Brethren

by Shawn Ryan

  Medlocke cost me millions when he arrested me for DUI, Quintard fumed. I had those campaign contributors all lined up, I was ready to make my move to the state senate within a couple of years. Now I may never get there, and if I do, it'll be years behind schedule.

  Quintard felt his face flush as he remembered begging Medlocke—down on his knees, goddammit!—to let him go. He told Medlocke that the publicity might ruin him, ruin his chances for a career in state government. But it made no difference. That fucking pig was too goody two shoes to do that. Even when I offered him money.

  It never occurred to Quintard that, along with the DUI, Jason might also have charged him with trying to bribe an officer but didn't.

  Besides that embarrassment, Quintard knew both Medlocke and Franklin knew too much, or suspected too much, about his other dealings. He couldn't let them get the chance to release that information, even if it was true—actually, especially because it was true. It would totally ruin him and might send him to prison to boot.

  Quintard took another sip of liquor. But what helped alleviate some of the worry about his political future was how Medlocke's and Franklin's lack of progress in the child murders was going to do wonders for his re-election campaign for county commission. Hell, he should pay them to be publicity chairmen. They were doling out more than he could possibly use. The thought struck him as tremendously funny, and he laughed so hard part of the liquor came up through his nose and splattered his white shirt.

  Damn it burns, Quintard thought, but that seemed even funnier and he laughed again.

  Before these child murders came along, Quintard knew he was in serious jeopardy of losing his seat to that snot-nosed liberal Scott McClendon from down in Duluth. McClendon's campaign motto was Open-minded Yet Responsible Progress.

  Progress, Quintard humphed. Bullshit. McClendon didn't have a corner on wanting progress. He was for progress, too, especially progress leading to big construction projects. His hardware businesses had increased their profits by three hundred percent in the past ten years, and by passing almost any rezoning or construction permit coming before the commission, Quintard made sure his stores remained moneymakers. If there was some controversy over the project, say a huge shopping center or apartment complex in a residential area or a liquor store in the same vicinity as a church, he simply abstained from voting or was conveniently out of town when the vote was taken. That way he could hold up his hands and say, "They're clean."

  He had been in office for too long to give it up easily. It was too lucrative and he loved the feeling of power it gave him. By God, he was somebody. Somebody important. And he wanted more.

  Why, if he wasn't a commissioner, he was just another business owner in Gwinnett, another working-class slob, nothing special. The thought terrified him and he poured another slug of whiskey. He would never go back to that endless life of nothingness. No matter the cost. No matter who got in his way. Never.

  He remembered his childhood years, days of growing up in a two-room tar-paper shack outside of Buford. Although Gwinnett County was completely rural at the time, the depths of the Quintards' poverty was something even poor people talked about. Seven skinny kids with hand-me-downs and dirty faces. His mother tried her best, but it was hard with a father who was a sharecropping drunk who beat any living creature within reach when the urge took him.

  Unconsciously, Quintard rubbed his right forearm, feeling the four round scars. He was ten when he accidentally kicked over that pail of milk. Only his young, catlike reflexes prevented his father from stabbing the pitchfork into his stomach for the mistake.

  Quintard smiled and took a belt of bourbon. Paybacks were hell and he got his. The cops decided his father died during a robbery, since his body, the back of his skull laid open and his brains spilling out, was found lying facedown behind the Dirty Dog Pub, his nightly rendezvous point. His wallet was gone and so were his shoes.

  Twelve-year-old Anson Quintard tied the shoes to a lead pipe and threw them into the deepest part of the Yellow River. No one would ever find them there, he thought as he heaved the pipe over the water. No one ever had.

  As far as money was concerned, things were no better after his father died. His mother still had seven kids to raise and was able to take in only a few loads of laundry and sewing each week. The kids brought in what they could from picking cotton and other odd jobs around town, but food and clothes were scarce most of the time. Anson left the moment he graduated from high school. He wanted to leave sooner, but loved his mother dearly, and it was her desire that he at least get a diploma.

  His mother now was dead, and though most of his brothers and sisters still lived in the Atlanta area, he rarely visited. There was nothing to say to them.

