‘If I knew, don’t you think I’d have told them?’ said Tilon.
‘Yeah, sure. Sorry.’ Denny poured himself a glass of water, more as an attempt to distract from whatever offense he might have caused Tilon than anything else. ‘That’s two young women, though. Three if you count the Jackson girl, although who’s to say that killing has anything to do with what’s been happening lately.’
‘The present is history’s child,’ said Tilon.
‘You read that somewhere?’
‘No, I just made it up.’
‘You believe it?’
‘Only a fool wouldn’t.’
Denny, who might have been about to argue, decided against it, not wishing to appear a fool before Tilon Ward.
‘What’s going to happen?’ said Denny.
‘They’re going to investigate.’
‘Who is?’
‘Evan Griffin. The Cargill PD.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘You asked me. I told you.’
Denny twisted his glass on the bar, creating hollow circles of moisture on the old wood.
‘But what if the Kovas people hear about it?’
‘You think Jurel Cade can keep this one quiet?’
‘He managed it with Patricia Hartley, no matter what Loyd Holt might have to say about her death being an accident.’
‘That was before they had another body,’ said Tilon. ‘And Griffin is different.’
Griffin was different. He was a straight arrow, and because he came from outside the county he wasn’t as beholden to old ties of friendship or family. He didn’t accept favors, and didn’t do many either, although he had always cut Tilon a lot of slack. But any obligation Griffin might have felt toward Tilon was about used up by now, and whatever remained of it had probably drained away following this afternoon’s exchange.
Once again, Tilon told himself that he hadn’t done anything wrong in the eyes of the law. Donna Lee Kernigan was seventeen – okay, sixteen when he’d started sleeping with her – which made it legal under the Arkansas Code. True, some people in town might have frowned on a relationship between a teenage girl and a thirty-six-year-old man, but last time Tilon checked, he hadn’t signed any morals clause. His only error lay in not admitting to knowing Donna Lee when he notified the police about her body.
And what good would that admission do him now? None at all was the answer. He didn’t know anything that might help the investigation, so he’d just end up drawing heat, and Randall Butcher wouldn’t like that. Worse, Tilon might find himself in a prison cell if he couldn’t provide an alibi for his movements over the weekend, because one surefire way of putting an end to any concerns about Kovas and its future in Cargill would be to identify a suspect and keep him locked up until all the paperwork was signed. The case could take years to come to trial, and in the meantime the real killer might suffer a heart attack and die, thereby providing further circumstantial evidence of the patsy’s guilt. No, to hell with it: Tilon could do more good roaming free than warming a cot in a cell, and who knows what he might learn if he kept his eyes and ears open, and his mouth shut?
He took a last swig of beer, leaving the bottle half-full. He didn’t even know why he’d ordered it. Force of habit.
‘You hear anything, you let me know,’ he told Denny.
‘Always.’
And Tilon departed.
35
Reverend Nathan Pettle sat alone on the couch in his living room. Delores had finally departed to tend to her seniors, although the reverend’s cheek still bore the red mark of her wrath. It was just like a woman, Pettle thought, to ambush a man unsuspecting – and in his own home, while he was still reeling from the trauma of being forced to gaze on the ruined body of a young girl; a girl he knew, a girl he’d watched grow up, a girl that, in another life, he might even have been permitted to raise as his own.
All men had moments of weakness, and all women, too. It was part of the human condition, but what mattered was that one sought the Lord’s forgiveness for one’s trespasses and endeavored not to sin again. And he’d done that: he’d gone down on his knees before God after sleeping with Sallie Kernigan for the first time. He had prayed for absolution, and promised not to transgress in a similar fashion in the future. He’d wept for himself and his sinful state.
