Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Pettle slipped to his knees from the couch. He gripped his hands tightly together, bowed his head, and prayed for Donna Lee Kernigan, and her mother, wherever she might be. Principally, though, he prayed for himself: for the strength to lead his flock at this difficult time, for the wisdom to choose the right path for all.

And for the continued concealment of his subsequent errors, that they might remain buried and undisturbed, now and forever.

Amen.

36

Denny Rhinehart spoke quietly into the bar phone, the one that sat beneath the bags of peanuts that might or might not still be within their use-by date, the Rhine Heart’s patrons being less than particular about such niceties. From this vantage point, Rhinehart could see Tilon Ward sitting in his truck, the smoke from his cigarette winding into the afternoon air. The rain had stopped, but it was likely to be a temporary respite. The elements weren’t done with the county yet.

‘Yeah,’ said Rhinehart, ‘he just left. No, he’s outside, smoking. You want I should get him?’ He listened. ‘Okay, okay. I just thought you should know that he was asking about her.’

He hung up the phone and opened a bag of nuts. Sallie Kernigan: Denny Rhinehart had always entertained a jones for her, and her daughter, too – once Donna Lee had become legal, of course, because he wasn’t a pervert. He’d seen her on the road a few evenings back, as she was walking home from school, her bag swinging and her hips swinging along with it, because she’d filled out in a healthy way this last year. Denny, being a good Samaritan – almost a friend of the family, you might say, seeing as how the wages he had until recently paid her mother probably bought some of those clothes Donna Lee was wearing – pulled over and offered her a ride.

Donna Lee turned him down. She did it with a smile, but Denny could tell that she was wary of him. He didn’t know what tales her mother might have been spreading about him, but he hadn’t liked Donna Lee’s attitude.

No, Denny thought, he hadn’t liked her attitude one little bit.

37

Parker waited in the public area of the Cargill Police Department while Griffin went into conclave with his officers to inform them of his decision to co-opt the newcomer into the investigation. After five minutes, Parker was invited to join them. No one displayed obvious resentment at his presence, with the exception of Kel Knight. Griffin had warned Parker this might be the case, explaining that Knight was Cargill born and bred, and therefore preternaturally disposed to being suspicious of those who were not.

The truth was more complicated. Kel Knight was a man of deep moral and religious convictions, and had become a police officer because he believed that justice was not solely the prerogative of the Divine. Decades of exposure to the realities of law enforcement, and the accompanying explorations of the shadows behind the Magnolia Curtain, had served only to strengthen him in this position; but it had also resulted in a hardening of his attitudes, an inflexibility that rendered him intolerant of human failings. Now he was being forced to confront a situation in which the outcome he desired – the investigation of a series of killings, and the apprehension and punishment of the culprit – might necessitate the involvement of someone whom he adjudged, if only on the basis of hearsay, to have blood on his hands. For the present, Knight was debating the nuances of the issue on an internal level. How long that might continue, and what the results might be, would likely depend on Parker’s behavior.

In order to ensure that the new arrival had the requisite powers required to aid the investigation, Parker was sworn in as a volunteer officer and temporarily provided with a badge and department ID. Griffin didn’t bother offering him the use of a gun: the man was already well supplied, and it wasn’t as though the department was running a superfluity of firearms and ammunition. As it was, most of the officers paid for their own weapons.

When all this was completed, Parker and Griffin took their leave and drove toward the Cade homestead in Hamill.

‘I have a question to ask,’ said Griffin at last, as they passed the diner and gas station at which Parker had made his decision to return. He took in the windows, but no woman and child stared back at him.

‘Only one?’

Parker watched the landscape roll by: trailers that had become permanent residences out of necessity and were now nearing the end of their natural lifespan; houses that were hardly more prepossessing, their greater resilience excepted; stretches of woodland that were not being stewarded, encroaching on fields cultivating only weeds; and failed businesses standing alongside those battling the same fate. It reminded Parker of parts of rural Maine, where he had spent his adolescence and young adulthood following the death of his father. Poverty knew no accents, no natural boundaries; it was depressing in its uniformity. The only difference in Burdon was the evidence of tornado damage, like the wrath of God made manifest through crushed homes and uprooted trees.

‘A weapon in your possession might be the kind issued to FBI agents, or am I mistaken?’ said Griffin.

‘There’s an agent named Woolrich,’ said Parker, ‘down in Louisiana. The gun was a gift from him. He’s an assistant SAC in the New Orleans field office, but until recently he was working out of New York. I’ve known Woolrich for a few years, and he’s okay. We became friendly, even close. When I chose to resign from the force, he offered to provide information, within certain limits. I’m looking for motifs, listening for echoes, because my wife and daughter weren’t the first. What was done to them was too consummate for that. The one who killed them had practice, so where did he start?’

Griffin said nothing. He was in awe of the younger man’s focus: the clarity of his rage, and the purity of his desire for vengeance. He found it hard to envisage Parker losing control to the extent required to beat another human being to death, but neither was Griffin so foolish as to believe him incapable of it. In the confines of the car, Parker’s very restraint drew attention to what was being suppressed: power, violence, and wrath. Perhaps Kel Knight was right to be doubtful, even fearful, of him.

‘Not in Burdon County,’ said Griffin, finally.

‘No, but someone did, back in ninety-two, with Estella Jackson. She may be the key to what’s happening here. Was Jurel Cade the chief investigator?’

‘No, that would have been toward the end of Eddy Rauls’s time.’

‘Is Rauls still around?’

‘Oh yeah.’

‘You say that with feeling.’

‘Eddy Rauls will outlive us all. The man is mostly nails and granite. He kept a paper shredder under his desk for the tickets, fines, and summonses he chose to destroy in return for money or favors, and a blackjack and ball-peen hammer as cures for intransigence and recidivism. Looked at from a certain angle, you could say he kept the county running smoothly, and spared the courts a lot of time and trouble. From another angle, it might be argued that he engaged in acts of gross illegality, and viewed the sheriff’s office as his personal fiefdom.’

‘So he was the sheriff?’

‘No, the chief deputy, and he was happy to work from the shadows. Eddy didn’t hold with politics, or the democratic process. He was the power behind the throne, and bent a succession of sheriffs to his will.’

‘Will he talk to us?’

‘He might, if he’s in the right mood. He’s no fan of the Cades. He might still be chief investigator now if Jurel and Pappy hadn’t encouraged him to retire early.’

‘How did they manage that?’