The Dirty South - Charlie Parker Series 18 (2020)

by Connolly, John

  Because Randall Butcher was dead.

  Tilon Ward lifted the hatch in the floor of the RV and dropped to the ground below. He lay unmoving, his ears ringing from the noise of gunfire. He could see Pruitt Dix’s muscles jerking as the assault rifle bucked in his hands, and two of Butcher’s other subordinates shooting from positions of cover. A third was working his way from the rear of the farmhouse when a bullet took him in the right ankle and he went down. At the same moment, the back door burst open and three figures in blue protective overalls commenced a run for the forest. Running had also been Ward’s plan. Initially he was annoyed at these others for doing the same before he could get around to it, thereby attracting unwanted attention, until he realized that their overalls would make them stand out until they could be disposed of, and therefore they, along with Pruitt Dix’s fusillade, could provide just the distraction he required.

  Tilon Ward crawled from under the RV and broke for the trees.

  Leonard Cresil had two men on his shoot-to-kill list. The first, and most important, was Randall Butcher. The impending grand jury indictment had served as Butcher’s death warrant. He would have every reason to cooperate with the federal authorities as part of a plea bargain, and would be in a position to throw any number of individuals under the bus, including Cresil and his employer, Charles Shire. It was therefore a matter of some urgency that Butcher should not live long enough to be served with the indictment. Cresil had solved that particular problem with one shot.

  The second person on Cresil’s list was Pruitt Dix. Dix was an integral part of Butcher’s enterprise, which meant that it wouldn’t be long before he, too, was being questioned. In fact, according to Shire’s sources, local law enforcement had raided Dix’s apartment in Little Rock the previous day and a warrant had already been issued for his arrest on narcotics charges. If Butcher couldn’t be relied upon to keep his mouth shut, it was unlikely that Dix would be any different.

  Of course, Butcher’s demise now gave Cresil another good reason to ensure that Pruitt Dix didn’t leave the Ouachita alive. Were Dix to survive, and escape the police cordon, he might regard it as his duty to seek a measure of revenge for Butcher’s death. Cresil didn’t want a lunatic like Dix potentially spoiling his retirement and was certain that Shire wouldn’t care to have him haunting the shadows either.

  Cresil was maneuvering himself into position when he was saved the cost of another bullet. Out in the woods, at least one of Cade’s people had decided that they were tired of being pinned down by Dix’s fusillade. In a brief gap between bursts from the AR90, Cresil heard a single shot with a lot of powder behind it. By the time he had identified the noise, and the direction from which it had come, a .300 Winchester Magnum round, popular with deer hunters because of its accuracy over long distances, had removed part of Pruitt Dix’s skull.

  Dix emptied his magazine into the air in a final dying spasm, and Cresil immediately heard shouts of surrender from inside and outside the farmhouse. It was over. He wondered how many of Cade’s deputies and posse might be injured or deceased. He hoped they’d all had the sense to stay low, and that casualties had been kept to a minimum; Shire might have wished to see Butcher and Dix dead, but not at the cost of endangering the arrival of Kovas Industries. Then again, Shire was skilled at media manipulation, and the image of good, honest men and women risking – or laying down – their lives in order to rid their county of the meth menace, and create a safe and secure environment for families and business, could play well. If Kovas were to let God-fearing people put themselves in danger only to be betrayed at the last by the very company whose investment they were fighting to secure, well, the optics would be poor.

  Cresil’s attention was drawn to a man scuttling into the forest from behind one of the RVs. Cresil thought it looked like Tilon Ward. Cade had shown the posse a picture of Ward from a DUI bust a few years earlier, along with photos of Ward’s father, Hollis. The old man was someone else’s problem, but it might be useful to Cresil if he could present Cade with the son, particularly if Cade was of a mind to kick up a fuss over the killing of Randall Butcher.

  Of course, Tilon Ward would have to be dead when Cresil gave him to Cade. If he was involved in the murder of black girls, it was no more than he deserved – and even if he wasn’t, he’d been an intimate of Butcher and Dix, and represented a loose thread that should be tied off. Cresil’s only regret was that Cade had talked him into leaving his hunting bow back in Hamill, because he had been of a mind to use it. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he’d dispatched other men with it, although the thrill of a bow hunt never faded.