Admittedly, he’d also decided against sharing with his wife the fact of his unfaithfulness, both in order to spare her any pain and to ensure the continuation of their marriage. After all, he reasoned, he’d seen the error of his ways, and whatever his failings – and they were, he felt, relatively few, and mostly minor – once Nathan Pettle made a decision, he stuck with it. He had never intended to stray. Sallie had been struggling, both financially and psychologically, with raising a daughter alone, and had turned to him for advice and compassion. She had broken down in his arms, and he’d held her and—
Well, you see how it was, and how easily a man might waver. Let he who is without sin …
Mind you, he might have struggled to justify the subsequent encounters, and the intensity and variety of them, but he’d been blinded by lust and had fallen prey to the schemes of the Father of Lies, because there was nothing Satan enjoyed more than bringing low a man of God. In a way, the fact that Pettle had persevered in his calling, even after so many stumbles, might have been regarded as testament to his inner strength.
Finally, though, he had vowed never to sleep with Sallie Kernigan again, and meant it. He was helped in this regard by his wife’s discovery of the affair – if it could even be dignified with such a description, given its brevity – and the domestic humiliation and uproar that followed, but he liked to believe he’d have resisted any further temptation, even without Delores’s intervention. Not that his wife had chosen to perceive it that way. God might forgive, but woman did not. Three years had passed since then, and Delores still showed no signs of extending absolution to her husband.
Pettle slipped to his knees from the couch. He gripped his hands tightly together, bowed his head, and prayed for Donna Lee Kernigan, and her mother, wherever she might be. Principally, though, he prayed for himself: for the strength to lead his flock at this difficult time, for the wisdom to choose the right path for all.
And for the continued concealment of his subsequent errors, that they might remain buried and undisturbed, now and forever.
Amen.
36
Denny Rhinehart spoke quietly into the bar phone, the one that sat beneath the bags of peanuts that might or might not still be within their use-by date, the Rhine Heart’s patrons being less than particular about such niceties. From this vantage point, Rhinehart could see Tilon Ward sitting in his truck, the smoke from his cigarette winding into the afternoon air. The rain had stopped, but it was likely to be a temporary respite. The elements weren’t done with the county yet.
‘Yeah,’ said Rhinehart, ‘he just left. No, he’s outside, smoking. You want I should get him?’ He listened. ‘Okay, okay. I just thought you should know that he was asking about her.’
He hung up the phone and opened a bag of nuts. Sallie Kernigan: Denny Rhinehart had always entertained a jones for her, and her daughter, too – once Donna Lee had become legal, of course, because he wasn’t a pervert. He’d seen her on the road a few evenings back, as she was walking home from school, her bag swinging and her hips swinging along with it, because she’d filled out in a healthy way this last year. Denny, being a good Samaritan – almost a friend of the family, you might say, seeing as how the wages he had until recently paid her mother probably bought some of those clothes Donna Lee was wearing – pulled over and offered her a ride.
Donna Lee turned him down. She did it with a smile, but Denny could tell that she was wary of him. He didn’t know what tales her mother might have been spreading about him, but he hadn’t liked Donna Lee’s attitude.
No, Denny thought, he hadn’t liked her attitude one little bit.
37
Parker waited
in the public area of the Cargill Police Department while Griffin went into conclave with his officers to inform them of his decision to co-opt the newcomer into the investigation. After five minutes, Parker was invited to join them. No one displayed obvious resentment at his presence, with the exception of Kel Knight. Griffin had warned Parker this might be the case, explaining that Knight was Cargill born and bred, and therefore preternaturally disposed to being suspicious of those who were not.
The truth was more complicated. Kel Knight was a man of deep moral and religious convictions, and had become a police officer because he believed that justice was not solely the prerogative of the Divine. Decades of exposure to the realities of law enforcement, and the accompanying explorations of the shadows behind the Magnolia Curtain, had served only to strengthen him in this position; but it had also resulted in a hardening of his attitudes, an inflexibility that rendered him intolerant of human failings. Now he was being forced to confront a situation in which the outcome he desired – the investigation of a series of killings, and the apprehension and punishment of the culprit – might necessitate the involvement of someone whom he adjudged, if only on the basis of hearsay, to have blood on his hands. For the present, Knight was debating the nuances of the issue on an internal level. How long that might continue, and what the results might be, would likely depend on Parker’s behavior.
