The Fallen Page 30

  Mingo just looked at her. She was a portly little girl with small tits, a big stomach, and a bigger ass. Her hair in a ponytail, receding chin quivering. Some bullshit tattoo across her stomach that read TRULY BLESSED.

  “What good are you?” she said. “What the fuck good are you?”

  She pressed the biker’s chest and held out her hand, covered in blood, and showed it to him, Mingo’s heart dropping into his belly as he headed to the door and the artificial light in the parking lot.

  He didn’t give a good goddamn if he got shot or arrested. He just needed to breathe. He’d been in that airless hell for too damn long. He needed to breathe.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the girl said.

  Mingo looked at her.

  “Do something!” she screamed.

  • • •

  Quinn and Lillie watched the EMTs load up Rick Wilcox and drive off fast toward Tibbehah General.

  “What a shame,” Lillie said.

  “Hell of a shot.”

  “Yeah?” Lillie asked. “I was aiming for his goddamn head. A kill shot.”

  “No you weren’t.”

  “How the hell do you know?”

  “Because you would have made it.”

  Lillie tried to look humble, but did a shitty job at it. Quinn watched the ambulance head on down the road and turn onto the highway. He sighed, moving on toward Vienna’s, knowing what they’d find inside wasn’t going to be pleasant. The barbecue smoke floated and scattered across the parking lot as half-naked women and shell-shocked men wandered from the mouth of Vienna’s. Art and Dave pushed them back in. They’d need to be interviewed. The scene photographed. The damn dead bikers tagged and bagged. Order needed to be restored to this fucking carnival.

  “I’m done, Quinn.”

  “I should have shot him myself.”

  “And you could’ve saved your fucking truck.”

  “I tried to do it right.”

  “Like I taught you.”

  “Yep,” Quinn said. “Like that. I never felt he was going to shoot any of us.”

  “Probably not.”

  “That was a hell of a shot,” Quinn said. “From up there, in the smoke, and through all that crazy bullshit.”

  “When this is all over . . .” she said. “I mean, all of it . . .”

  Quinn nodded. “I know.”

  Lillie nodded in agreement. She handed Quinn her warm rifle and stepped back, Quinn already moving toward the club to start the long night’s work. They walked together, the rifle heavy in his hands.

  “What’s this?” he said, holding the gun.

  Lillie grinned. “A goddamn wedding gift,” she said. “Don’t you know where you’re headed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sometimes it really pains me being so fucking smart.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Quinn said.

  Lillie cut her eyes over at him. “No fucking shit, Ranger.”

  31

  Nearly a month after the attempted robbery at Fannie’s, Quinn found himself on the Jericho town square watching Senator Vardaman step up onto the gazebo and glad-hand a bunch of north Mississippi politicians, two beauty queens, and the owner of a John Deere tractor dealership. There was a lot of smiling and good ole boy backslapping, news crews down from Tupelo and up from Jackson to cover what was billed as a major announcement for the working men and women of north Mississippi. Quinn already knew what Vardaman was ready to crow about, a piece of land nearly a square mile, just a half mile off Highway 45, where construction would begin that spring. Most of the land had been pieced together in private acquisitions. Quinn’s own father had tried to be part of that very jigsaw puzzle, and, damn, if it hadn’t finally happened. There was talk of several factories moving back from overseas, a new high school and hospital, regional airport, and a return to old-time values and a work ethic down South.

  Jericho’s mayor, a mealymouthed white-headed man named Jimmy Alton, promised bright hope and a renewed energy on the Square, before offering Vardaman the classic two-handed handshake and making room for the state senator who’d done so much to bring hope and prosperity to his hometown. There were plenty of red, white, and blue balloons. Punch and cake from the Piggly Wiggly. Skinner was there, too, watching all the action from the shadows under his pearl-gray Stetson.

  It was an overcast spring day on the Square, Quinn wearing his ball cap and rain slicker, as several storms had blown in from Texas. He stood under a large, sprawling oak, listening to Vardaman’s little speech, wondering if he’d have anything to say about a couple of girls who’d come to his hunt lodge, got used up, and then shipped on down the line.

