by Chuck Logan
“All I know is Dwayne wanted you gone for laming Donnie and Mitch wanted a favor in return,” Billie whined as his eyes darted in a flood of sweat. “If something was to happen to Ellie Kirby…”
Beeman smiled. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Go on.”
Billie panted, “My dad’s law firm represents the family, so I hear things. After Robert Kirby died the old man got religion or something and decided it was a sin to die rich. He planned to draft a new will. Gift all of Kirby Creek and the battlefield to a public charity like the Sons of Confederate Veterans with a proviso they leave it untouched; all but a parcel by the lake where the estate would bankroll a research clinic.”
“Research clinic,” Beeman repeated.
“Yeah, for Iraq veterans, name it after Robert. I don’t know, Christ, Bee,” Billie pleaded, “get me out of here.”
The snake was trying to wrap its coils around Beeman’s left hand. Beeman stretched it out and eyed Billie. “C’mon.”
“Okay, okay,” Billie muttered. “What happened was Hiram tore up his old will and…” Billie paused, straining against Rane’s hands, staring down at the red spot on his little toe.
“Clock’s running,” Beeman said, holding the snake almost absently now.
“Except the old man had a stroke before he drafted the new will. Get it? Now he’s incapacitated and isn’t expected to live. He’ll die intestate. In the absence of a will specifying a different requirement it all goes to Ellie as the sole surviving heir…”
“And you told that to your buddy, Mitchell Lee?” Beeman asked.
Billie nodded his head vigorously up and down, his breath coming in hyperventilating gasps. “I was just showing off some inside information. Mitch didn’t know…about the will being torn up. At that point probably…Ellie didn’t either. My dad is hoping the old man will rally. At least enough to bob his head so Ellie could have power of attorney. That way they could follow through on Hiram’s desire to gift the land and reduce the estate prior to death to ease the tax burden.”
Beeman narrowed his eyes. “Absent that outcome, if the old man dies, then if Ellie dies sudden-like?”
Billie licked his lips. His whole body was drenched in slippery sweat and Rane could barely hold on to him. Billie swallowed, panted, then said, “The inheritance flows through Ellie’s estate to her surviving heir…”
“And Mitchell Lee gets it all,” Beeman said as he rolled his eyes contemptuously. “See, John. This isn’t about me or what my daddy did back when. This is New South Money bullshit.” He glared at Billie. “And you heard them talk this out? Mitchell and Dwayne Leets?”
“Bee, for the love of God, man. Take me to the hospital,” Billie pleaded.
“Answer the fuckin’ question. Or get bit again,” Beeman warned.
“Okay, okay. No, I never heard them actually say it; they don’t talk specifics around me about stuff like that. Just connect the dots. Don’t matter now,” Billie panted.
“Why’s that?” Beeman asked.
Billie’s eyes bulged. “Because part of Ellie’s decision to take her dad off life support was drafting a new will of her own basically giving it all away like he wanted; the battlefield, the clinic, the works. Mitch wouldn’t get shit now if she died.” Billie gritted his teeth. “When he missed you it all came apart and he musta flipped out. Don’t you see, what if Mitch thinks I tipped her? And now he’s out there, nuts, going after folks, like why’d he beat up Marcy last night? Dwayne called and told me. He’s shook, Bee. He don’t know what’s going on either. That’s why I’m out here where Mitchell Lee can’t get to me,” Billie blubbered.
“Let him go,” Beeman said. Rane released his death grip on Billie’s arms, stepped back, and stared at his bloodless, cramped hands.
“The hospital,” Billie said.
“Relax, Billie, you ain’t been bit,” Beeman said with a slow smile. “All I did was bring him in close and pinch you hard between my fingernails…”
“You sonofabitch,” Billie trembled.
“Whoa, hey—shit!” Beeman fumbled and lost his grip on the snake with his left hand. “Goddamn, he’s getting away from me.” His hand flailed. “Billie, man, grab him in the middle so I can get a better hold.”
On pure defensive reflex, Billie grabbed at the thrashing black body and squeezed it desperately in both hands.
