The Revelators Read online

  He felt Caddy’s body stiffen when he said it and he cradled the back of her head in his hands.

  Donnie remembered all that long gorgeous hair she used to have, running down her back and tied up in long braids. What happened to that girl? Where the hell had she gone?

  “I’m here, Caddy,” Donnie said. “I’m not going nowhere.”

  21

  Four days later, midnight and raining like hell, Donnie was headed back to Memphis, stopping off at the Flying J truck stop in Olive Branch. He sat in the empty section of the Subway shop eating a meatball sub after filling up a Peterbilt he’d gotten on loan from Fannie Hathcock. The sub wasn’t too bad, a nice little snack before rolling out, loading up, and driving back through the night. Nobody expected much trouble. Nobody ever did. Hell, he never thought he’d have been caught in the crosshairs of the damn ATF just trying to help some good folks from south of the border. But there you go. A good deed that sure as shit wasn’t left unpunished but came back and cornholed him high, hard, and good.

  The plan was to pass through the security with a wink and a wave and join up with Rerun’s fat ass on loading dock 23. The truck had been painted the perfect brown with UPS decals on each door. Any problems at the gate, or out along Winchester Road, and Tyrell and a few of his buddies would arrange a police escort to the state line. What could go wrong? Donnie started to laugh at the thought, taking another big bite. At least he wasn’t hanging out in Beaumont watching a fuzzy television playing the damn Home Shopping Network or reruns of Judge Judy. Some of them boys so damn hard up, they started wondering what was under that old woman’s robe.

  Donnie dropped a little marinara sauce on his T-shirt, staring at the rain sweep across the parking lot and the diesel pumps. Lonely hours up here in north Mississippi. He looked across the way at a tired old woman with her hair in a net mopping the floor. A young black woman at the cash register nodding off as she watched something on her phone. Canned laughter and some sitcom banter. Rain tapped, tapped, tapped against the glass as he looked down at the time on his cell, knowing it wouldn’t be much longer.

  The airport and warehouse was a straight thirty-minute shot on up Highway 78. He would drive through the gate at a little after one, during the security shift change.

  “Sure is a real frog strangler out there,” the old woman said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Donnie said, looking up from his sad little table. Two salt shakers and a big cup filled with Mountain Dew.

  “Sure did need it,” the old woman said. “This drought dried up my tomato plants and killed off my flower beds. All this rain almost seems like an insult.”

  “God’s middle finger.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said yes, ma’am.”

  “Where you headed, good-looking?” the old woman asked.

  “Tucumcari,” Donnie said. He’d never been there himself but liked the way it sounded. He heard it once or twice in some Western Luther had been watching. For some reason Eli Wallach coming to mind.

  Donnie stood up and dumped off the wrappers and leftover chips from his tray. The woman stopped mopping and then leaned on her mop for a moment, looking for all the world like Carol Burnett on her variety show.

  “Married?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Donnie said.

  “Shoot,” she said. “Don’t believe that. A handsome fella like you?”

  “Well, I may have found the right one.”

  “I like the sound of that,” she said. “She sure must be something special.”

  “She is,” Donnie said. “One of a kind. Known her pretty much my whole life.”

  “What are you waiting on, son?”

  “Things been a little complicated these days,” Donnie said. “Hoping it will slow down real soon.”

  “Never does,” she said. “Never a good time for doing nothing. Better get to it while the gettin’s good.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “And if it don’t work out, my name is Lynette,” she said, leaning hard on that mop handle. “If you call, ask for me special.”

  Donnie walked over to her, bent down and kissed her on her cheek, and headed out into the rain. He was completely soaked by the time he got up in the rig and started the engine, the whole cab shaking and shuddering to life.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sam Frye followed Fannie from the strip club parking lot and onto the town square where it spiraled off onto Jericho Road. He thought she was headed back to her condo outside Memphis, but now she was driving out to the big sprawling cabin on the lake where she’d killed Buster White with that hammer.