In order to ensure that the new arrival had the requisite powers required to aid the investigation, Parker was sworn in as a volunteer officer and temporarily provided with a badge and department ID. Griffin didn’t bother offering him the use of a gun: the man was already well supplied, and it wasn’t as though the department was running a superfluity of firearms and ammunition. As it was, most of the officers paid for their own weapons.
When all this was completed, Parker and Griffin took their leave and drove toward the Cade homestead in Hamill.
‘I have a question to ask,’ said Griffin at last, as they passed the diner and gas station at which Parker had made his decision to return. He took in the windows, but no woman and child stared back at him.
‘Only one?’
Parker watched the landscape roll by: trailers that had become permanent residences out of necessity and were now nearing the end of their natural lifespan; houses that were hardly more prepossessing, their greater resilience excepted; stretches of woodland that were not being stewarded, encroaching on fields cultivating only weeds; and failed businesses standing alongside those battling the same fate. It reminded Parker of parts of rural Maine, where he had spent his adolescence and young adulthood following the death of his father. Poverty knew no accents, no natural boundaries; it was depressing in its uniformity. The only difference in Burdon was the evidence of tornado damage, like the wrath of God made manifest through crushed homes and uprooted trees.
‘A weapon in your possession might be the kind issued to FBI agents, or am I mistaken?’ said Griffin.
‘There’s an agent named Woolrich,’ said Parker, ‘down in Louisiana. The gun was a gift from him. He’s an assistant SAC in the New Orleans field office, but until recently he was working out of New York. I’ve known Woolrich for a few years, and he’s okay. We became friendly, even close. When I chose to resign from the force, he offered to provide information, within certain limits. I’m looking for motifs, listening for echoes, because my wife and daughter weren’t the first. What was done to them was too consummate for that. The one who killed them had practice, so where did he start?’
Griffin said nothing. He was in awe of the younger man’s focus: the clarity of his rage, and the purity of his desire for vengeance. He found it hard to envisage Parker losing control to the extent required to beat another human being to death, but neither was Griffin so foolish as to believe him incapable of it. In the confines of the car, Parker’s very restraint drew attention to what was being suppressed: power, violence, and wrath. Perhaps Kel Knight was right to be doubtful, even fearful, of him.
‘Not in Burdon County,’ said Griffin, finally.
‘No, but someone did, back in ninety-two, with Estella Jackson. She may be the key to what’s happening here. Was Jurel Cade the chief investigator?’
‘No, that would have been toward the end of Eddy Rauls’s time.’
‘Is Rauls still around?’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘You say that with feeling.’
‘Eddy Rauls will outlive us all. The man is mostly nails and granite. He kept a paper shredder under his desk for the tickets, fines, and summonses he chose to destroy in return for money or favors, and a blackjack and ball-peen hammer as cures for intransigence and recidivism. Looked at from a certain angle, you could say he kept the county running smoothly, and spared the courts a lot of time and trouble. From another angle, it might be argued that he engaged in acts of gross illegality, and viewed the sheriff’s office as his personal fiefdom.’
‘So he was the sheriff?’
‘No, the chief deputy, and he was happy to work from the shadows. Eddy didn’t hold with politics, or the democratic process. He was the power behind the throne, and bent a succession of sheriffs to his will.’
‘Will he talk to us?’
‘He might, if he’s in the right mood. He’s no fan of the Cades. He might still be chief investigator now if Jurel and Pappy hadn’t encouraged him to retire early.’
‘How did they manage that?’