“Hold on,” Beeman said, “that’s it, good.” Now Beeman’s left hand circled the snake below Billie’s hands and shoved them up the snake’s length until he pushed them hard against his thumb and forefinger.
Rane had taken a respectful step back and watched the tense choreography of two men and a thrashing snake.
“You got him?” Beeman asked urgently.
“I got him,” Billie gasped, wide-eyed, squirting sweat.
Beeman released his fingers and stepped back. Billie’s fists, knuckles white with effort, formed a tense socket that clamped the snake just below its head. Beeman grinned. “Damn, Billie, look at you. You got one real pissed off water moccasin all to yourself. Been nice talking to you.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” Billie panted as the snake twisted and wrapped its thick coils around his rigid, trembling forearms. “Bee. Bee. What do I do?” Billie pleaded.
“First, keep your mouth shut about what we been talking about. Then, I suggest you keep a good grip on him with one hand and unwrap him with the other.”
Billie experimentally loosened his lower hand, the black coils instantly tightened on his arm, and he quickly returned to the two-handed grip.
“Plan B is you walk real careful back to the condos and see if there’s a country boy at the guard desk who’ll help you un-ass that rather large snake,” Beeman said.
Then he motioned to Rane. “C’mon, John, we’re finished here.”
As they turned and started up the slope toward the car, they watched Billie begin his journey. Choosing a route in the shallow water along the shore, he took one cautious step at a time, holding his squirming black burden at arm’s length. “Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Jesus,” Billie implored. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”
Beeman turned to Rane and shook his head. “That’s town for you,” he said. “Grew up here his whole life and he ain’t got a clue in the woods.”
49
JENNY AGREED TO BRING IN AN EPISCOPALIAN minister to conduct an ecumenical service as a concession to Paul’s family, who would watch the service live online from Japan. Jenny met him at the center at noon on Friday to go over the ceremony, after which guests would adjourn to a large common room for coffee, cake, and what the minister referred to as “fellowship.”
Paul’s ashes were at the center, contained in a simple rectangular maple scatter urn roughly the size of a Webster’s desk dictionary. They weighed approximately six and a half pounds.
The service was scheduled for eleven a.m. on Sunday morning.
Then Jenny sat with one of Bradley’s assistants and clicked through a dry run of the slide show. For the first time Molly set foot in the funeral home, with her piano teacher, to rehearse the “Moonlight Sonata” she would play to begin the service.
After the meeting at the center, Jenny drove Molly back home. Originally, she had planned to take Molly shopping this afternoon to get something new to wear on Sunday. Molly had torpedoed the shopping expedition with one of Paul’s favorite maxims from Henry David Thoreau: “Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes.” Molly would wear the black dress she’d worn to her last piano recital.
Jenny parked the car, entered the house, and saw the message light blinking on the cordless phone in the kitchen. She pushed caller ID and watched RESTRICTED NUMBER surface in the gray viewing panel. Had to be Cantrell. They would apparently communicate without ever speaking directly. This struck Jenny as apt, given that the subject was John Rane.
She took a deep breath and retrieved the message:
Jenny, this is Harry Cantrell returning your call. Of course I remember you. The party you want to contact
is Mike Morse. He’s a retired gunsmith who works mainly out of a shop at his lake home east of Hudson, Wisconsin, on Mail Lake Road. I don’t have a house address but I can give you his home number.
Sorry to hear of the circumstances of your husband’s death in Mississippi. Anything else you need, don’t hesitate to call…
Jenny copied the Wisconsin number, sat down at the kitchen table, and took a moment to compose herself. Cantrell knew about Paul. So he had been in contact with Rane. She tapped her pen on the blank notepad under the number she’d just jotted down. Looking around, she realized that she always sat in the same chair, as did Molly. She wondered how long the chair across from her, Paul’s chair, would remain unoccupied. She continued to sleep on the right side of the bed, with Molly occupying Paul’s place on the left.
Habits of a marriage, she thought. If she picked up the phone and made the connection with Rane’s relatives, she could be tampering with Paul’s place in Molly’s life. There would be consequences. But she had to know.
