Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Donna Lee might have seen or heard something.

And what then? Suppose Donna Lee had taken it upon herself to confront the good reverend with her knowledge of his sexual relationship with her mother? What if Donna Lee, unlike Delores, had found herself unable to stomach his sanctimony, and threatened to reveal it to his congregation, to the whole town? In that case, what would become of his dreams of a new church, of his hopes of becoming a figurehead in the rejuvenated Cargill? What would happen to the money promised him by Kovas for mobilizing his flock, for encouraging them to write to their congressman, to state senators and local representatives, to the governor himself, in order to ensure that Kovas, this harbinger of wealth and change, should be facilitated in every way? What would happen to the promised career for his boy? And what would happen to Pettle himself? Men had killed to protect less.

Then there was Sallie Kernigan herself, because she remained missing. Already the talk around town was that Sallie, like her daughter, could well be dead. Whoever killed Donna Lee might have been forced to deal with the mother first in order to get to the girl, or to take Sallie’s life in the aftermath so that she could not speak of what she knew. But who would have cause to commit such acts? Who might benefit from ensuring the silence of mother and daughter?

This, Pettle feared, was the sum of his wife’s suspicions about him: the husband who had cheated on her was now a man who might have killed to escape the consequences of his licentiousness.

God, he was weary. Earlier that afternoon, he had driven to Hot Springs with Lorrie Colson, the young policewoman, in order to visit with Miss Imogene, now grandmother to a dead child and mother to a missing one. The old woman could no longer breathe unassisted, a lifetime of smoking having rendered her lungs useless, and stage three emphysema would soon take her from this world. Already she was virtually without speech, but she’d understood what they were telling her. He’d wiped away her tears and held her hand, until eventually she’d lapsed into unconsciousness. Speaking to her, breaking her heart at the end of her life, was one of the hardest duties Pettle had ever performed, yet he had taken on the burden of it willingly, even as he wondered: Does Miss Imogene know? Does she, like my own wife, believe me to be capable of this crime?

‘But what about Estella Jackson?’ He heard himself speaking aloud, addressing his reflection. ‘She died the same way as Donna Lee, and I had no cause to kill her. Same with Patricia Hartley.’

But everyone was aware of how the Jackson girl died, with branches rammed deep into her – Patricia Hartley too, no matter what lies Jurel Cade and Loyd Holt had elected to tell, the same lies they had persuaded Pettle to accept, because to do otherwise would have brought devastation down on the county, impoverishing them all. It wouldn’t be hard to replicate killings like that, wouldn’t be hard at all. A man would only need a couple of sticks …

He should not have colluded with Cade and Holt. That had been one of his mistakes. He should have demonstrated that he was a man of principle. Yet there was so much at stake here for everyone. Pettle wanted to see his people enriched. He wanted them to be able to afford better homes, better food for their table, a better education for their children. Only Kovas offered that hope. So he had chosen to swallow the Hartley lie, and ignore the enforced exile of her family. He had embraced complicity in one sin to avoid visiting harm on generations of families. He had prioritized the needs of the many over the few.

But that would no longer suffice. The membership of his flock hadn’t just been in mourning tonight: they’d been angry. They wanted justice. None of them had departed immediately after the service ended, not one. They’d called on him to stand up for what was right, and not let the death of another black girl go unremarked and uninvestigated. He’d tried to assure them that Chief Griffin was on their side, and felt as they did. Griffin had called Pettle at home a few hours before the service, suggesting it might be a good idea if he addressed the congregation, but Pettle had demurred, and still believed it to have been the correct decision. Griffin meant well, but he was a white police officer in a county and state in which the old divisions remained visible: geographical, social, economic, racial. The town’s black population had no reason to accept that Griffin would be any more effective than Jurel Cade in investigating the butchering of their young women, just as Eddy Rauls, Cade’s predecessor, had failed to solve the murder of Estella Jackson. It was up to Pettle to convince his congregants otherwise. He had agreed to let Naylor, the town’s sole black officer, attend the service, and from the pulpit had advised anyone with information to speak with the police, but no one came forward. They wanted Reverend Nathan Pettle to be their voice. They were putting their faith in him, and he wished so badly to be worthy of it, but he could not, for so many reasons, one of which was currently waiting for him on the other side of the restroom door.

The reprobate named Leonard Cresil.

50

A familiar car was idling in the lot when Parker emerged from the office of the motel. The engine died as he appeared, and the driver’s door opened. Delphia Cade emerged from the dimness of the interior, trailing perfume and the promise of misfortune.

‘Mr Parker,’ she said, and waited for him to acknowledge her.

‘Ms Cade.’

‘May I trouble you for a moment of your time?’

‘Sure.’

‘Perhaps we could speak somewhere less open?’

‘There’s always the office,’ said Parker.

‘But you have a room here, don’t you?’

‘I have more than a room, I have the honeymoon suite.’

‘How quaint. I wasn’t aware that there was such an amenity in this town.’

‘The name flatters to deceive.’

‘Even so, we might talk there.’

Her lips were very, very red, and her teeth very, very white. The canines were sharp enough to leave holes in a man’s throat.

‘I was on my way to get something to eat,’ said Parker. ‘It’s been a long day.’

‘I could always join you.’

‘Like I said, it’s been a long day.’

Delphia Cade made a curious gesture with her right hand. In a distant, less enlightened time, it might have been taken for a conjuration or hex. Whatever one chose to call it, Parker would not have been entirely surprised had he suddenly begun bleeding from the eyes and ears.

‘Have I caused you some offense?’ said Delphia.

‘No, Ms Cade, but you’re the sister of the county’s chief deputy, and the daughter of its most powerful citizen. I’m not sure it would be proper for us to be alone without a chaperone.’

‘My father was right: you are a character.’

And like her father, she didn’t sound as though she considered this to be a boon.

‘If you have anything to share that might be of benefit to the investigation,’ said Parker, ‘I’d be happy to listen to it at the station house. We can go there right now.’

‘I did have something to offer, but not information.’

‘I don’t think I’m in the market for what you’re offering.’

‘Don’t be uncouth,’ said Delphia. ‘I’m talking about a job.’

But her eyes said different: they shone with sun-darts of silver, like fish rising to feed.

‘What kind of job?’

‘A great many people are intent upon entering into my good graces, although you don’t seem to be one of them. They look at me and smell money. Some of them think they can smell more than that. I find the approaches tiresome, even intimidating at times. I’ve now reached the stage where I’d be happier with personal security, someone to stand by my side. I thought of you.’