  Cresil brushed dark earth from his hands, hitched his pants, and went after Tilon Ward.

  92

  Parker met Angel and Louis at Denton’s, a little diner at the edge of Cargill that opened only from 5–10 a.m. Parker had not previously given Denton’s his business, big breakfasts being anathema to him, but Angel and Louis were cut from a different cloth. He found them at a center table, their plates a cholesterol nightmare. Even glancing at the contents threatened Parker’s circulation.

  Parker sat beside Angel and across from Louis. He ordered coffee and toast, which made him feel virtuous.

  ‘Did you have to hurt anyone?’ he said.

  ‘Only some feelings,’ said Angel. ‘We did destroy a truck, though.’

  ‘Molly Hatchet?’

  ‘Is that what the shit paint job was?’

  ‘I thought it was sort of impressive.’

  ‘Impressively fucking dumb.’

  ‘The man we spoke with,’ said Louis, ‘the one who used to own a truck, said someone called Pruitt Dix hired him to take care of you, and that Dix works for a titty bar owner named Randall Butcher.’

  ‘I’ve never met either of them,’ said Parker, ‘but I know who they are.’

  ‘If you’ve never met them, why do they want your bones broken?’

  ‘Probably because Leonard Cresil, the Kovas goon, told Butcher and Dix to get it done.’

  ‘Where’s Cresil now?’

  ‘The desk clerk told me that he checked out of the motel before sunrise. Cresil’s boss is a guy named Charles Shire, who’s the fixer for Kovas. Shire’s room is also currently vacant. To be honest, I was surprised at Cresil. I thought he’d be smart enough to back off once I’d made it clear that I knew he was holding the leashes. But if he left the details up to Butcher and Dix, then it makes some sense.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, as of yesterday, Butcher and Dix are wanted men. Maybe Cresil couldn’t get in touch with them in time to stop them from proceeding with their half-assed plan.’

  ‘You almost sound like you’re looking for an excuse to forgive him.’

  ‘No, just to forget. Going after Cresil makes no sense unless it’s absolutely necessary. He’s a moral void, and the world will find a way to deal with him in its own time.’

  ‘So you’re just going to wait and see whether he comes at you again?’

  ‘I have you to watch over me, but my gut feeling is that he won’t, or not until the Kovas agreement has been nailed down. It’s not worth the trouble to him or to Shire.’

  Parker checked his phone. The volume on it was screwy, and he sometimes missed calls coming through.

  ‘Expecting to hear from someone?’ said Angel.

  ‘Yes, about a dead possum.’

  Louis took a moment to reflect on this.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that you’ve already been down here too long.’

  Kevin Naylor was driving to Cargill when the first of the ambulances from the Hamill Medical Center passed him on the road, followed by two state police cruisers and a second ambulance. He didn’t have a police radio in his off-duty vehicle, so he used his cell phone to call Billie at the Cargill PD, inform her of what he’d seen, and advise her to find out what was going on. In the meantime, he was going to tag along behind the last ambulance, just in case Chief Griffin wanted a more personal perspective on wh
atever was happening.

  Within minutes, Billie knew as much as the state police dispatcher with whom she’d spoken, which was a report of gunshot fatalities in the Ouachita resulting from a Burdon County Sheriff’s Office operation of which, until only a short time before, the staties had been completely unaware. At this point, a less self-possessed individual might have rushed to share this information with her superiors, but Billie knew that Griffin would want to know more, so she took the time to call Sandi Hardgrave, the dispatcher at the sheriff’s office. Sandi was in a hell of a state, but she was also a pro and told Billie what she knew as clearly and succinctly as possible before asking her to pray for all concerned. Billie, who was an atheist, lied and said she would, because it wasn’t as though she was going to hell for it. Seconds later she was at Griffin’s door.

