Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘What about my momma?’ said Tilon.

‘Pruitt will swing by, let her know you’re safe, if that’ll put your mind at rest.’

It wouldn’t, but Tilon let it slide. He wasn’t in a position to argue.

‘In the meantime, we’ll start assembling the ingredients,’ said Butcher. ‘We’re short on muriatic, but that won’t take long to fix.’

Muriatic – or hydrochloric – acid could be bought in most hardware stores, especially those with a pool section. But locals weren’t doing much with their pools in February, and large purchases risked drawing attention. Butcher had a couple of tame suppliers, but he’d also been stockpiling industrial-sized buckets of drain cleaner, just in case.

‘And lye,’ Dix added. ‘We’re going to need lye.’

Lye was used to neutralize any excess acid in the manufacturing process, but it served other purposes as well. Tilon returned to an incident a year or so earlier, when Dix had asked him to take a look at a stainless steel cylinder out by one of the cookhouses because he thought there was something hinky about it. Tilon had opened it up and caught the smell at the same time as he saw the syrupy brown mix, and picked out what was left of the skeleton poking from the fluid. He could still hear the echo of Dix’s laughter as he threw up.

Dix placed his hands on Tilon’s shoulders.

‘No hard feelings,’ he whispered into Tilon’s uninjured ear.

Tilon shook his head, and wished he’d run when he had the chance.

45

Reverend Nathan Pettle stood before his congregation, his wife seated in the front row alongside their daughter, Melissa, who was in the year below Donna Lee Kernigan at Hindman High, and had known her by sight. The Pettles’ only son, Robert, was an electrical engineering major at the University of Arkansas up in Fayetteville. He’d offered to come down and lend his support to the community, being that kind of boy, but his father had instructed him to stay where he was. Pettle had been assured of a place for Robert at Kovas after his graduation, a small acknowledgment from the company of the reverend’s support for its endeavors, and the last thing he wanted was for Robert to be in any way associated with the fallout from Donna Lee’s murder. Robert had a conscience, which was good, but had yet to learn when it was appropriate to speak truth to power, and when it was better to keep one’s mouth shut in order to determine which way the wind was blowing. Right now, that wind was blowing the stink from Donna Lee Kernigan’s corpse straight into Nathan Pettle’s face.

Robert was also better than his younger sister at gauging the relative health of his parents’ relationship, so the increased tension between husband and wife was unlikely to escape him. Even Melissa’s teenage self-absorption had been pierced by the barely concealed rancor in the family home, although she hadn’t yet raised the subject. In any case, she was more likely to broach it with her mother than her father, and Lord knew how Delores might answer, especially in her current mood.

And there was Delores, glaring up at him, wishing she could expose him for the hypocrite he was, imagining herself standing before these fine people, her husband’s flock, and announcing that he, their shepherd, had fucked the mother of the girl they were gathered here to mourn, fucked her like the low-life animal he was. Maybe he’d have to exercise both his husbandly and pastoral authority once they were alone, and remind her that, regardless of the resentment she persisted in harboring toward him for his failings, a young girl was dead, and she ought to set aside her bitterness and weep for this lost life, and possibly shed a tear for Sallie Kernigan, wherever she was. Yes, he might just do that.

Or – because Delores’s face seemed in that instant to grow hard, as though she were eavesdropping on his musings – he might not.

The choir reached the conclusion of ‘Little Innocent Lamb’. Pettle had made the hymn selections himself, and the gathering had already been treated to ‘There Is a Balm in Gilead’ and ‘Jesus Lay Your Head in the Window’. Even if he was a sinner, Pettle knew how to put together a service.

The last notes faded, but he allowed a moment or two longer for the silence to bed down. Just as he was about to speak, the rear door of the church opened, and a man appeared, a single white face among the black.

And Pettle had to bite his tongue to stop himself from swearing aloud.

46

Evan Griffin had taken his bath and changed into fresh clothes. He’d also instructed Kevin Naylor to attend the hastily convened service at Reverend Pettle’s church, and take note of what was said, and who was in attendance – as well as who might be absent, because that could be interesting too. Naylor was technically off-duty, but this was a time of crisis. He was also the only black officer in the department, and Nathan Pettle’s congregation was entirely non-white.

Kel Knight called while Griffin was buttoning his shirt, and confirmed with him the wording of the statement to go out to the local press. Jurel Cade might have preferred a full media blackout, or its closest equivalent, but the death of a young woman and the disappearance of her mother couldn’t be ignored entirely, so a compromise had been reached. The statement acknowledged the discovery of Donna Lee’s body and an ongoing police inquiry into the circumstances, but not much else. Still, at least they’d be circulating a picture of Sallie Kernigan, and requesting that anyone in the vicinity of the discovery site over the weekend, or by Hindman High on Friday evening, should come forward, even if they didn’t believe they’d seen anything of importance.

Griffin padded barefoot to the kitchen, where his wife had already placed the evening meal on the table. He noticed that she’d put out the good silverware and was using the plates they kept for parties and Thanksgiving. She had also lit a candle. He experienced a brief surge of panic at the possibility that he might have forgotten their anniversary, before remembering that it wasn’t for another week. He counted the days on his fingers, just to be sure, before taking his seat.

‘This is all very elegant,’ he said, when she joined him.

‘I know it might seem strange, after what happened today,’ she said, ‘but I had some good news. Well, we had some good news.’

‘And what might that be?’ he asked.

He saw that she was drinking water. Usually, she treated herself to a small glass of wine with dinner. It was one of her few vices. He felt time stop. He wanted to ask, but was afraid. Then she said the words, and even as he stood to take her in his arms, and even as they kissed, and even as he cried and she cried, he knew that in return for this blessing he would forever know fear.

He held his wife, the mother of his unborn child, and tried to force from his mind the images of Patricia Hartley, of Donna Lee Kernigan.

Of Charlie Parker and his dead.

47

In a darkness suffused with decay, the man responsible for the murders of Patricia Hartley and Donna Lee Kernigan – and others besides – kept vigil with the dead. He held in his right hand a charm bracelet once owned by the Hartley girl, and in his left an earring taken from Donna Lee. He was not worried about keeping the items. The police would track him down eventually, he knew, but just in case anything should befall him unexpectedly, he wanted there to be no doubt about his culpability. He didn’t want to have gone to all this trouble for nothing.

His only concern was that a small part of him had enjoyed killing Donna Lee. The Hartley girl had been more difficult, and he hadn’t been convinced of his ability to persevere with his plan in the days immediately after her death – because he smelled her on himself, and not pleasantly – but Donna Lee had been easier. It was in the way she’d struggled, wriggling under the weight of him. He’d liked that. He’d liked it a lot, and his excitement had made him want to hurt her more. He was now looking forward to the next girl, which briefly caused him to consider the possibility of a different outcome.