  “Learn anything new?” Reggie Caruthers asked, walking across the Square, carrying a couple of tall coffees.

  “Apparently there’s nowhere finer to live than Tibbehah County, Mississippi,” Quinn said.

  “Anything else?”

  “Looks like Vardaman’s making his play,” Quinn said. “That son of a bitch wants to be governor, and what happens to Tibbehah will be his platform.”

  Vardaman looked like money, tanned skin and graying hair worn long as some Civil War general or fading country star, swept back from his high forehead and brushing his shoulders. His face was oddly defined, as if molded from clay, something from a sepia-toned photograph, with dimpled chin and small, mean black eyes. He had on khaki pants, a checked dress shirt under a woolly-looking fleece vest, reminding Quinn of half the men he had seen on football Saturdays at the Grove at Ole Miss the couple of times Anna Lee made him go. He spoke of world-class businesses excited about relocating to a county of scenic beauty that embraced conservative and Christian values. He repeated at least twice that Tibbehah’s proximity to both Memphis and Birmingham made it special, calling it the perfect partner with a vibrant workforce and a short drive to international airports, major modal facilities, and both the Mississippi River and the Tombigbee.

  “You think it’ll happen?” Reggie asked.

  “New jobs, factories, a boom for a local economy?”

  “Sure,” Reggie said, handing Quinn the coffee. “That stuff.”

  “Time will tell.”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “Lots of big money riding on this little show,” Quinn said. “They’ve been talking about this deal since I came home.”

  “You ever seen Vardaman here before?” Reggie said. “I never even knew he was from Jericho until yesterday.”

  “First time I ever laid eyes on him.”

  Quinn took a sip of black coffee, watching the man basking in the applause, more backslapping, and being led down the steps by a couple of state troopers, who flanked him. Skinner shook the man’s hand and slapped his back as he headed out. As Vardaman made his way to a black SUV, he looked over at Quinn, caught his eye, and smiled just a little.

  Quinn nodded back, the man disappearing into a SUV just in time for J.T. and his Good Ole Boys to strike up a nice rendition of “Sitting on Top of the World.”

  “How’s that witness coming?” Reggie said.

  “Scared,” Quinn said. “But ready to talk. He’s not sure what happened to those girls. But he’ll help get warrants on the men at Vardaman’s hunt camp. Maybe we start something federal, with the trafficking.”

  “It’ll make for a short campaign.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You don’t believe the implication will ruin him?”

  Quinn shook his head. “People believe what they want to believe,” he said. “No one cares what a man does, or actually stands behind, only what he jaws about.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  “Come on,” Quinn said. “I want to show you some new land I’d like you to patrol. Show you some new routes, parts of the county.”

  “Business as usual?”

  �
�Until we hear different.”

  • • •

  Caddy spotted the white truck after she’d turned out of The River and headed to the Jericho Farm & Ranch before they closed up for the night. At first, she thought she was being paranoid, watching everyone around her ever since Mingo found her and said he wanted to come to Jesus and give his life some meaning. But even though it was just a white Chevy, like dozens and dozens around the county, it just happened to keep pace with her and turned where she turned, even after the turning and cuts didn’t make any sense, taking the back roads to the feed store, Loretta Lynn on the radio as the first bits of rain smacked her windshield.

  She hit the main road from town, turning into the Farm & Ranch, knowing that if there was any trouble, Diane Tull would be more than happy to show off that twelve-gauge again. But after she parked by the loading dock, Caddy watched the white truck follow and then just as quickly U-turn back onto the road and scoot away.

  Caddy turned back a couple of times to make sure, stepping inside the building filled with about everything a woman needed to survive. Diane, and her stepfather before her, sold everything from blue jeans to penny nails to shotgun shells to fishing poles and cowboy boots. Diane’s little Sheltie ran out from the register to greet Caddy, sniffing her leg and smelling Hondo, who Diane referred to as the love of her dog’s life.