  After high school, he went to work in Watkins Hardware Store in Buford and saved his money like a miser. When Quintard was twenty-four, the bank foreclosed on Watkins's mortgage and he jumped at the chance to buy the business for a pittance. In his behalf, he offered to let Watkins work there, but the old man couldn't bring himself to work for someone else. He died three months after he lost the store. Quintard didn't attend the funeral. It was on a Thursday and he couldn't leave the store, he said, even though all the other businesses in town closed for half a day.

  "Just because Watkins is dead doesn't mean the whole world has to stop," Quintard said at the time.

  The position on the commission had come fifteen years before and he now was the ranking member. He never ran for commission chairman because he knew public scrutiny would be horrendously high. It was much easier to work if you weren't the one people came to for answers or targeted for dispute.

  Photos and memorabilia hung on his walls like Little League trophies in a young boy's room. In many ways, they amounted to the same thing. They were proof that he helped his community. That he was needed; important.

  There were plaques of commendation from the Gwinnett County Heart Association, the American Cancer Society, the American Lung Association, the Jaycees, Civitans, Shriners, and dozens of others. He snorted in laughter when his eyes fell upon the one from the Gwinnett County Fraternal Order of Police for his participation in the organization's annual Toys for Tots campaign.

  In among the plaques were dozens of framed photographs of Quintard with local and state dignitaries. There was one with him and former Governor Lester Maddox, one with current Governor Joe Frank Harris, one with Atlanta Braves slugger Dale Murphy, even one with home run king Hank Aaron.

  Hell, I'll even throw my arm around a nigger if it'll get me some votes, Quintard thought and giggled.

  Feeling supremely proud of himself, Quintard picked up the phone and dialed a number he had used often in the past couple of weeks. It rang several times before someone answered.

  "Anthony Bradley," the voice on the other end said.

  "Tony, this is Anson Quintard. I've got a tip for you."

  "I'm not sure I want any more of your tips," Bradley said, "The last one almost got my ass beat."

  "Yeah, I heard about that," Quintard answered. "But here's something that will help you get back at Medlocke. I'm not sure the police are doing enough on this investigation. I don't think Detectives Medlocke and Franklin are serving the people of this county. I'm thinking of calling an investigation into it."

  "You're going to call an investigation into the investigation? Don't you think that's a bit much?" Bradley asked.

  "Hell no, I don't think it's too much. And I think you'd be derelict in your duty if you didn't look into what the police are—or aren't—doing to solve this case."

  "Seems to me you think everybody's derelict in their duty except yourself," Bradley countered. "You know, ever since my run-in with him, I've been checking up on Medlocke. I've heard nothing but good things. Other reporters like him. They say he shoots straight and doesn't bullshit. People in this community like him. They respect the fact that he's come back from the death of his family and alcoholism. You seem to be the only one who doesn't care for him. It make
s me wonder what he did to you to piss you off so bad. Was it that DUI he gave you? Is that still making you mad, Anson? You want to talk about that?"

  Quintard felt his anger rising. This punk was getting too cocky, too independent. Looked like he'd lost an ally. Better get out of it as cleanly as possible.

  "I'm not doing anything that any decent human being wouldn't do," he said to change the subject. "I'm trying to rid our community of a horrible plague. I just want to make sure that everybody is doing their part. And I wonder if the police are. I have my doubts."

  "I guess you don't want to talk about the DUI then," Bradley said.

  "That's all in my past," Quintard said coldly. "I'm more interested in what's going on in our community right now. Apparently you aren't."

  "I am, Anson, but I'm not going to write a story about your threatening to call an investigation. That's like writing about a threatened lawsuit. We don't write about it until it's filed. In this case, when you get around to actually calling for the investigation, then talk to me."

  "I don't know," Quintard said. "I may go elsewhere with my information first."

  "You do whatever you want," Bradley said.

  Hanging up, Quintard pulled himself out of his chair and walked unsteadily to the window. The whiskey was taking its toll on his empty stomach. Better go get some lunch to cut its effect.

  Damn, I could've used that reporter some more, he thought as he gazed at the clouds cutting across the summer sky. Little bastard better not make me look bad. I'll have his heart.

  This meant he'd have to take other measures. He lifted the phone and dialed a number no one in the county knew he had. It rang twice before a squeaky voice answered.

  "Frog, it's Quintard. I need you to do me a favor."

  "Hey, I thought you said you wouldn't call again. Not after the last time, not after I had to take the girl for her abortion."