So she punched in the Wisconsin number. One ring, two, three, four, and to the machine.
You have reached Mike and Karen Morse. We can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.
Christ, what if they were on vacation?
Beep.
Mike and Karen, this is Jenny Edin. You probably don’t remember me but we met, once, briefly, over eleven years ago. Your nephew, John Rane, brought me out to your lake place. I have some questions about John and they’re kind of urgent. Would you be willing to speak to me tomorrow?
Jenny left her numbers, ended the call, and consigned it all to the vagaries of voice mail.
At four thirty in the afternoon, Jenny was sitting in the den with Paul’s partner, Bill, going over Paul’s insurance policies. Molly was practicing the piano. Lois and Vicky were in the kitchen, baking brownies for the after-service coffee hour.
The phone rang.
Jenny picked up. “Hello?”
“Jenny?” asked an older woman’s voice; confident, but curious.
“Yes.”
“This is Karen Morse. Mike’s not here right now.”
“Karen, thank you for returning my call. I know this is sudden but would it be possible to meet with you and your husband?”
“About…John?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow?” Jenny controlled her voice, not wanting to sound desperate or pushy.
Karen paused on the line, then said: “Would you like to come out to the house tomorrow early afternoon, say one or so?”
“That would be fine.”
After another long pause, Karen asked, “Will you be coming…alone?”
The silence on the connection was suddenly freighted with implications.
“Yes, alone.”
“Okay, let me give you directions.”
Jenny filled a page with detailed directions, thanked Karen, and hung up the phone. Then she turned back to Bill, who picked up where he left off: explaining an insurance policy that paid double in the event of accidental death.
50
THEY PICKED UP THEIR MUSTANG TAIL AND headed west on 72 toward Corinth. Beeman drove the speed limit and slouched behind the wheel, almost pensive.
“You look disappointed,” Rane ventured.
“Yeah, would have been nice if Dwayne was there with Billie, huh?” He tapped his teeth together. “Might have finished some of this on the spot.”
“You’re going to put a watch on the Kirby woman, right?”
“You know, John, I don’t think so.”
“But you should warn her,” Rane said.
“Think somebody already did,” Beeman said slowly. “You seen LaSalle out at the house. Most people’d think twice about trying to get past him. Know I would.”
“Hey, Beeman,” Rane protested. “We just heard a plan to commit premeditated murder.”
“Yesterday’s plan,” Beeman said softly, rubbing his cheek. “What’s today’s plan, I wonder?”
“Well, Mitch makes sense now,” Rane said. “The wheels come off his get-rich scheme and he loses it.”
“Sure looks that way, don’t it.”
Rane shook his head. “I don’t get you, man.”
Beeman leaned back behind the wheel, his face all calm and composed. He probed inside his lip, made a face, extracted a remnant of the chewing tobacco and flicked it away. “You see,” he said, “when we hooked up you said let the chips fall where they may. Maybe it works that way where you’re from, where people zip around and don’t talk to each other. Down here it just isn’t that simple. Everybody knows everybody from way back. I’m getting a feeling that this time the chips are gonna fall where they’ve been carefully placed.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we wait for the next breadcrumb, or chip, that leads us deeper into the woods.” Beeman grinned. “You having fun yet, John?”
“Billie said…”
Beeman cut him off. “Billie’d say anything with Mr. No Shoulders looking him in the face; what you call ‘hearsay extracted under duress.’ What a smart defense attorney calls ‘torture’ and ain’t admissible in court. But I believe the part about the will. And that’s what we simple country boys call a motive. But now Ellie took the motive away. So what’s left?”
“Fucking vengeance, that’s what,” Rane said.
“You got that right,” Beeman said. “But why would Mitchell Lee telegraph when and where the next round’s going to happen? I think Sheba’s got a point; it’s starting to look like some damn soap opera. Somebody’s setting the stage, is what.”
“Who?”
Beeman screwed up his lips and laughed softly. “Who keeps soap operas in business?”