  Sam was cool and well rested. He switched cars and headed out of the Rez that night, taking his time, knowing Fannie Hathcock’s routine down cold and how long it would take her to shut down. She never trusted anyone with the countdown or the cleanup. Fannie Hathcock was tight-minded about the cash, making sure every one of her girls tipped out every dime before they left the club.

  As soon as he knew where she was going, he dropped back, careful not to scare her on that back-county highway out to the lake. He could take his time, driving and enjoying the night. The rain already passed through, leaving the twisting asphalt covered in a misty fog rising up off the pastures and farmland. Hand-painted signs advertised rattlesnake watermelon, okra, sweet potatoes, and jams and jellies. You could buy rabbits and chickens or worship at homemade church houses in busted trailers off the main road. Sam followed the road till the signs changed to ones for boat landings and bait stores, a restaurant called the Captain’s Table that advertised with a small billboard promising fresh fried catfish and Gulf seafood. He slowed, taking an unmarked road away from the restaurant and out to where the asphalt turned to gravel, driving for at least four miles until he saw the glowing green light atop a pillar of rocks. His headlights hit a brass marker that read PRIVATE ENTRANCE. NO TRESPASSING.

  Sam drove on farther and parked behind an abandoned trailer, the rain coming back again and patting against the windshield. The big cabin wasn’t far down that road, only about a quarter mile. Sam knew it was best that he walked in, did a little recon, and then waited for the proper time to kill that woman.

  He felt shame for not realizing she was the one to blame all along. Of course it was that redheaded bitch. Buster White had no more interest and business in north Mississippi than Chief Robbie did. This was a private territory with a nice tribute being paid down to the coast. But Buster White had no reason to want his son dead. The only one that Mingo could’ve hurt by talking would’ve been Fannie, with her nasty business trucking those girls in from Texas. Something Chief Robbie had warned her about time and again. Every time she tried to bring him some underage Mexican girls who didn’t speak English, he would turn her away. The Chief didn’t mind the skin trade, but he drew the line at slaves and children. If a grown woman chose to sell herself, that was her business, the Chief would say.

  At one a.m., Sam got out of the car, popping the collar on his rain slicker, leaving his go-to Ruger .357 Redhawk and taking a cheap .45 someone had pawned back at the Rez. He placed it in the pocket of his long black coat as he walked in the rain, following the straight gravel road to the big wooden cabin, glowing yellow and warm from behind the glass. Sam felt comfortable in the rain, knowing it lessened any chance of being watched or having to deal with security guards walking the property.

  Sam realized he might have to kill the big black man, too. He liked Midnight Man. He had a bit of humor to him, joking with him when Fannie had been slapped, giving Sam a sly grin as Fannie ran to the bathroom to clean the lipstick smear from her face and blood from her lip. But he’d chosen his path. And Fannie hers. And now Sam Frye would put a bullet into her pretty head and then drive all night for Oklahoma City.

  Sam stood away from the cabin under a stretch of tall pine trees. He watched the empty glowing hou
se, Fannie’s white Lexus parked outside.

  He figured she’d come to stay the night or was attending to details of Vardaman’s visit. Sam watched from the shadows, seeing her disappear from the huge room she used to entertain. He saw a light on the second floor click on. Sam walked toward the cabin, boots crunching on the wet gravel, smelling the fetid muddy scent of the lake.

  He found a large oak with long fat branches where he could take shelter and keep watch. There was no sign of Midnight Man or any of her people. He figured Fannie had grown complacent and sloppy, not realizing that Sam could not stand for what she’d done.

  He pulled the cheap gun from out of his coat, screwed in the suppressor, and held it loose at his side. On the second floor, Fannie looked out the window and began to disrobe.

  Untying a black dress from the side and pulling it open, she stood tall in a red bra and panties, looking out onto the empty black lake. Her breasts were two of the largest he’d ever seen in his life, her hip bones carved and prominent from the thin strap of the panties. She began to twist the piles of hair off her shapely shoulders and into a bun on top of her head.

