The Lost Ones Page 5

  “Quinn,” Kenny said. “You mind if I ask you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Me and you kinda lost track of each other after graduation,” he said. “I didn’t write you or nothin’. Hadn’t seen you in almost ten years. How come you gave me this job?”

  “Not many folks I could trust.”

  Quinn could only still see the outline of Kenny, watching the end of the cigarette glow red-hot, and then heard the hiss as he tossed the butt in the kitchen sink.

  “I can’t really imagine what y’all went through.”

  “What’s that?” Quinn asked.

  “Do you wake up in night sweats like you see veterans do in movies? Or just driving around and get a flashback, thinking about your best friend getting killed in the line of duty? I imagine that can mindfuck you good even if you don’t lose a limb like ole Boom.”

  “You try and keep your head clear.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Some of my buddies find God,” Quinn said. “Most of them still like to fight, in bars or in the ring.”

  “You see folks die?”

  “Yep.”

  “You kill some?”

  “I did.”

  “Buddies get killed?”

  “Kenny, it’s pretty late.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kenny said. “Didn’t mean to push. I mean, we just hadn’t talked at all since I come onto the department. And I guess I’m just sayin’ I appreciate you for coming back. I know things been different.”

  Quinn drank some coffee. Kenny’s Bic flicked back on, and he lit another cigarette. The room filling with tobacco smoke over the kitchen counter and into the family room, cold night air breathing through the cracked windows.

  “You think I should save that dog?” Kenny asked.

  “Good to have a dog,” Quinn said.

  “Better ’an my ex-wife,” Kenny said. “Found out she gave our youth pastor a blow job. And the kicker was, I figured the son of a bitch was gay. He had his hair frosted like you see on old women and wore leather bracelets and shit.”

  “You want some coffee?”

  “I got to git,” Kenny said. “Sorry about askin’ about war and all that. I know you got to keep them things secret.”

  “I don’t mind the talk.”

  They both heard the wood creak on the old porch at the same time. Kenny’s fresh cigarette hissed into the sink as Quinn stood and unholstered his gun. He saw the large shape of Kenny step back from the kitchen and into the living room, raising his weapon as the door jimmied open and a hand fumbled for the lights. The voice of a girl saying “Shit” when she realized there wasn’t electricity.

  Keys dropped onto a countertop.

  Quinn got a good sense of a short girl, low and fat, arms down by her sides and hands empty. He clicked the Maglite up into her wide face. She squinted and covered her eyes. Kenny giving a hell of an unnecessary “Hold it.”

  “Mara?” Quinn asked.

  The girl didn’t say anything. Her face was white and doughy, with bug eyes, under a pink John Deere ski hat, expressionless in the flashlight beam. Kenny moved behind her and gripped her by the thick arm, reaching for his handcuffs. Mara Torres just stood there, chunky and short, a not-quite-miniature version of her mother.

  “Where are they?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m alone,” her voice soft and thick country. “Hell.”

  “Kenny, go check the road,” Quinn said. “I’ll take Miss Torres to the jail.”

  “My name ain’t Torres,” she said. “That Mex bastard ain’t my father.”

  9

  DONNIE ATE SUPPER WITH HIS FATHER EVERY THURSDAY NIGHT AT THE Jericho VFW Hall right after Bible study. This had pretty much been the deal since his momma died when he was twelve, and Luther Varner looked forward to taking his son to that big meal at the old cinder-block building at the edge of town. Donnie wasn’t complaining. No, sir. They had row after row of fried catfish (with the tail on), French fries, coleslaw, baked beans, and sometimes a little barbecue if the cook—usually a large black man—decided to get a little creative. All the old soldiers in town—and there seemed to be more and more of them, a helluva lot more of them than when Donnie had been a kid—just ate that shit up. The Jericho VFW spanned World War II to what people called the Global War on Terror but what Donnie just called a big fucking mess.

