Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

Perhaps he was right, Parker thought. Jurel Cade might yet emerge smelling of roses.

‘They found no sign of Hollis Ward out there,’ said Parker.

‘Didn’t they?’ Pappy’s voice gave nothing away. It was studiedly neutral.

‘Most of those with whom I’ve spoken think he’s dead,’ said Parker. ‘I’m curious to hear your opinion.’

‘I’d prefer to see a body before I make pronouncements like that, but if you pressed me, I’d lean toward considering him deceased.’

‘Why did Hollis Ward hate your family so much?’

‘I don’t know that he did.’

‘You dispensed with his services after he was convicted for possession of child pornography.’

‘That’s true, but I’m not convinced Hollis took it too personally. He knew the lay of the land, and he’d profited from his dealings with us.’

‘Just as you had from his efforts on your behalf.’

‘True.’

‘So despite what some might think, your view is that Ward – if he’s alive – would have no particular reason to derail the Kovas deal?’

‘No, I suppose he would not. May I ask where you’re going with this, Mr Parker?’

Parker stared the old man in the face.

‘I reckon you know who’s been killing those young women,’ he said. ‘Perhaps not for sure, but you have your suspicions.’

Pappy Cade stared back.

‘That’s a hell of an accusation to make,’ he said, but there was no real indignation to the response, and the expression on his face remained largely unaltered. It displayed only a slight frown, as of one regarding a fly that refuses to cease buzzing after a hand has crushed it.

‘Yes, it is,’ said Parker.

‘Do you have any evidence to support your theory?’

‘Nothing substantial, or not yet, but I will. I believe Hollis Ward is involved, but not in the way everyone seems to fear. There appears to be a lot of hatred in your family for a man who was willing to strong-arm the poor and vulnerable into property arrangements that benefited the Cades. What agreement did you reach with Hollis Ward, Mr Cade? What did you give him to cause such resentment among your own blood?’

Pappy Cade’s expression changed, and for a moment Parker glimpsed the poisonous fury that dwelt inside the old man, a rage that would evanesce only with his last breath.

‘You don’t know anything about this land,’ Pappy said at last, ‘and you know nothing about those who live on it.’

‘People don’t differ so much from one another,’ said Parker. ‘They love, they lust, they hate. They get angry, they get frightened. They live, they die. The rest is just details.’

‘Then you haven’t seen enough of life.’

‘Oh, I’ve seen enough.’

Pappy was overcome by a fit of coughing. Parker poured a glass of water from a jug and passed it to him, but Pappy’s hands were shaking so badly that Parker had to assist him in raising the glass to his lips. Whatever was ailing him, Parker thought, it was not Parkinson’s alone. Pappy turned his head away when he had drunk enough, and Parker saw red worms of blood uncoil in the water before fading away. Pappy did not say thank you. Instead, his face flushed briefly with embarrassment.

‘Whatever passed between Hollis Ward and this family is long done with,’ said Pappy, as Parker resumed his seat. ‘Any lingering resentments that my offspring may feel toward me for slights and hurts inflicted over the years will fall away once their security, and the security of their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, has been guaranteed by the wealth and influence that Kovas will bring. The rest, as you say, is just details.’

‘If you really believe that,’ said Parker, ‘then your children are destined to disappoint you.’

Through the window behind Pappy, Parker watched a car pull up before the house. From it emerged Delphia Cade, as though summoned by Parker to provide proof of his thesis.

‘It’s a shame,’ said Pappy.

‘What is?’

‘That your own child didn’t survive long enough to disappoint you. You, unfortunately, lived long enough to disappoint her.’

But his words had no power to wound Parker, or none beyond the superficial. Pappy Cade was a hateful man, and death would soon take care of him. Parker heard a key turning in the lock of the front door, followed by the sound of Delphia Cade’s heels tapping across the hardwood floor of the hall, and the creak of the office door opening behind him.

‘Mr Parker,’ said Delphia, as she drifted into sight. ‘Have you changed your mind about my offer?’

Pappy raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.

‘I asked Mr Parker to consider working for us,’ she explained. ‘Or rather, for me. I felt I might have need of a factotum, among other services.’

‘Whatever you needed, Ms Cade, I couldn’t provide,’ said Parker.

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Your father and I were exchanging views on family.’

‘I didn’t think you had a family,’ said Delphia, ‘not anymore.’

Parker couldn’t help but smile. It was the only response to such genetic incorrigibility.

‘It seems that your father’s blood runs in your veins,’ he said. ‘That’s unfortunate.’ He returned his attention to Pappy. ‘If it’s any consolation to you as your health deteriorates, I don’t imagine your children will permit you to suffer long. One of them will put you out of your misery before the pain becomes too great.’

‘It’s beyond time for you to leave here,’ said Pappy. ‘If I were you, I’d fill your tank in town and keep driving until the gas runs out.’

‘I’ll be doing that shortly,’ said Parker. ‘But no more young women are going to be butchered. That’s coming to an end.’

‘You think I wanted those girls to die?’ said Pappy.

‘No,’ said Parker. ‘I’m just not convinced that you, or anyone under your sway, cared enough to stop it from happening.’

Parker watched a shadow cross Delphia Cade’s face, and the shards of silver in her eyes flashed brightly for an instant. But she was looking only at Pappy, and her hatred for him was manifest. As Parker moved toward the door, Pappy’s voice followed him.

‘Whatever you do, it won’t bring your child back,’ he shouted, ‘or your wife neither! Dying will be a mercy for you. Dying—’

But the rest was lost in another fit of coughing, which continued as Parker walked out the front door. He glanced back to see the patriarch hunched over his desk, racked with pain, thick gobbets of blood spattering the leather inlay and the papers spread upon it; and Delphia contemplating her father’s suffering, the jug held in her right hand as she poured its contents onto the floor.

And through the trees, over water and sky, the dead moved in unison.

94

Charles Shire took the call from an unfamiliar number as he waited by the gate at Adams Field for his flight to Atlanta. He had been expecting to hear from Cresil, but the voice on the other end of the phone belonged to Jurel Cade.

‘Cresil is dead,’ said Cade, without preamble.

‘How?’

‘He landed in a bear trap.’

‘Is that a literal description of his fate?’

‘Very much. He probably bled to death within minutes.’

Shire felt no particular regret, beyond that which a man might feel at the loss of a useful tool from his kit. In some ways, Cresil’s death might even be for the best, because their shared secrets had died with him.

‘And the rest?’

‘Randall Butcher was shot and killed at the scene, along with Pruitt Dix. They were the only other fatalities. We’re dealing with a lot of media. We got the TV, the newspapers …’

‘Is the situation under control?’