  ‘Jurel Cade led a posse into the Ouachita this morning to take down a meth cookhouse,’ she said. ‘He also hoped to arrest Tilon Ward, possibly Hollis Ward, and anyone else found on the premises. There are at least two dead, and five more injured. Sandi Hardgrave says sheriff’s office personnel aren’t among the fatalities, so far as she can tell, but they are among the casualties. She doesn’t know if they got Tilon Ward or his father. Kevin is on his way out there now. He spotted the ambulances heading west and decided to follow.’

  Griffin restrained himself from breaking something, but only just. Jurel Cade had screwed them all over, and perhaps endangered the entire investigation in the process. Duplicity was bred in the Cade bone.

  ‘Get in touch with Kel.’ Knight was up in Little Rock, waiting for doctors to permit him to speak with Reverend Nathan Pettle, who was recovering from what was likely to be only the first of many surgeries. Pettle wouldn’t be able to say a whole lot, but it would be sufficient for their needs if he could nod and shake his head, or even raise and lower a pinkie to indicate yes or no. ‘Tell him to leave Pettle and get down here. I’m going to send Naylor to you once I get out there.’

  ‘What about Parker?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘What should I tell him?’

  ‘Tell him to stay around here and do whatever he can to help Naylor.’ Griffin grabbed his hat and his weatherproof jacket. ‘And if anyone asks, you know nothing about what’s been happening in the Ouachita. Just refer any inquiries to the sheriff’s office.’

  ‘Does that include Harmony Ward? Because rumors are going to spread fast.’

  Griffin stopped fighting with his jacket long enough to say: ‘Have Parker take Harmony into protective custody. I want her brought here and kept behind bars until you hear from me. If she has a cell phone, relieve her of it. If it rings, note the number.’

  ‘And if her son is among the dead?’

  Tilon, Tilon. Why did it have to be like this?

  ‘If he is, I’ll inform her. No matter what you hear, you keep it to yourself. From now on, you’re dumb as the dead.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Griffin gave her right arm a squeeze.

  ‘At least one of us does.’

  Tilon Ward was still alive, if only for the present.

  He looked back to see the bulky form of Leonard Cresil pursuing him through the trees. Tilon knew Cresil by sight and reputation, although he had been spared any personal dealings with the man. He was aware that Randall Butcher had never trusted Cresil or his boss, but had been forced to work with them if he was to profit from Kovas’s impending arrival. Equally, Cresil and Shire had probably been wary of Butcher, especially if they had knowledge of his involvement in the manufacture and supply of illegal narcotics. But how much had they known, and when had they become aware of it? Was Shire the kind of man who would risk contracts worth tens of millions of dollars by allowing a drug dealer to become a fixed part of the arrangement?

  Probably not.

  Now Randall Butcher was dead, and Pruitt Dix also, while Leonard Cresil was moving deeper and deeper into the Ouachita, tracking their meth cook. The odds on Tilon’s survival were shortening by the second until Cresil briefly lost sight of his quarry thanks to a stand of hickory. Tilon went to ground, and was now debating the wisdom of remaining where he was, partly concealed by the rotting trunk of a fallen tree, in the hope that Cresil would pass him by, enabling Tilon to retrace his steps for a while before heading southeast. Tilon didn’t have a cell phone, though, which was a problem. While there was no coverage out here in the woods, he might have picked up a bar or two once he got nearer to a road, and made some calls. He had people who would be willing to help him, but as things stood he had no means of contacting them, no car, no weapon, and virtually no hope, not as long as Cresil kept coming.

  ‘I only want to talk to you, Mr Ward,’ Cresil called, not for the first time. ‘I mean you no harm. I just need some information.’

  Yeah, thought Tilon, like how much blood my body contains.

  ‘I can help you get out of here,’ Cresil continued. ‘You’re a wanted man. The police are convinced you killed those girls.’

  This was a new tack from Cresil, but it struck home. Tilon squeezed his eyes shut. So someone had seen him with Donna Lee. Someone knew. What Cresil said next confirmed it.

  ‘They have a witness who spotted the Kernigan girl getting into your truck,’ said Cresil. ‘You were the last one seen with her, and now the police have drawn a bead on you. They want this over and done with so everyone can get to making good money from Kovas. You think the sheriff’s office went to all this trouble just to take down a meth lab? You think all those guns were sent in here only for Butcher and Dix? It’s you they want, you and your old man.’

