Through the door glass, he saw her fixing a sack lunch for Brandon and going about her morning routine in hospital scrubs, hair piled up on her head. Rushing and in a goddamn twirl like always.

  “Would you believe I have a flat tire?” he said.

  Maggie only cracked the door, giving him one of her special eat-shit looks, but then she saw something in his face and looked down at his bloody leg. She looked back to Brandon, standing up from his cereal, and told him to sit tight. She came outside into the cold.

  “What the hell?”

  “So damn stupid,” he said, already working out the details. Not that she’d believe it, but he knew he should at least try. “I was up in a deer stand and dropped my fucking rifle. Nearly killed me.”

  “It’s not deer season, Rick.”

  Wilcox smiled, showing a lot of teeth and his dimples. “Really?” he said. “I guess I’m doing everything wrong these days.”

  She tilted her head sideways to look at the bloody pants, the ripped material he’d stacked with QuikClot and lots of duct tape. Something passed on Maggie’s little freckled face that might have passed for compassion. If she had any of it.

  “You need to get to the hospital,” she said. “Come on, I’ll drive you.”

  “No,” Wilcox said. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Brandon walked to the door and looked out through the cracked opening. “Daddy?”

  “Go back inside, Brandon,” she said, motioning with her hand. “We’re having an adult conversation.”