  He and his daddy had a lot in common, he figured. His daddy had been a Marine sniper in Vietnam. But like all old soldiers, his daddy never said a word about it. About as close as he’d ever come to knowing what old Luther went through was watching him bawl during the annual showing of Sergeant York on TBS. Something sure got to him there.

  “What’d you think about the talk tonight?”

  “I think Joseph’s brothers were a bunch of assholes,” Donnie said.

  “Pretty tough on that kid for a damn coat.”

  “Must’ve been some coat.”

  Luther Varner stood about six-foot-four, with a silver crew cut, leathery skin, and a Semper Fi tattoo with a smiling skull on his right forearm. He lifted that forearm to burn off another smoke, squashing it into his coffee cup, and reached for another piece of fried catfish.

  The VFW was clogged with so much cigarette smoke that the goddamn air purifier had turned yellow.

  “You ever have crazy dreams like that?” Luther asked. “Like that ole pharaoh?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Skinny cows devouring fat cows. Grain eating other grain. Hell.”

  “Crazy.”

  “I hate to dream,” Luther said, taking a bite of catfish.

  Donnie looked up on the wall and spotted a photograph of old Judge Blanton, a Korean War vet who’d been a good friend to his dad. His father caught him staring.

  “You make it through the Chosin Reservoir and get offed at the Dixie Gas station in Tibbehah County.”

  “He made a stand,” Luther said, working the white meat from the fish’s bones. “He was a good man.”

  “I heard he done got himself killed ’cause he felt shame for throwing in with Johnny Stagg.”

  Luther shot Donnie a look, the kind of look that used to mean Donnie’d be left with a sore ass from the flat of his daddy’s hand. He didn’t talk for a long while, reaching for some Tabasco. “Heard you were over at the truck stop the other day,” Luther said.

  “Damn, you can’t take a shit in this town without someone smellin’ it.”

  “You got business with Stagg?” Luther asked.

  “Just getting my piston greased.”

  Luther nodded, but, god damn, that old coot knew. What’d he want, for Donnie to keep working a shift at the convenience store?

  Luther said: “You can work for me some more. Pick up an extra shift.”

  “I’m making money.”

  Luther nodded again, scraping up some more on his plate, washing it down with some sweet tea. Donnie got up to buy a dollar beer and sat back down, his daddy’s eyes with that rheumy, faraway look that he always thought of as being on Da Nang time.

  “I’m sorry for what happened to you, Donnie.”

  “I’m here, ain’t I?”

  “Sometimes I can’t sleep,” Luther said, “me being the one pushed you into the Guard.”

  “Can’t drive a truck forever,” Donnie said. “Ain’t shit to do around here since the plant closed.”

  Luther nodded, thinking the best thing about the VFW might’ve been the cold beer. They damn sure know how to ice a son of a bitch.

  “You seen Quinn Colson since you been back?”

  Donnie nodded.

  “I know he’s been trying to round up a couple more deputies.”

  Donnie snorted so hard, some Budweiser flushed out his nose. “Shit.”

  “How’s that?” Luther said, stubbing out his millionth cigarette, starting up a new one.

  “I got everything in hand,” Donnie said.

  “What’s wrong with being on the right side?”

  “You be
lieve Quinn Colson won’t find a way to get himself paid?”

  “He grew up.”

  “Well, good for him, Dad.”

  “SO WHO IS YOUR FATHER?” Lillie asked Mara in the Tibbehah County Sheriff’s Office conference room less than an hour later.

  “Fred Black.”

  “The welder?” Lillie asked.

  Mara nodded.

  “I know Fred,” Lillie said. “He built a nice wrought-iron fence for my mother. Is he still in Jericho?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quinn hung back against the glass door. He’d been sheriff for six months, and this was the first serious interrogation he’d ever watched. Lillie took the lead since she had more law enforcement experience than anyone in the department, with her five years as a cop in Memphis.

  “Can I get you something to eat?” Lillie asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Listen, Mara,” Lillie said. “I’ll put it this way: I don’t think you’re a part of all this. How ’bout a Coke?”