‘Eddy got careless and left a paper trail,’ said Griffin. ‘Then his friends began to desert him, or just upped and died. Same for any allies he might have cultivated in Little Rock, so he couldn’t rely on the attorney general’s office to give him a pass, especially once Jim Guy Tucker became governor in late ninety-two. By then Pappy Cade was already laying the foundations for outside investment in Burdon County, with the active support of Little Rock, and nobody needed Eddy Rauls arriving with his hand out and an empty grocery bag for the cash. So Eddy received a quiet ultimatum: leave with a pension or be indicted. Naturally, he chose the pension, and he’s been nursing a grudge against the Cades ever since.’
Parker added Eddy Rauls to his list of names.
‘Anyone else I should know about,’ he asked, ‘while we’re on the subject of people holding grudges?’
‘If you mean against the Cades, that’s a complex issue. Ferdy Bowers has no love for them, and he’s had his nose bloodied by Pappy in business dealings over the years, but he stands to gain from Kovas, if not as much as Pappy and his brood. That disparity remains a source of resentment for him, but the lure of enrichment keeps a civil tongue in his head. And then there’s Randall Butcher.’
‘Who’s Randall Butcher?’ said Parker.
‘You asked me earlier if I knew who Tilon Ward might be cooking for. I’m not alone in feeling that it might be Butcher. He owns a chain of strip clubs across the state, and is currently appealing a decision by a Burdon County judge denying his application for a five-thousand-square-foot building off Linseer Road, just inside the Cargill town limits. Butcher wants to develop it as the jewel in his empire of the flesh. The site is zoned C-3 Commercial, which means that no sexually oriented business can open within seven hundred and fifty feet of a school, church, or residential neighborhood. Butcher is arguing that the church in this case is disused, and two houses don’t constitute a neighborhood. He wants his club up and running before work starts on any Kovas facility, so he can reap the benefits of horny construction workers with money burning holes in their pockets.’
‘And how do the Cades feel about this?’
‘The Cades are among those opposing the application, mainly because they don’t own the site – Butcher acquired that land behind their backs – and also because they might be hoping to invest in a similar, marginally classier establishment down the line. So Butcher is trying to drum up local support to persuade the Alcoholic Beverage Control Division to review his application, and the Cades are doing their best to discourage all concerned.
‘Just to complicate matt
ers further, the disused church, and the land on which it stands, was donated about a year ago to the Cargill African Methodist Episcopal congregation. Their current house of worship is already too small for their needs, but if the population expands, they’ll have to look elsewhere, and that old church would be perfect, assuming they can raise the funds for repairs. If they do decide to relocate, Randall Butcher’s strip club will be dead in the water. Last I heard, he was trying to convince Reverend Pettle to sell the property in return for another site. Trouble is, Randall doesn’t have another site to offer right now, because everyone that owns property is sitting on it in the hopes the Kovas deal will produce a windfall. Plus, the majority of development land is in the hands of the Cades.’
‘It sounds like the Cades have bet everything on Kovas,’ said Parker, ‘and other people are following their lead. If it goes bad, the family will have made a lot of enemies.’
Griffin glanced at him.
‘You think these killings might be a way of getting at the Cades by sabotaging Kovas?’ he asked.
‘It’s possible,’ said Parker, ‘assuming you’re right, and Patricia Hartley’s body was originally left on federal land in order to draw in the FBI. But why not do the same with Donna Lee Kernigan, and how does it all connect back to Estella Jackson, who died long before Kovas even appeared on the radar? Also, it seems to me that most people in Burdon County, including the Cades’ rivals, will benefit from Kovas, so blowing up the deal in order to hurt the Cades would involve a suicidal degree of self-harm.’
He paused for a moment.
‘And killing is hard,’ he said, finally.
Griffin didn’t comment. He had never killed anyone, and intended for that situation to endure until he was laid in his grave. He didn’t doubt the truth of Parker’s words, but retained some hope that, whatever the rumors about Johnny Friday, the assertion was not based on Parker’s personal experience.
The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020) Page 15