“Oh, that’s good. Riddles?” Rane shook his head. “So what are you going to do?”
Beeman craned his neck. “Show up at Shiloh like it says in the script. Up till then, not much, judging by the look of those clouds up ahead.”
Rane flopped back on the seat, exasperated. “You got a guy out there running around who’s supposed to be this dead shot?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Marcy at the hospital; Mitchell Lee beat her up,” Rane said.
“Sure looks that way, don’t it; right in character, just like he did last time he got strange,” Beeman said, staring into the burgeoning storm cloud.
They drove into a wide, gray rain curtain that burst into a solid downpour. A few minutes after the windshield wipers started slapping, Rane jumped when the radio came alive in a squawk of static.
“A-six, dispatch.”
Beeman picked up and keyed the mike. “A-six.”
“You got a meeting.”
“Ten-four.” Beeman replaced the mike and slouched deeper behind the steering wheel. “Gotta go in and talk to the boss.”
Coming back into Corinth, Beeman stopped at a light, and a rough-cut man in a pickup in the next lane smiled at him through the rain, slowly extended his hand, index finger pointed, and dropped his thumb like a hammer.
“One of your fans, huh,” Rane said.
Beeman paid no attention. He drove on into town on Fillmore and pulled over next to Jarnagin Outfitters, where the caravan of four trucks they’d passed at Kirby Creek was parked. Now the cannons and limbers were lashed on lowboys and the rain thrashed on the barrels like bronze fire. Beeman rolled down the window and called to one of the men hunkered, drinking coffee, under an overhang on a loading dock. “Hey Loren, when you guys going out to Shiloh?”
A man jerked his thumb upward. “Got me. This mess isn’t suppose to let up till tomorrow afternoon.”
Beeman nodded, rolled up the window, and worked the rainy streets, turning up Fulton and pulling into the parking lot next to a sprawling one-story building in tired-orange brick, with ALCORN COUNTY SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT spelled in dull silver letters on the front. They parked, jumped out, jogged through the rain, and went in the front door.
A queue of peopl
e with paperwork crowded a doorway to the left under a sign that read DRIVER’S LICENSE EXAMINATION ROOM. “Wanted” posters papered a bulletin board. The dank interior of the building was cluttered with boxes and equipment and the walls were the color of fatigue and old nicotine. A wiry, bearded cop with military sidewalls above his ears and a shoulder holster showing through a blue track-suit jacket stood at a counter next to the dispatch station just to the right of the door. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you,” the cop said to Beeman, who was fluffing the rain from his hair.
“This way,” Beeman motioned. Rane followed him past the counter as a tall, mustachioed, ruddy man in a Western shirt and belt leaned out of an office ahead on the left. “Hmmm,” the sheriff said noncommittally, seeing Rane. He raised a hand and gave his modest Wyatt Earp mustache a twirl.
Beeman pointed to a chair along the wall. “I won’t be long.” As Beeman disappeared into the office, Rane noticed something suspended over the desk. Then the door closed. Rane took a seat.
The cop in the track suit ambled by, paused, and looked him over.
“What?” Rane said.
“You the one from Minnesota who’s following Bee around?”
“Yeah.”
“The photographer who doesn’t take pictures?”
Rane did not respond. After a moment he cocked his head. “Got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“What’s that hanging in the office over the sheriff’s desk?”
“Splinter of the True Cross. That’s a Buford Pusser Ax Handle Sheriff of the Year award. Western Tennessee down into northern Mississippi, we’re forested with ’em.”
“Thank you,” Rane said.
“Any time.” The cop lowered his eyes, then raised them and said, “And you watch yourself. Minnesota and Bee ain’t exactly been a winning combination lately.”
In five minutes, Beeman exited the office, holding some sheets of paper in his hand. Not looking real happy, he walked past Rane with a curt wave of his hand. Rane got up and followed him down a corridor into the heat of a crowded kitchen, where they squeezed past two prisoners in baggy green-striped jail clothes, who toiled over a large pan of macaroni on a greasy, industrial-size gas stove.
