Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Pettle drank his coffee. He took it without cream or sugar, like a penitent.

‘I know Sallie informed you about the relationship between her and me,’ he said, without further preamble. ‘I wish she hadn’t, but she did, and there’s no undoing it.’

‘I never spoke of it to anyone else,’ said Rhinehart. ‘It wasn’t my place or my business.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Pettle. He recalled how Sallie had told him of Rhinehart’s clumsy efforts to seduce her, if repeatedly trying to feel her up in the storeroom could be counted as any form of enticement. Pettle loathed this man, and all he represented.

‘And I always did like Donna Lee,’ Rhinehart added.

Pettle’s hand tightened on the coffee cup.

‘I was out there, after they found her,’ said Pettle. ‘I looked upon her face. They called me, and told me that a girl had died, and died badly, but there was only so much they could share over the phone. They said I didn’t have to come if I didn’t want to, and no one would think less of me for it, but they were trying to identify her and thought I might be able to help. It’s strange, but as the police cars came in sight, I was sure it was Donna Lee. I knew it, even before they pointed out her remains. I think it was God readying me for what was to come, but nothing could ready a man for that. I made them show me what had been done to her. They wanted to keep her covered up, but I needed to know. It was important that I bear witness.’

‘Jesus,’ said Rhinehart, then, ‘Sorry.’

But Pettle gave no indication of noticing the casual blasphemy. He was staring into his coffee cup, at the surface of the liquid, still and dark, resembling the Karagol itself, as though the lake were less a single body of water than an entity capable of infusing all manner of fluids with its essence.

‘I watched that girl grow up,’ said Pettle. ‘I cared about her, just as I cared for her mother. In another life, maybe I’d have gone and lived with them both, and taken Donna Lee as my own daughter. If I’d possessed the courage to do that, none of this would have happened.’

Rhinehart shifted in his seat. He wanted Reverend Pettle gone. He didn’t wish to listen as he poured out his guilt and regret, because he’d heard so many variations on the theme in the past. It came with the territory. The difference here lay only in the ending of the tale, and a body mutilated with sticks. Yet he remained curious to understand the reason for the reverend’s presence in his bar.

‘My wife knows,’ said Pettle. ‘About Sallie and me.’

‘Women have a way of sensing indiscretion,’ said Rhinehart. ‘In my experience, men are more lacking in perception.’

‘My life has become a misery in the wake of it,’ said Pettle. ‘Delores says she’ll stay with me for the sake of our mission here, because it’s God’s will that we should build a great church in Burdon County, and by raising it I may make reparation for my sins. But we sleep in separate beds, and she won’t let me touch her. Says she doesn’t know if she’ll ever permit me such intimacies again.’

Rhinehart, as feared, had become Pettle’s confessor, just as he had for countless men and women before, even though he could offer no absolution, and often failed even to rouse himself sufficiently to care.

‘Who else knows about you and Sallie?’ said Rhinehart.

‘I don’t know what others Sallie might have told. I was angry that she’d shared a confidence with you. She said it was an accident.’

‘It was,’ said Rhinehart. ‘It slipped out one night when she’d had too much to drink.’

‘She was beset by that weakness,’ said Pettle. ‘It was one of many.’

Here’s sanctimony , thought Rhinehart.

‘Just as you were afflicted by your own,’ he said.

‘I know it. I have knelt before God in shame.’

‘I’m sure that helped. But He forgave you, too.’

‘What about Leonard Cresil?’ said Pettle, ignoring the sarcasm.

‘What about him?’

‘Does he drink here?’

‘I’m happy to say he does not.’

‘But you know of him?’

‘I’d have to be blind not to, him and Shire both.’

‘Are you in contact with either of them?’

‘Why are you asking?’

‘I’d be obliged if you’d answer the question.’

‘I prefer not to keep the company of such individuals,’ said Rhinehart primly, and Pettle marveled at the bar owner’s mendacity, especially as he had failed to ask the reason for questioning him about Cresil. Pettle was now convinced that Rhinehart was in touch with Cresil, and it was he who had first shared with Cresil his knowledge of Pettle’s affair with Sallie Kernigan.

‘As for your wife,’ said Rhinehart, ‘my opinion is that she’ll say nothing about the affair outside the safety of her own home. She’ll see no reason to risk further humiliation. So it’s just us, then, barring evidence to the contrary, and I have no interest in undermining your position in this community. We have to find ways to work together, all of us, if this town is to prosper.’

This much Rhinehart meant sincerely. If Pettle had come here seeking assurances that Rhinehart would remain quiet about his indiscretion, then he would give him what he wanted, but only because it would put the churchman in his debt. Rhinehart had plans to extend his bar once Kovas commenced building. He even had a local contractor lined up to do the work, and had paid a deposit – more of a bribe, really – to ensure that he wouldn’t be forgotten when the time came. In due course, he might even open another premises, something more upscale. He was weary of selling pretzels, greasy sausages, and Bud Light. There was money in it, admittedly, but not enough for his liking.

Yet that kind of expansion inevitably involved paperwork and permits. It would also draw objections, particularly from the religious types in the county. An ally would be helpful in countering them, and should Reverend Pettle prove reluctant to oblige, a reminder of his own intimate experience of human frailty might cause him to reconsider.

‘You know what the really sad part is?’ said Pettle. ‘Because my wife wouldn’t have relations with me, it drove me back to Sallie, and she welcomed me again to her bed.’

This Rhinehart hadn’t known. Jesus, the reverend was playing with hellfire.

‘Man is not meant to be alone,’ said Rhinehart, in the absence of anything better to offer. He’d read that somewhere, or heard it at a wedding.

‘But you’re alone,’ said Pettle.

‘Marriage doesn’t appeal to me. But I do like women – more than they like me, which is a heavy load to bear.’

‘Is that why you insisted on bothering Sallie with your attentions?’

‘Hey!’ Rhinehart waved a finger in Pettle’s face. ‘I won’t take that shit, not from you, not after what you just told me.’

Pettle nodded glumly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well.’

An awkward interval ensued until Rhinehart broke it with a question.

‘Are you going to tell the police about your involvement with Sallie?’

‘It wasn’t my intention,’ said Pettle.

‘There’s a chance they won’t find out about it, but in a town this size, who can say? It might be better to make a clean breast of it, before they come calling. You know Griffin has a detective working the case, some ex-cop from New York? He was in here last night. I didn’t warm to him.’

‘His name is Parker.’

‘Yeah, Parker, that’s it.’

Rhinehart recalled the man in the bar, and his brief confrontation with Rich Emory. This Parker, he reflected, wasn’t afraid of causing trouble.

‘What about you?’ said Pettle.

‘What about me?’