  His father? What the—

  Tilon almost asked the question aloud. His father was dead. Everyone said so.

  ‘You require the services of a good lawyer, Mr Ward. I’ve heard tell that riding the needle doesn’t hurt, not after the first sting, but I’ve never believed it myself. I’ve been a witness at executions and I’ve looked in men’s eyes as they died. They’ve been filled with agony, and that’s after years of living with the fear of what’s to come while the process of taking a life worked its way through appeal after appeal. I used to be of the opinion that the waiting was worse than the end itself, but that was before I glimpsed the end and learned it wasn’t true. Dying is worse than any waiting, and dying like that, strapped to a gurney while all those folks will you to suffer, and suffer hard, is as bad as dying gets.

  ‘So you need me, Mr Ward. We can find you a lawyer and a place to rest up while you consider your options. Depending on what you tell us, and the choices you make, we may even be in a position to help you in other ways. I know about you. I know you tried to save Chief Griffin’s wife all those years ago. A man who’d do a good deed like that isn’t the kind to murder young women. The law isn’t always right, and sometimes justice is better served by leaving legality out of matters entirely. Are you listening, Mr Ward? Because right now, I’m your best hope for living to old age.’

  Hollis Ward hadn’t raised a fool. Tilon was prepared to accept that the police might have entered the Ouachita to arrest him, because if Cresil knew he’d been seen with Donna Lee then that information had probably come from law enforcement. But Cresil had pushed it too far with all that execution shit and offers of help with a lawyer, even with the suggestion of a possible escape route for Tilon. Some men simply didn’t know when to shut up.

  Which was when Leonard Cresil finally stopped talking and began screaming.

  Naylor followed the ambulances and cruisers up the dirt road to the Buttrell land, past neat rows of nascent pine and signs advising that this was private property. A bearded asshole in a hunting vest, probably a member of Cade’s ill-fated posse, tried to step in front of him as the farmhouse came in sight to his left, but Naylor kept on rolling, forcing the asshole to dive for the ditch. In his rearview mirror, he saw the asshole raise his rifle as if to fire before some small semblance of rational thought flared briefly in his brain. It was probably the realization that the
Negro behind the wheel just might – for better or worse – be an officer of the law, especially given the blinking blue light on his dashboard, in which case shooting at him was likely to have repercussions.

  The asshole lowered his weapon, and Naylor made a mental note to have a quiet word with him before the day was done. He turned toward the farmhouse, where he saw two men lying in its vicinity, one on the porch and another in the dirt close by two RVs, both clearly dead. He took in four more men sitting against a fence with their hands cuffed behind their backs, two of them dressed in blue protective overalls, and three others with blood on their clothing who were being watched carefully by sheriff’s deputies and civilians. One of the bloodied men was staring glassy-eyed in Naylor’s direction, his face gray and his jeans soaked red. Naylor was fairly certain this man was going to die. To his right an ambulance crew was already running to take care of the wounded. One of the deputies was on his feet, leaning against a tree with his arm in a makeshift sling, but the second was lying on his side and half his head was raw and bloody.

  Naylor was the only black man on the scene, which was not an unfamiliar situation to him, but still made him stand out more than he might have wished. He identified himself as a police officer to the state trooper who was approaching him, a statement confirmed by the trooper’s colleague, a sergeant named Ogden who was seeing a woman who lived in Cargill and sometimes drank with her in Boyd’s. Zachry, one of the Burdon County deputies, joined them. He smelled as though he might have puked recently.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ said Naylor.

  ‘Someone shot Randall Butcher,’ said Zachry, ‘then a bunch of people started shooting at us from around the farmhouse, and suddenly everyone was shooting at everyone else. It couldn’t have gone on for more than a minute or two, but when the dust cleared we had two men dead and a whole lot more injured.’

  ‘But why target this place to begin with?’ said Naylor.

  ‘It’s a meth lab,’ said Zachry, ‘but Jurel said Hollis and Tilon Ward might be in there, too. He thinks they killed those girls.’