The Fallen Page 32

  Maggie stood on Quinn’s porch, her car running with Brandon in the back, Brandon seeing Quinn and giving him a big wave, them lowering the glass and yelling. “Hey, Mr. Quinn,” he said. “Where’s Hondo?”

  Quinn whistled for Hondo in the house and pointed to Maggie’s car, Hondo running out to greet Brandon. The kid got out of the car and hugged the dog, hunting for a stick to toss him. Maggie gave Quinn a nervous smile, handing him the records. Her hair worn long, nearly down to the waist of her cut-off jeans. She wore a bandanna print shirt with thin straps, her face scrubbed clean of any makeup, making her green eyes and freckles stand out even more.

  “Y’all want to come in?”

  “Planned on heading up to Nashville to see my sister over Easter,” she said. “Get my head sorted out. I was thinking we might want to slow things down. At least for a little while. With everything that happened, us being together is only gonna embarrass you. You know how people can be.”

  “Let ’em talk.”

  “You say that now,” she said. “But if it got out that you were seeing Rick Wilcox’s wife—”

  “Ex-wife.”

  “Almost,” she said. “Maybe we should keep a little distance until the divorce is final. I haven’t spoken to him since he was arrested and don’t care to ever again. My lawyer is working it out.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Good.”

  “But I don’t want to wait,” he said. “I don’t want you and Brandon to go anywhere. And I don’t give a damn what anyone whispers behind my back or says to my face. I’m looking forward to a long time of being together and I’d rather not put off another day. Does that work for you?”

  Maggie brushed the hair off her face, her translucent green eyes looking through him and then over her bare shoulder at Brandon running on the old Indian mound with Hondo, the kid finding a deer rib to toss him, the dog having fun but trying to herd the boy at the same time, playfully nipping at his heels. The sun was high and bright over them.

  “Think about it,” Maggie said. “We can talk when I get home.”

  “I don’t have to think about it,” Quinn said, pushing the front door open wide, the screen door at the back bringing in a lot of light and air into the musty house. “Come on.”

  “My sister—”

  “Long drive to Nashville.”

  “This won’t be easy,” Maggie said. “Right now, nobody knows. But if it gets out, they might try and vote you out. That’s all this town needs right now is for everyone to give up and quit.”

  “Let ’em try,” Quinn said. “They’ve done it before. Come on in. Have y’all had breakfast?”

  “We were going to stop at the Sonic on the way out of town.”

  “You ain’t going anywhere,” Quinn said. “‘Pick up your money. And pack up your tent.’”

  “One of my favorites,” Maggie said, smiling.

  “Pretty sure I have that Dylan album inside,” Quinn said, smiling, reaching for her hand. “How about I put it on while you make some coffee?”

  “You haven’t made coffee?” Maggie looked suspicious.

  “Could use another pot.”

  Maggie peered around his shoulder into the old house, stepping inside, running her fingers over the familiar grooves of the beadboard. The heartwood floors, the wide-open rooms painted white and left as empty and bare as when he and Boom had stripped out all of Uncle Hamp’s junk. “Ever think about hanging up a few pictures?” she said. “Maybe getting a stick or two more furniture?”

  Quinn nodded, sliding his hand around Maggie Powers’s waist and kissing her for a long while. “I could use a little help.”

  “This isn’t going to stop,” she said, slow and quiet into his ear. “Is it?”

  Quinn shook his head and called for Hondo and Brandon to come on in. “No, ma’am,” he said, reaching for her hand and closing the door behind all of them.

  • • •

  Caddy wasn’t used to seeing a lot of nice cars coming down the dirt road to The River. But one day, not long after Mingo had gone missing, she watched a black Mercedes roll up into the dirt parking lot by the barn. Caddy was inside the trailer where she kept her office, sorting expenses for the past month, running through donation checks and bills, trying to put both in some kind of balance but not having much luck. She was curious about the car, wondering just who was going to show up next: a battered woman, a homeless family, a sinner seeking redemption through volunteer work, or some asshole from the county wanting to shut them down for lack of a permit. They’d tried twice that month, but public outcry after Betty Jo Mize wrote a column in the Tibbehah Monitor about their need of a better sewage system had saved them. By later that day, she had three companies ready to help for no charge whatsoever. Once you got Jesus on the main line, few folks could stop your mission.

  Caddy got up from her desk and walked out of the trailer, shielding her eyes from the sun, watching the car door open and seeing Fannie Hathcock crawl out. The woman was wearing an expensive-looking black dress layered with lace and showing off a lot of leg with tall pumps that weren’t meant for walking through the mud. She got about halfway to Caddy before she stopped, waved, and Caddy, dressed in a T-shirt, Levi’s, and mud boots, tromped out to see what the hell she wanted.

  “Service isn’t until Sunday,” Caddy said.

