Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘My God,’ she whispered.

‘I should have been with them,’ he said. ‘Had I been there, I might have prevented what happened, even if only by the fact of my presence. But do you know where I was?’

She did not respond. There was no need.

‘I was in a bar, feeling sorry for myself. The last word I spoke to my wife was an obscenity.’

Ava recalled the arguments she sometimes had with her husband, and the occasions on which one or the other left the house on a harsh word. It would happen again, she knew, because they were people, not saints. But she prayed now, as she always did, even after the worst of their quarrels, that the day would end with Evan sleeping safely by her side. Soon, God willing, she would have another prayer to add to that one. Her left hand touched her belly, where the child waited.

How can this man carry on? What is it that keeps him from embracing oblivion?

And the answer came to her: wrath.

‘I still find myself talking of them in the present tense,’ he said, ‘but not as often as before. I’m losing them, and I don’t want to let them go.’

His voice caught. He stopped talking.

‘Evan always talks about those left behind,’ said Ava, ‘the people who have buried loved ones because of drunk drivers, domestic abusers, strangers, whatever. He tries to stay in touch with them, and keep them notified of progress. He doesn’t want them to feel they’ve been forgotten, because he knows that they can’t forget, just as you never will.’

She reached for him. His body was shaking.

‘Whoever killed your family knows that you’re in pain,’ she said. ‘He knows you’re angry and grieving. That knowledge may even give him pleasure. Don’t let yourself become his pawn. Don’t let him ruin what’s good in you. Whatever else you’re forced to remember, and whenever you start to doubt yourself, don’t ever forget that you came back here when you could have just kept on driving. You came back to help my husband stop another man from killing young women, even though there was no obligation upon you to return, and no one would have judged you harshly if you’d chosen otherwise. There’s a light inside you. Don’t allow it to be snuffed out.’

She went back inside to make some coffee, leaving him alone.

When she returned Parker was gone.

86

The three men in the truck – Bobby Needham, Ryan Vinson, and Gary Reeve – were all either current or former employees of Rich Emory, he of the just-about-surviving sawmill and the missing fingertips. They had been present at the Rhine Heart for the exchanges between Parker and Emory, listening from nearby, and had taken the view that the interloper should be brought down a peg or two through the judicious application of steel-toed boots. They had made this opinion known to any number of individuals, both over the course of the night in question and subsequent to it, including within earshot of Denny Rhinehart, whence they found their way to Pruitt Dix, who liked to kept abreast of events in the county. Thus it was that when willing bodies were required to teach Parker a lesson, their names immediately sprang to his mind.

The truck, a Ford SVT Lightning, was brand new, Vinson having come into money following the death of his stepfather, who – unlike every other stepfather of Vinson’s acquaintance – hadn’t been a complete asshole. A more sensible human being might have put some of that cash away instead of blowing the bulk of it on a truck and the rest on a custom paint job inspired by the cover of Molly Hatchet’s Flirtin’ with Disaster album, but Ryan Vinson was not sensible. He was overweight, single, and dumb as a brush. He was also an optimist at heart, and firmly believed that the impending arrival of Kovas would transform Burdon County into the Southern equivalent of the land of milk and honey promised by God to Abraham.

The men had been following Parker for much of the evening. They had earlier considered gaining access to his room at the motel in order to deal with him there, before deciding that the risks of being overheard while delivering a beating were too great – possibly even greater than being shot by their target, although that was touch and go. When Parker later left the motel, they stayed with him, and were only seconds away from forcing him off the road when it became apparent that he was on his way to Chief Evan Griffin’s home – was, in fact, only a hundred feet from Griffin’s drive as they closed in on him – and if they screwed up, and Parker got away, they’d be in jail before the Ford’s odometer had time to clock up another mile.

But Pruitt Dix, who had delivered his instructions to Bobby Needham by phone that morning, had made it clear that Parker was to be put out of commission before another day dawned, or else not only could the three men forget about any form of payment, but they would also incur Dix’s personal animosity, which was the only thing worse than his impersonal animosity. It was now getting on for 11 p.m., which meant time was running out, and so it was with a sense of relief that they saw Parker’s car emerge from Griffin’s drive. With Vinson behind the wheel, they came up behind him within minutes, and Reeve racked his shotgun. After some discussion, fueled by most of a bottle of Crown Royal, it had been decided that Reeve should shoot out one of Parker’s back tires, because Needham and Vinson had seen it done in a couple of movies and thought it looked cool, after which they’d deliver the beating to end all beatings.

But just as Reeve was rolling down his window prior to taking the shot, Parker accelerated rapidly, and before they could close the gap they were being overtaken by another car, a brand-new SVT Mustang Cobra. It immediately inserted itself into the space between them and Parker and stayed there until they reached Cargill. Every time they tried to pass it, the Cobra would speed up or nudge over the white line, until Reeve was seriously thinking about shooting up its tires instead, just to give himself something to do. They couldn’t even see the driver, because the interior was dark and the glass faintly tinted, although Needham, who had good eyes, thought he glimpsed two people inside. The end result was that Parker made it back to the motel without incident, the Cobra took the next left and drifted from sight, and the would-be brutalizers were faced with the choice of kicking Parker’s door down, which seemed more than unwise; giving up, and taking their chances with Pruitt Dix, which struck them as equally unwise; or waiting until morning in the hope that a better opportunity might present itself, and Dix would forgive them missing the deadline on the grounds that they’d managed to get the job done eventually. They all agreed that the third option was easily the best, and so Vinson dropped the others back at their homes before returning to his own.

‘That fucking Cobra,’ said Reeve, as he jumped out.

‘I know,’ said Vinson. ‘If I see it again, I’ll leave the imprint of my grille guard on its bodywork.’

And, he thought, on the driver, too, given the chance.

Cleon, the desk clerk, waved at Parker as he pulled into the parking lot of the motel, diverting him from the sight of the Ford Lightning reluctantly vanishing into the night, along with the three assholes inside. Parker had never seen a truck decorated like a Molly Hatchet album cover before. He hoped never to see one again, but briefly wondered what kind of person might attempt vehicular assault while driving the most easily identifiable truck in the state of Arkansas.

Parker got out of the car as Cleon approached, holding a white business card in his hand.

‘Someone came by asking after you,’ said Cleon. ‘He left this and said he’d wait for you at Boyd’s.’