  “No planting tomorrow,” Diane said. “Supposed to rain all weekend. A real shitstorm blowing in.”

  “Did you see that truck that drove in with me?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Working on inventory. Folks from the fishery stopping by next week. Do you know if Quinn still wants that order of bluegill?”

  “I think it’s them.”

  “Who?”

  “Those boys who stopped by The River,” Caddy said, heart pumping fast. “Damn, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

  “Easy does it,” Diane said. “I’ve been there. You want me to call Quinn?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not sure who they were or what they wanted. I just need a moment. Son of a bitch. When are they going to leave me the hell alone?”

  “Folks like that won’t quit until they shut you down,” Diane said. “I know that for a fucking fact. They got small minds and black souls.”

  Caddy nodded, watching the rain come down on the Farm & Ranch parking lot. Everywhere looked clear and she took a long, deep breath to steady her nerves. “I need a couple pair of pants,” Caddy said, looking at a little spiral notepad from her purse, “thirty/thirty-twos. A couple large T-shirts, and a pair of a size-ten mud boots.”

  “Boy, that Jason sure is growing.”

  “It’s not for Jason,” Caddy said, half listening, watching the parking lot to see if those sons of bitches had doubled back.

  “Caddy?” Diane said. “Are you sure everything’s OK?”

  • • •

  “I’ve lived here most of my life,” Quinn said, “and I’m still discovering new parts of this county. Lillie liked to patrol up here. Not much on this road, but it gives you a nice perspective on the valley.”

  Quinn was driving a newer F-150 Boom had found for him with the V-6 turbo, four-wheel drive, and off-road suspension. A lot of improvements over the old truck, only it was flat gray and not green. Boom said he might be able to help with the color if Skinner allowed him to stay on at the County Barn.

  “You think Lillie’s coming back?” Reggie asked.

  Quinn took the slow, gentle curves, the big tires gripping the mud and gravel, passing a couple of abandoned trailers and an ancient barn leaning hard toward the ground but refusing to quit altogether. “I don’t think so,” Quinn said. “Hard to argue with what she got offered in Memphis. More money. Better schools for Rose.”

  “My wife wants to move,” Reggie said. “She said Tibbehah is no place to raise a child. Tornadoes, gunrunners, crazy-ass bank robbers, and bikers. But, hell. Me and you were both born and raised here. We turned out OK.”

  “My people have been in this county since the Choctaws sold it,” Quinn said. “My mother has Choctaw blood, so some of them were here way, way before that.”

  “My people were from Louisiana,” Reggie said. “They didn’t have much of a choice where they landed or what they did.”

  “You know where they were from?”

  “Africa,” Reggie said. “That’s about it. My great-grandfather moved to Jericho for my grandmother. Some family land. He was a farmer down in the Ditch. Did some moonshining.”

  “Our people probably did business together.”

  “Wouldn’t that be something?” Reggie said, looking off the road and down into the valley, which was turning a bright green, a mist rising up off Quinn’s pasture dotted with cattle.

  “Ever think about heading on?”

  Quinn drove with one hand, thought about it a moment. “Nope,” he said. “I got too damn much to do. Between the cows, my family, and the criminals around here, my dance card is pretty well punched.”

  He slowed the truck and knocked it into park with the engine running. He and Reggie got out and stretched their legs, running the patrol for the last couple of hours since the Vardaman rally. It was getting dark, with long black clouds rolling in from the west, wind picking up in the pine forest, quick flashes of lightning. You could sense more rain coming, the fertile spring earth, and the clean smell of the pine needles. Quinn took a long breath, looking down on his little farm, thinking about Maggie Powers coming over later that night. He’d cook supper for her and Brandon, maybe show him a movie like Shane, and talk a little bit about those next steps. Both of them had braced themselves for a trial, but Wilcox had gratefully copped a plea from his hospital bed. Maggie saying that maybe all that good blood they pumped in made him a little bit smarter.