  The woman’s skin was like porcelain, her hair such a rich Technicolor red and limbs so long and willowy that the breath left his chest. How could a woman who looked like that be so entirely evil? Why would she do the things she’d done?

  * * *

  • • •

  Nobody stopped Donnie as he rolled through the gates at UPS, past the guard shack and down the service road toward the big warehouse facing the airport. A cargo plane sat on an empty runway behind a long chain-link fence, red light flashing on its wings and tail. Donnie moved on past dozens of trucks that looked just like the one he drove, letting down the window on the semi and craning his neck to see where he was headed. He found himself driving around the entire compound until he doubled back toward the main entrance and spotted the loading bay. He slowed the rig, hit reverse, and backed in smooth and easy to number 23. When he stopped and hit the hissing parking brakes, he saw Rerun standing on the dock wearing a Carhartt winter mask up on his head, the rest of his fat white body exposed in the hot lights.

  He held up the flat of his hand as if telling Donnie to stop, like he’d been the one guiding the truck into the bay and not Donnie’s expert driving.

  Donnie reached for the UPS hat down between the seats, mashed it down on his head, and hopped from the Peterbilt. When he walked up to the platform, Rerun had already opened up the trailer, smiling bigger than shit. “More space than we’ll need.”

  “No shit,” Donnie said. “Don’t you remember the conversation? I said it was better to be too long than too short and you thought that was real funny. Laughed like hell for five minutes.”

  “Already knocked out those cameras,” Rerun said, not remembering a damn word. “Pinged ’em with my little twenty-two.”

  Rerun gave a grunting little laugh as Donnie headed back into the loading bay where a black fella he’d never seen before sat high in a forklift. The kid, a damn teenager, sitting up and scrolling through his cell.

  “Who the hell’s this?”

  “Deshaun.”

  “And who the fuck is Deshaun?” Donnie said, turning to Deshaun. “No disrespect, man. Just don’t like new people being sprung on me.”

  “He’s cool,” Rerun said, sporting a big diamond earring in his left ear. White man trying his dead-level best to be cool. “Deshaun is Akeem’s second cousin.”

  “Well, that makes me feel a fuck ton better,” Donnie said. “Can you drive that forklift, kid, or you just resting your ass?”

  “If you’ll get out of the way, man, he’ll load us up and we can get gone,” Rerun said, wandering over to a stack of boxes on several wooden pallets. “Or do you want to sit around and jaw about it all night?”

  “You,” Donnie said, pointing to Rerun. “Shut the fuck up. And you,” he said, now pointing to Deshaun, “start that fucker up and let’s load up. Let’s git ’r done and git gone, gentlemen.”

  A logo for RED RIVER ARMS had been stamped on the flat, long cardboard boxes. Donnie slashed through the plastic security band of one and opened up the lid to find a fresh, clean, and well-oiled AR-15. The side of the boxed marked LAW ENFORCEMENT ONLY.

  “Honey, hush,” Donnie said.

  “Already checked the boxes,” Rerun said.

  “Well, I ain’t,” Donnie said. “How many?”

  “As good as promised,” Rerun said. “Four hundred and forty-two.”

  Deshaun started up the forklift, the engine puttering away, as he backed up and turned toward Donnie and Rerun, scooting right by them and sliding the rails up under a pallet stacked high with dozens of boxes loaded with the guns. Damn, if the kid wasn’t good.

  Donnie stood back, hat down in his eyes, and noticed three big-ass trucks pass the loading docks and snake on back to Winchester Road.

  He lit a cigarette and watched the convoy driving in the rain. All he had to do was start her up, pull out, and he was as good as gone.

  “Too easy?” Donnie said to Rerun.