  “I’m not talking.”

  “I just want to get you a Coke, Mara. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I only came back to get some clothes,” she said. “What’s wrong with that? I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “We got warrants out for your mother,” Lillie said. “You’re eighteen and can be prosecuted as an adult. But I don’t think that’s right. I don’t think you got much choice in all this.”

  “I just needed clean underwear.”

  “How about a shoe box full of money?” Quinn asked from the wall.

  “I’ll take that Coke,” Mara said.

  Quinn walked to the back of the department to a Coca-Cola machine that had probably been there since the 1960s and got a bottle, cracking off the cap. He headed back into Lillie’s office and handed it to the pudgy little girl. She was still wearing her pink hat on her fat little head.

  “What happened to the child?” Lillie was asking.

  “She fell out of a grocery cart.”

  “You see it?”

  “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Did your momma hit that child?”

  “No.”

  “Did she hit you?”

  “That baby’s in rough shape,” Quinn said.

  “Where is she?”

  “St. Jude,” Quinn said. “Her skull was cracked. Ribs snapped like matchsticks.”

  “She gonna make it?” Mara said. Her voice sounded small. Head dropped into her chubby hands.

  Nobody said anything. The silence in the station was electric. The bottle of Coke just sat there, fizzing, with Mara frozen and staring into nothing. Quinn couldn’t note any emotion at all until the tears started to come. But the face was passive and dull, almost bovine. She didn’t even seem to notice the tears.

  “Where are the other children?” Lillie asked.

  Mara was silent.

  “What about Ramón?” Quinn asked. “What’s he do?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Are the children all Mexican?” Lillie asked.

  Mara nodded.

  “How many?” Lillie asked.

  Quinn listened.

  “Eleven.”

  “There were thirteen cribs.”

  “She only got eleven now.”

  “What’s she do with them?” Lillie asked, taking a seat across from the girl.

  “Helps them find homes.”

  “For a price?” Lillie asked, leaning forward.

  Mara nodded.

  “So she sells babies,” Lillie said. “That’s pretty illegal, Mara. I sure would appreciate you working with us. We’re worried about those children.”

  Mara shook her head, took off her pink hat, and wiped her face and big eyes clean.

  “Is she still in the state?” Quinn asked.

  Mara shook her head some more. Lillie looked up to Quinn, Quinn leaning his butt on the desk with arms folded across his chest. He shrugged.

  “Are you worried about the baby?” Lillie asked.

  Mara was sobbing now, leaning down between her knees and making retching sounds. Lillie stood over her and rubbed her back.

  “Sheriff, can you call about that child?” Lillie asked.

  Lillie nodded to Quinn, and Quinn walked back to his office. He had the hospital number written on a yellow legal pad on his desk. He was transferred around a bit before he was able to talk to an administrator on duty. He’d spoken to the woman before, the woman obviously half asleep, but she promised to call him back with an update.

  She called back a few minutes later, and Quinn walked back to the conference room.

  Quinn said: “That baby is dead.”

  The heaving and sobbing and retching all came pretty fast and hard now. Mara fell from the chair and curled into a fetal ball, screaming and yelling. Quinn leaned against the desk. Lillie dropped down on a knee and soothed her back some more, telling her she was very worried about the other children and that Mara wasn’t to blame.

  The shuddering and cries broke down after a while, and the sobbing turned to a smattering of coughs. Lillie reached out her hand and helped the fat little girl to her feet. Her sweatshirt had a picture of Tinker Bell on it.

  “Where’s your momma?” Lillie said. “Is she still in the state?”

  Mara’s face was a reddened, puffy mess. She shook her head and wiped her bug eyes. “No, ma’am.”

  “Where?” Quinn asked.

  Mara turned her eyes to him and coughed. “Memphis.”