  “Good a reason as any to stick around,” Reggie said, nodding at the view.

  “Yep,” he said. “There’s still some good country left.”

  “And people?”

  “Them, too.”

  • • •

  Caddy sat next to Jason, Boom on the opposite side with Mingo, and Jean at the head of the dining room table. Jean had made meat loaf, despite Jason’s protest, and served it with mashed potatoes and gravy and a big green bean casserole topped with lots of French onions. Jean promised her grandson if he would just attempt to eat that meat loaf, she’d serve him a huge slice of chocolate pie with whipped cream.

  Jason cut his eyes at his mother and scrunched up his face. Caddy nodded back at him as Jean looked to Boom and Mingo, tented her hands, and said a short prayer, thanking God for the food, family, and wonderful new friends. You could hear the heavy rain on the roof and the back porch.

  After she opened her eyes and everyone began to serve themselves, Elvis singing “Such a Night,” a track that, Jean explained, was recorded sometime soon came after Elvis had returned from serving his country in Germany. Elvis the King. Elvis the American Hero.

  “Do you like Elvis, Mr. Mingo?” Jean asked.

  Boom, stabbing a big slice of meat loaf and slapping it onto his plate, lifted his eyes to Caddy but didn’t say a word.

  “It’s just Mingo, Momma,” she said. “It’s a family name. And if he didn’t like Elvis, he sure wouldn’t admit it in this living shrine.”

  Mingo smiled, not offended, wearing the stiff new jeans, T-shirt, and boots she’d bought at the Farm & Ranch. He hadn’t been able to change his clothes since he’d walked away from Fannie Hathcock three days earlier and asked God for forgiveness, being baptized in a cattle trough that very Sunday.

  “Did you just get to Jericho?” Jean said, waving off the mashed potatoes as they came around, saying earlier she was on a low-carb diet she’d read in Oprah magazine.

  “No, ma’am,” Mingo said, taking the potatoes and adding a sizable portion to his plate. “I’ve been here for two years.”

 
“And what brought you here?” Jean asked.

  Mingo looked to Boom and then Caddy, shrugging. “Work.”

  “And where do you work?” Jean said, taking a bite of green bean casserole.

  “He didn’t like his job,” Caddy said quickly. “He’s helping me out at The River, helping work some odd jobs down at Boom’s place. Right, Boom?”

  Boom met Caddy’s eye and nodded. Boom, as a grown-ass man, still had a hell of a hard time lying to Jean Colson.

  “Where do you live?” Jean said.

  Caddy looked over at Jason, who was trying to hide the slab of meat loaf under the potatoes and beans and doing a poor job of it. Jean looked down and gave her grandson a hard eye. Jason looked up with a little grin and took a bite of a single green bean.

  “I’m staying with Mr. Kimbrough tonight,” Mingo said. “I have been down at The River, but Caddy thought it best I find a new place.”

  “What was wrong with the church?” Jean said.

  “Jesus Christ, Momma,” she said. “What is this, Jeopardy?”

  Jean shot Caddy a look, a real sour-faced momma look, and reached for her big glass of white wine, taking a good sip. Caddy could almost hear the refrain in her head: always give yourself a moment to think before you speak. Slow to speak, slow to anger. If Caddy had heard that once while growing up, she’d heard it a thousand damn times.

  “Just trying to be friendly,” Jean said. “No harm in that.”

  “Mingo is just sorting a few things out,” Caddy said.

  “And he’s staying with you, Boom?”

  Boom nodded. “We’re old friends,” he said. “Right, Mingo?”

  “Right now, I’ll take all the friends I can get.”

  “Well, I hope everything works out,” Jean said. “Would any of y’all like some more gravy? I believe I made a gallon of it, for some reason.”

  After supper, Mingo joined Caddy in the kitchen. Jean was in her easy chair watching Dancing With the Stars with Jason and Boom. Boom, full of meat loaf, potatoes, and two slices of pie, had passed out on the couch, his big arm and long legs splayed across the whole thing.