  “Don’t think I can make it,” Fannie said, wearing a little smile. “My titty bar stays open to three a.m. Sunday morning. I plan to get drunk and sleep until late afternoon.”

  Caddy nodded.

  “I guess you’re wondering what brings me out to your own little slice of the Holy Land.”

  “It had crossed my mind,” Caddy said. “I know who you are but don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “I know your brother.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “I like him,” Fannie said. “Hell of a sense of humor when his jaw’s not set.”

  The wind kicked up a bit of grit from the from the newly plowed fields, blowing it up to them, into their eyes and mouths. Fannie made a sour face and spit out a few grains. “Lovely spot.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I know you don’t like me,” Fannie said, “and don’t approve of how I make my living. But I do pride myself in being a member of this community. I want you to know I sincerely appreciate the work you do here for the real outcasts.”

  Caddy leveled her eyes at the woman in the frilly dress, looking so painfully done up that she just might melt into a puddle of wax down in the dirt. She waited for Fannie to get to with whatever it was she was wanting.

  Fannie reached into her purse with fumbling hands and brought out an envelope. “Here,” she said, thrusting it toward her. “A little appreciation from me and the girls from Vienna’s. You’re a gutsy little towhead, ain’t you?”

  “Keep it,” Caddy said. “I don’t take bribes.”

  “It’s not a bribe,” she said. “Don’t y’all take up an offering on Sunday? Just throw it on in the basket and buy yourself a few chicken coops and a tanker truck full of grape juice or whatever floats your boat.”

  Caddy shook her head, placing her knuckles on her hips, thinking how the old Caddy would’ve launched right at that bitch, with her thousand-dollar heels, and beat some sense into her. But the new Caddy was calm, finding strength and compassion in the Lord. This woman was a child of God. Someone special and valued. Caddy steadied her breath and, without putting a lot of thought into it, just said, “Ana Maria and Tamika.”

  “What?”

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she said. “That’s why you’re here. You knew I was looking for them.”

  The woman’s face shifted a bit behind all that makeup, eye twitching a bit. She looked uneasy on those tall heels, shifting a little, like that spring wind might just knock her on her ass.

  “I wo
uldn’t wipe my ass with your money.”

  “Dumb.”

  “Where’s Mingo?” Caddy said. “He missed this past Sunday’s service. You must’ve scared him into not going.”

  The woman took a long breath and swallowed, still holding the envelope and shaking her head. She bit her lip and started to speak, kind of choking on it, but nothing would come. A lot of sadness on her face like she just might break apart. “Here,” she said. “He’d want you to have this.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Lady,” Caddy said. “You damn well do. Why won’t he call me? What’d you do to him? Where are those girls? You can’t buy me off. You think you can get clean by tossing a check down at my feet like I’m some kind of mangy dog. You need to stand here and listen. Where are you going? Listen to me. Listen to me.”

  But Fannie had already turned and marched back to her car, Caddy still screaming at her as she put on a pair of sunglasses and raised the driver’s-side window, leaving The River in a little plume of dust and disappearing on down the road.

  • • •

  “Looks like you got it made down here,” the man said, watching Opie make a margarita at the tiki bar. “Good job right on the beach, plenty of good-looking women in bikinis. And, damn, you don’t even have to wear shoes.”

  “I’m pretty lucky,” Opie said, placing the two margaritas on the server’s tray. “Got a great girl, too. You see her there under the umbrella?”

  “The one in the red string bikini?” the man asked, smiling. He was a medium-sized guy in a blue polo shirt and khaki shorts, lots of tattoos on his arms, his head shaved nearly bald. Like a punk rock businessman.

  Opie nodded. “Sometimes I can’t believe it myself,” he said. “She doesn’t brag about it too much, but she was runner-up for Miss Teen Mississippi a few years ago. She ended up taking the crown for half the year. The winner got involved in some kind of Internet nudie thing. I didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

  The man finished up his grouper sandwich, pushing it away, drinking a Coke on the side. “You live here on Treasure Island?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “‘Yes, sir’?” the man said, smiling. “You must be a military man.”

  “Marine,” Opie said. “Best years of my life.”

  The man kept on admiring Crissley, sitting under the palm frond umbrella, sipping a mai tai, waiting for Opie to get off in an hour and go for a walk on the beach until the sunset. It was her favorite time of day.

  “Always liked Marines.”

  Opie glanced down at the man’s tattoos, seeing some things he recognized. Daggers and such, a map of parts of Afghanistan. “Army?”

  “Sure,” the man said, real noncommittal, drinking a little Coke and checking his watch for the time. “Things sure slow down when you’re back.”

  “You have no idea,” Opie said. “I love all this and appreciate having a great-looking girlfriend, the beach, and all, but sometimes . . . Well, you know.”

  “The brotherhood.”

  “That’s it,” Opie said. “That’s fucking it. You know? Hey, don’t you want a beer or something? On me.”

