Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Cleon gave the card to Parker.

‘I’ve never been handed an FBI agent’s card before,’ said Cleon. ‘Do you know him?’

‘Yes, I know him.’ Parker looked at his watch. ‘What time does Boyd’s close?’

‘Not until after midnight. Was this one of the guests you were expecting?’

‘No, I wasn’t expecting him at all.’

Cleon thought that Parker appeared neither pleased nor displeased by the sight of the card, only curious, which was a relief. He was worried that Parker might be in trouble. Cleon would probably have helped him get away if he was, but only on the condition that Parker took him along. Even if they ended up being shot, or driving over the edge of the Grand Canyon like Thelma and Louise, it would still be better than being alive and well but living in Cargill. More than ever, Cleon wanted to escape the town; he just couldn’t figure out how. The main obstacle to decamping, he had concluded, was himself.

‘Will you still be needing the other room?’ said Cleon.

‘If that’s okay. My friends will be along in their own time. They keep unsocial hours.’

‘I’ll be around whenever they arrive. They’ll just have to ring the bell. I’ve left two complimentary bottles of water in their room, and some fruit.’

‘Thank you.’ Parker handed the card back to him. ‘For your collection.’

‘I don’t have a collection,’ said Cleon. ‘I suppose I could always start one.’ He held the card between his thumb and forefinger, the details facing out. ‘Or just pretend to be an FBI agent.’

‘That would be a crime,’ said Parker, ‘although I admit it would be entertaining to watch you try.’

He looked toward Boyd’s and his expression changed. For a moment, Cleon glimpsed an immensity of pain in his eyes. Had he known this man better, Cleon might have reached out and held him in his arms. And then the shutters came down, and the pain was once again hidden from sight.

‘If your friends come, should I tell them where you are?’ said Cleon.

‘You can tell them, but they won’t be joining me. They prefer not to keep the company of federal agents.’

‘You make them sound like criminals.’

‘They’ll be pleased to hear that.’

‘Why?’

Parker’s smile showed only a little light.

‘Because that’s exactly what they are.’

87

An exhausted Tucker McKenzie arrived at the state crime laboratory in Little Rock with material from the scene of the Polk County fire; the accumulated evidence from one killing, that of Denny Rhinehart in Cargill; and his notes and film from the scene of Reverend Nathan Pettle’s botched attempt at self-destruction. McKenzie could have waited until morning before driving up, but given how busy he was currently being kept, he fully expected the new day to bring fresh calamities.

He was also carrying, in a cooler box, the remains of a dead possum.

88

Only a handful of drinkers remained in Boyd’s by the time Parker arrived, but they all watched him cross the bar and slip into a booth – coincidentally, the same booth he’d been occupying when Evan Griffin first came calling. It was now partially filled by a large, overweight man who appeared to have stepped from an old dime novel. He wore a crumpled tan suit, and a yellow silk tie resembling a rag dipped in mustard. Upon closer examination, Parker saw that small dancing skeletons adorned the tie. On the table beside the visitor sat a brown fedora, similar to the one he had been wearing when he and Parker first met over the body of a woman named Jenny Ohrbach. Back then Parker had been a detective third grade, and the man currently sitting opposite him was still just Special Agent Woolrich of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Now he was Assistant SAC Woolrich of the bureau’s New Orleans field office. He was also the source of all Parker’s information on unusual murder scenes and possible serial killings, including the deaths of Estella Jackson and Patricia Hartley which had led Parker to this town; and of the intelligence on Leonard Cresil.

Only days after Parker had buried his wife and child, Woolrich had approached him to offer his sympathies, and assure him that he would do all in his power to aid the investigation into the murders. And when Parker resigned from the NYPD, Woolrich had again come forward, this time in a less formal capacity, and invited him for a drink, although by then Parker had already forsworn alcohol, and much else.

‘I understand your reasons for leaving the force,’ Woolrich had told Parker as they sat together in Chumley’s, the old West Village speakeasy. ‘It’s not for me to tell you that you’re doing the right or wrong thing, because it’s your decision to make. But if you’re serious about looking for whoever did this, perhaps I can be of assistance.’

‘How?’

‘We suspect Susan and Jennifer weren’t the first. What was done to them was too accomplished for that. There must be false starts, apprentice work. Their killer will have left other bodies: maybe not displayed in the same way, because otherwise the Bureau would be all over it, but he’s had practice. I’ll send you what I can. Most of it you can set aside after a single glance and never look at again, but who knows what you might notice?’

Woolrich had been as good as his word, and now here he was in Cargill, with a beer in front of him and a few shards of french fries congealing in a basket. They exchanged a handshake and made some small talk. Woolrich was divorced, and alienated from his only daughter, Lisa. While in New York, he’d been seeing a nurse named Judy, who lived in Boston. The distance had suited both of them, but Woolrich wasn’t sure if this would continue to be the case now that he was based in New Orleans.

‘You want one?’ said Woolrich, shaking the near-empty beer bottle.

‘No, thank you.’

‘I’m sorry, I forgot. You don’t do that anymore. So: Did you kill him?’

‘Kill who?’

‘Johnny Friday.’

Parker extended his hands, holding the wrists close together as though in anticipation of the bite of cuffs.

‘I’m not wearing a wire,’ said Woolrich, ‘if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘I’m not worried,’ said Parker. ‘But if you’re looking for a confession, you’ve traveled a long way for nothing.’

‘It wasn’t so far to come. I had business in Shreveport before driving on to Little Rock. One of the local boys, Randall Butcher, is in big trouble: bribery, wire fraud, all that good stuff beloved of federal prosecutors.’

‘I heard.’

‘Butcher nurses ambitions of expanding his business interests into northern Louisiana and east Texas, perhaps even New Orleans and Baton Rouge, so he was on my radar. As it happened, I arrived just in time for him to vanish, but he’ll turn up. Anyway, I didn’t drive three hours just to talk about Randall Butcher, or Johnny Friday – who won’t be missed, so no one is going to be looking too hard for whoever flipped his switch.’

Woolrich wet his mouth with the beer.

‘Do you have news?’ said Parker. ‘About Susan and Jennifer?’

‘I wish I did,’ said Woolrich, ‘but no.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘To ask you the same question.’

‘Estella Jackson and Patricia Hartley. Their deaths were among the files you sent me.’

‘Strange that they should have been the ones to catch your attention.’

‘There were others. This is the fourth town I’ve visited in ten days, and the eleventh unsolved case I’ve looked into since the start of the year.’

‘And?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So what makes this one different? Why stay?’

‘Nobody in the other towns suggested that I should.’ Parker thought for a moment. ‘And perhaps because I can.’