Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘Not very friendly at all.’

‘I’d feel better if you had one of my people with you.’

‘They’re stretched as things stand. Also, your people have their own lives when they’re off the clock.’

‘And your friends don’t?’

‘They take a more holistic view of existence.’

‘I don’t even know what that means.’

‘It means they live to cause trouble.’

‘Well,’ said Griffin, ‘they’re coming to the right place.’

The conversation ended, but Parker could still see the possum in his rearview mirror.

Colson pulled up moments later. She had spent part of the morning at the county courthouse, testifying in a number of minor cases and acting as the department’s representative at various arraignments and sentencing hearings, before continuing with the canvass of those who might have known Donna Lee and her mother. Later, back at the station, she’d assisted Billie Brinton in coming up with a list of persons who might have known all three of the dead girls. The only solid link shared by Estella Jackson, Patricia Hartley, and Donna Lee Kernigan was that they had all attended the same school, which was Hindman, for the duration of their studies. Then Evan Griffin had shared the news of the discovery of Hollis Ward’s fingerprint on Donna Lee’s body, which seemed to render futile any further efforts to look for a culprit at the school.

Colson joined Parker, who was squatting close to the patch of grass, poking at the dead possum with a gloved hand. The possum looked as though some other animal had gnawed on it and its body was pitted with wounds. Parker asked if Colson wanted to take a closer look at the possum, and wasn’t surprised when she declined.

‘Why would I want to look at a dead possum, anyway?’ she asked.

‘You picked the venue,’ said Parker.

‘Because it was a landmark you could easily find, not because of a possum. Oh, and because it used to be owned by Hollis Ward. He closed it after his conviction on the child pornography charges, since no one would buy it from him as a going concern. I think Pappy Cade might have taken the land off his hands out of sympathy, but never did anything with it. Kovas might change that.’

‘What about the movie theater?’

‘That went out of business before the gas station, but it was another Ward family enterprise.’

‘Hollis Ward doesn’t seem to have enjoyed a surfeit of good fortune.’

‘The child porn didn’t help, but it’s also what comes of getting into bed with the Cades. They use people, then throw away the husks.’

There was no mistaking Colson’s bitterness.

‘You make it sound personal,’ said Parker.

‘The Cades cheated my uncle out of most of his land. They offered him a line of credit through their tame bank, and waited until he was overextended before calling in the debt. It was legal, but it wasn’t moral. If you want to know how the Cades operate, that about sums it up. A lot of people around here have similar stories, and not all of them are prepared to forgive or forget.’

Parker looked back at the gas station. Its doors and windows had been covered up with steel plates, either bolted to the walls or secured with heavy-duty locks.

‘Do you have any airtight containers in your car?’ he asked.

‘I have some evidence bags, and a cooler box,’ said Colson. ‘I also have a feeling I’m going to regret admitting that to you.’

The replacement vehicle, a Toyota 4Runner with tinted windows, arrived as Pruitt Dix was finishing up in the men’s room. He left a couple of bucks on the bar to cover the lousy soda and stepped outside. The driver’s side window rolled down, revealing Randall Butcher seated behind the wheel.

‘Get in,’ he said.

Dix took the passenger seat. Butcher pulled away from the bar and headed for the interstate.

‘How much trouble are we in?’ he asked Dix.

‘Depends what they found at my place, but I could be in a lot. As for you, I can’t say for sure.’

‘What were you holding?’

‘About a key and a half, and I had a buyer lined up.’

Dix didn’t usually get involved directly in sales and distribution, but these were desperate times. Dix had taken Butcher’s last two keys the previous night, and had already offloaded a quarter of the meth before dawn.

Butcher’s cell phone rang. He picked up and kept driving, listening closely all the time, and saying little in response. At the conclusion of the call, he said only ‘I understand,’ and killed the connection. Dix waited.

‘There’s a sealed grand jury indictment in my name,’ said Butcher. ‘Conspiracy, bribery, and five counts of wire fraud.’

‘A federal indictment?’

Butcher nodded. That explained why they’d heard nothing about it until now. If it had been purely a state matter, the drums would have been pounding long ago. Also, if a grand jury had been convened, it meant federal prosecutors had confidence in their case. Whatever problems Dix might have, Butcher had bigger ones. Depending on the legality of the search, Dix could be looking at felony possession, which carried a sentence of six years or less. Butcher, on the other hand, could be facing a sentence of twenty years on the wire fraud alone – and that was per count. It made the issue of the meth cook even more urgent, because Butcher now needed funds for a better lawyer than he already had.

‘I’ll supervise the damn cook myself,’ said Butcher. ‘In the meantime, start making calls. Tell the buyers I want their money lined up and ready to be counted.’

‘And Tilon Ward?’

‘Tilon stays aboveground. He cooks, we move him, he cooks again.’

Dix was sorry to hear this. Tilon Ward had always bugged him.

‘If you’re sure.’

Butcher patted him on the arm.

‘We’ll work him to the bone, then you can get rid of him. But,’ he added, ‘if you see the police coming, you shoot Tilon in the head. We don’t need him talking on top of all this other shit.’

Which cheered Dix up some.

74

Eddy Rauls lived in a neat house in a neat yard surrounded by trees that were also neat, as woodland went. Parker pulled up behind Colson and took in the view. Two vehicles sat in the yard: a Ford truck that bore mud splatter from the recent rains but was otherwise in good condition, given that it was at least a decade old, and beside it an Acura Integra bearing a disability sticker.

A small brown mongrel dog appeared from the house, leaped the three steps to the yard in a single bound, and nuzzled up to Colson as soon as she emerged from her car. A big man holding a cup of coffee followed the dog outside, although he stopped short of also jumping into the yard and nuzzling Colson. His shoulders and chest were massive, and tapered to a waist that wasn’t much wider than Parker’s. He wore loose-fitting cargo pants and a baggy bowling shirt over a white T. His silver hair was cut in a flattop, while matching curly strands peeked out curiously over the neck of his undershirt. As Colson walked over to meet him, he put the coffee cup down on the rail of his porch and enveloped her in a hug.

‘It’s been too long, girl,’ he said.

‘It’s been two weeks, Uncle Ed,’ Colson replied.

‘Still too long.’

He released her and shook hands with Parker. His palm had a sandpaper grip.

‘Mr Parker,’ he said. ‘You’re quite the talk around town.’

‘Should I be pleased?’

‘Well, someone once dumped the carcass of a cat over by the Dunk-N-Go, and there was a week’s worth of conversation in that, so it’s a pretty a low bar. How are you finding our little county?’

‘Vexing.’

‘Hard to contest. Come inside. I just made a fresh pot.’

The dog, Milo, skipped at their heels and tried to bite the ends of Parker’s trousers. Parker didn’t mind. He liked dogs. Susan had been allergic, but Jennifer had really wanted a dog, and they’d been asking around for advice about breeds that didn’t shed.