  10

  THE FASTEST WAY OUT OF TIBBEHAH COUNTY WAS TAKING THE NATCHEZ Trace up to Tupelo. It was 0500 by the time Lillie drove the old winding trapper and Indian route by moonlight, passing through the thick humps of Indian mounds and long stretches of virgin oak and pine, Quinn riding shotgun and studying the scenery. They refueled just after they got onto Highway 78, heading through the north Mississippi towns of New Albany, Potts Camp, Holly Springs, Red Banks, and Olive Branch. By the time the Jeep hit the state line, the sun had just started rising over the Mississippi River. Lillie pulled off again, this time for coffee and biscuits at a Shell station, and for Quinn to check in with the shift commander at the Airways Precinct to see if they could get a couple uniform officers to help them serve a warrant.

  Lillie had explained, Quinn not knowing this, that the local law had to be present not only in case some shit went down but because they were the ones who had to make the actual arrest. They’d have to extradite the Torres family—if they were able to catch them—back to Tibbehah County. Lillie rolled down the window, lighting up a cigarette, and surmised they might need a horse trailer to truck Janet’s big ass back to Jericho.

  “Being inside that house makes me think these folks aren’t even human,” Quinn said.

  “We aren’t paid to be psychologists,” Lillie said. “Just get them to court.”

  “You think those kids are still with them?”

  “Don’t know,” Lillie said, flicking her cigarette out onto the road. “But let’s not take any chances. We’ll get the Memphis cops to go in first. I know you want to be the first to point that gun at Ramón and Janet, but, trust me, it’ll make it go better with the D.A.”

  “I wonder how these two shitbirds met,” Quinn said.

  “Maybe found each other on eHarmony,” Lillie said. “Both of them being good Christians that like going to the beach, puppy dogs, and sunsets.”

  “What’s in it for him?”

  “Maybe she pays him,” Lillie said. “Maybe it’s not a marriage at all but a business deal. Them being married gets his ass a green card.”

  “He earned it.”

  “We treat either one of them with some contempt and it’ll fuck up the case,” Lillie said. “I want them both in our jail, and I want you and me to file every bit of paper we can on these people. I want those children in a safe place, and I want the Torreses to be locked up in a cage a good long while.”

  “You know Kenny kept one of those dogs,” Quinn said. “Spe
nt five hundred on getting her cleaned up and dewormed and all.”

  “Yep,” Lillie said. “That’s something Kenny would do.”

  Lillie and Quinn followed 78 until it turned into Lamar Avenue in south Memphis, running through all those warehouses and big-rig garages, cheap motels for truckers to sleep, and barbecue joints to grab a sandwich, or western-wear shops for some new cowboy boots. The road soon turned into a clustered section of beauty parlors and pawnshops, used-car dealerships, and storefront churches. The Stonewall Jackson Motel was a half mile off the I-240 loop, tired and haggard and having seen its best days when Ike had been president. There had been a pool at one point, but it had been filled in, with thick weeds growing in the center. The motel was one story and a deep U shape. Lots of transient cars with out-of-state license plates littered the parking lot, probably laborers cutting through town. The sign outside the small registration lobby boasted free hbo.

  You could hear the trucks and cars zipping past the old highway on the bypass. The sound of it made the motel seem lost and insignificant.

  “Sometimes the chickenshits are the worst arrests,” Lillie said, parking and turning off the engine. “Domestics. Drunks. I had a crackhead bite me on the tit once.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Like you were with Boom?”

  “I got him home.”

  “He gonna go back to the VA? See that therapist?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “I thought about offering him a job.”

  “A one-armed deputy?” Lillie said. “Boom’s strong, but he couldn’t pass the academy physical.”

  “I got somethin’ else in mind,” Quinn said. “Something that would set his mind in the right direction.”

  Lillie and Quinn climbed out of the Jeep and joined up with a couple street officers with the Memphis PD. Both of them black men in their thirties in stiff blues. They made introductions, and the men pointed out Unit 22, where the night clerk said the Torreses had registered. The men were both drinking coffee. Lillie showed them the warrant signed that morning by a judge in Tibbehah County.