  The man shook his head. “Other people can’t understand,” he said. “At first it’s scary as hell, but once you get over that sick feeling, it’s a lot of fun. Don’t you miss the fun?”

  “Yeah,” Opie said, grinning. “Damn straight.”

  “The mission, the brotherhood,” the man said. “Being part of something bigger than yourself.”

  Opie nodded some more, this tattooed Army guy understanding what the fuck things were about, really getting it. Maybe he could invite him to dinner with him and Crissley. Not often you get to talk to folks who really get what you’ve been through, besides some of the Vietnam bikers who stopped by on Sundays. Those guys knew all about the shit.

  “Kind of like being a bank robber,” the man said.

  “What’s that?” Opie said, feeling like his temperature just dropped about twenty degrees. He looked to Crissley, who was talking to some muscled-up dude drinking a beer. He looked across the bar to the exit by the front register and back at the bald man, who just gave him a big smile.

  “Good to find you, Sam,” the man said. “I’m federal agent Jon Holliday. And that man by the railing is with me. And that woman in the Hawaiian dress, drinking the margarita, by the bandstand? That’s my friend, Melanie, a U.S. Marshal from north Mississippi. She’s rounded up a few locals to join us.”

  “Shit,” Opie said.

  “The bad thing about a vacation,” the man named Holliday said, “is that it always has to end.”

  • • •

  “I wondered what it’d take to finally get you down here,” Buster White said in his gravelly voice. “I can always comp you a suite, but we got to be a little careful about it. You know how the Feds can be real hard-ons when it comes to elected officials getting special attention.”

  “I’m not staying the night,” Vardaman said. “My wife and I were just driving through on our way up from New Orleans. We had lunch at Galatoire’s. You ever had their Oysters en Brochette?”

  “No,” Buster White said, in his black Ray-Bans with wraparound strap, white hair brushed back, thinning and flowing wild in the salty Gulf breeze. “Rich food gives me the shits.”

  “It was a lovely day,” he said. “Did some antique shopping on Royal Street. Had a Sazerac over at the Roosevelt.”

  “Sure you don’t want to stay the night?”

  “We’re in session tomorrow,” Vardaman said, crossing his legs like a woman. The men sitting on the casino hotel penthouse balcony overlooking the Gulf. He had on a seersucker suit with a white shirt wide open at the throat. White had on an XXL Hawaiian shirt, red with yellow hibiscus. He was smoking Kent cigarettes and nursing a scotch and water.

  “Maybe this summer,” White said. “I just booked Reba McEntire for a full week. I’m not crazy about that country shit. But, whatever. I’m pretty sure we may be getting Olivia Newton-John in August. Now, that’s something. Woman is, like, seventy years old and you can still bounce a quarter off her ass. Ever seen a woman that age in leather pants?”

  “Buster,” Vardaman said. “I wanted to thank you for your contribution.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Buster White said, inhaling long on the Kent. “Sure. What the hell. You’re welcome. You’re guaranteed to be a better governor than that fuckwad hillbilly we got now. Me and him used to be pals, but once he got in the mansion, he acts like he knows how to wipe his own ass. Between me and you, something’s wrong with him. You know, mentally.”

  “He’s been a kind supporter.”

  “Whatever,” White said. “He’s a moron. I swear to God, I don’t think he can tie his shoes.”

  “I couldn’t be happier with everything happening in Tibbehah,” Vardaman said. “I know to you it’s just a little postage stamp on a map. But, to me, it’s home. Your hospitality made it all come together.”

  “What can I say,” White said. “The world is round.”

  “I’m glad to know we smoothed over some things with your interests up there,” Vardaman said. “I’m always pleased to help where I can.”

  “Sure, sure,” White said, blowing the smoke in the warm breezes, pointing out a couple of seagulls hovering by the balcony. “Goddamn birds. Always fucking wanting something.”

  “Has Miss Hathcock ever talked to you about this local sheriff?”

  “Why?” White said, getting to his feet, knees aching like hell, and tossing the bread from his club sandwich into the wind. “You got some more trouble up there?”

  “Getting a little pushback,” Vardaman said, sitting fine and dandy in his gentlemanly threads. Long graying hair shining in the sun. He smiled at Buster White and nodded knowingly.

  “And whattaya want to do?”

&n
bsp; “Might I suggest we start by cutting his fucking nuts off?”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ace Atkins is the author of twenty previous books, most recently The Innocents and Robert B. Parker’s Little White Lies. He has been nominated for every major award in crime fiction, including the Edgar three times, two of those nominations for the Quinn Colson novels. A former newspaper reporter and SEC football player, Atkins also writes essays and investigative pieces for Outside and Garden & Gun. He lives in Oxford, Mississippi, with his family, where he’s friends to many dogs and several bartenders.

  AceAtkins.com

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