  “Ain’t no such thing,” Rerun said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sam found the side door to the kitchen and walked inside, his rubber-soled boots soundless as he moved on through the darkness and into the great room, wood-paneled and wide open, to where he’d watched Fannie kill Buster White. The room, big enough for a game of stickball, different now, with more fine carpets on the polished wood floors and leather furniture, six large televisions on the walls and a mirrored bookshelf stocked with dozens of bottles of whiskey. The woman had turned the cabin into a playhouse for rich men with big appetites and money to burn.

  He kept searching for Fannie’s men but saw no one. He heard nothing but knew she was somewhere upstairs, perhaps in the shower or already in bed. Sam mounted the stairs, thumbing off the safety and listening. The walls of the staircase had been decorated with paintings of fancy hunting dogs and old advertisements of white men duck hunting. After he was done, he’d toss the gun deep into the lake.

  Everything was so quiet and still. He couldn’t have asked for a better night to find Fannie. He only had one question for her: Where is Mingo’s body? What have you done with my son? If he felt she answered straight and true, he would kill her with little pain. If not? Well, he had until daybreak.

  He moved up to the second floor and searched the rooms against the far wall, where he’d seen her standing in those red panties contemplating the lake. In the second room, he found Fannie’s black wrap dress on the bed and a pair of tall velvet heels close by. Her purse was open and a bottle of gin sat on the nightstand with a glass of ice.

  He checked the bathroom. He checked the hallway. All done easy and slow and with stealth. He waited each breath for the woman to come at him with a hammer or a gun. He wasn’t so arrogant or stupid to think she couldn’t have spotted him on the drive out from Jericho. All through the second floor, he could smell her expensive perfume and the faint tinge of cigar smoke. She had been right there. Right there.

  The .45 felt old and clunky in his hand as he took the steps back down to the great room, finding Fannie Hathcock sitting on a long, padded sofa, looking like a velvet painting that might hang over the bar in an Old West saloon. A black kimono lined with bright flowers hung loose and open over her large breasts, red hair twisted up on her head.

  She tilted her head as he came into the room.

  “Peekaboo,” she said.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you every night since that country trash marched into my office and slapped my face.”

  “So is it true?” Sam said. “Was it you who killed my son?”

  “Take a seat, doll,” she said. “How about a little heart-to-fucking-heart.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Donn
ie knew better. Once you got cocky and lazy, that’s when it was Cornhole City, USA.

  They’d just loaded the last pallet into the trailer when he saw the flashing blue lights through the windshield of the truck. An MPD patrol car sped in and parked crossways in front of his Peterbilt, and a second later Tyrell stepped out into the rain and walked toward the loading dock. He had on a cop hat and a long plastic slicker.

  “How y’all doing tonight?” he said.

  “Loaded up and ready to roll,” Donnie said. “You mind moving your vehicle, son? I got me a long ways to go and a short time to get there.”

  Tyrell didn’t say anything, walking up the steps onto the loading dock, exchanging a quick glance with Deshaun and then looking back over to Rerun. Rerun narrowed his eyes, looking uncomfortable as hell with the whole situation. What the fuck was Tyrell trying to pull at this late hour?

  “You boys mind standing against that wall?”

  “Yeah, I would,” Donnie said. “I ain’t got time for games, man. Now if you would just back that car out of my damn way, let’s all get gone. Maybe you can escort me the fuck out of here like we had planned.”

  “Like we had planned?” Tyrell said, turning down his mouth. “I don’t know you. How about you show me your driver’s license and registration? Security guard said you didn’t stop at the checkpoint. You know you got to stop and show them ID, man. Don’t you know that? Do you even work here?”

  “For fuck’s sake, Tyrell,” Donnie said. “I ain’t got time for no bullshit.”

  Donnie had barely had time to say the “shit” after the “bull” when goddamn Tyrell pulled out his sidearm and aimed it right at his ass. There was a blam-blam-blam and the echo of a small gun somewhere inside the loading dock. Tyrell, the fucking Memphis cop, was down and bleeding. When Donnie turned, he saw Deshaun’s ass hanging off the side of the forklift, a gun clattering to the concrete.