  "Shut your fucking mouth, Webster," Quintard bellowed. He could practically hear Jimmy "Frog" Webster shitting in his pants. Fine. That was the idea. Keep the fucker whipped like a yard dog.

  "Now listen to me, you jumpy little turd," Quintard continued. "If not for me slinging my weight and my money around, you'd be locked up for life for second-degree burglary. Or have you forgotten that three felonies make you an habitual offender? I own your ass and don't you forget it. If you do, police may get an anonymous phone call about a certain fence in their jurisdiction. A fence that also deals drugs."

  "Okay," Webster said. "You've made your point. What do you want?"

  "Hey, it's an easy job. I want you to keep an eye on Detective Jason Medlocke for the next few days. Watch where he goes, see what he does. I want a complete report this following Monday."

  "Anything special you want me to look for?"

  "No, I just want to know everything he does. Got it?"

  "Yeah, I'll call you Monday."

  "No, I'll call you," Quintard said and hung up.

  The wheels were in motion, all rolling toward the commission meeting next week. Quintard planned to fan the flames at the Rotary barbecue this Saturday and could get by on generalizations and innuendo there. But he needed a full load of buckshot before the commission meeting itself. Hopefully, Webster would provide what he wanted.

  I couldn't care less about a few dead brats, Quintard thought, but if I play my part right, I can bring Medlocke and Franklin down as well as turn this into a run for the state senate. From there, who knows? The thought gave him an erection.

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Stephen Medlocke laid his copy of The Magic Mountain on the mahogany table next to his left arm, then took a long, lingering stretch. Although Thomas Mann's novel was one of his favorites, he found the book to be beyond his enjoyment this evening. One problem was the English translation he was reading was so inferior to the original, written in Mann's glorious German. But Stephen's German was rusty these days and he didn't want to tackle the original just to grease some squeaky hinges.

  Still, there was more to his lack of interest than the book's language. Sitting in the study of his two-story red-brick home, built more than two hundred years ago, he heard the house talking to him, speaking with a myriad of squeaks, rattles, and creaks. While the sounds didn't frighten Stephen, they did make him uneasy. The house was too old to be settling, so noises like these meant either changes in the weather or shifts in other currents, ones not noticeable to most people.

  He glanced out the window across the room. It was a warm summer night, mostly clear but with a few low-hanging clouds scurrying across the slate of the sky. They seemed to be licking the top of the dense forest surrounding the house. The clouds were close enough to the ground to reflect the lights of Boston, sitting about thirty miles to the southeast. The city lights gave the clouds an eerie pink hue, as though they were cotton balls dipped in diluted blood.

  Leaving the outdoors to its nocturnal inhabitants, Stephen scanned the study of the home he'd been living in the past forty years. The oak shelves covering two walls of the room were lined with hundreds of books by masters of literature, including Bronte, Melville, Boccaccio, and Dickens. Stephen had read them all, many more than once. The thick, musty smell of aging pages and old volumes gave him a feeling of security. There was comfort sitting among the knowledge of the ages.

  His family had been raised in this sturdy home sitting just outside Nashua, New Hampshire, at the base of Jeremy Mountain. His children grew up here, his wife died here, he became an Episcopal priest here, giving up a career as an investment counselor to counsel on a higher plane than Dow Jones averages and GNPs.

  While being a priest was hardly a moneymaking venture, Stephen was no fool when he made the career switch. God may pay the bills of the soul, he knew, but He's never been big on paying for new cars or kids' braces. During the four years he spent studying to be a minister, Stephen kept his investment job, working three times as hard. He intended to build a tidy portfolio to carry him and his family through the rest of their lives. But his plans bore more fruit than he anticipated. Not only was there enough money for one lifetime, there was enough for two or three, and the interest kept adding more. Stephen found the task of soothing troubled souls was easier when your own wasn't troubled by monetary headaches.

  Tonight, though, it was something not of this earth, nor of God's heaven, pricking his senses.

  Sighing deeply, he lifted the brandy snifter on the table and cradled it in the palms of his hands. Warmth seeped into the Courvoisier and he drained the last mouthful. Flicking off the reading lamp, he headed upstairs to his bedroom.

  Once upstairs, Stephen took a quick, hot shower, then rolled back the covers of his bed and stuffed himself under.

  Mrs. McCrady changed the sheets every day and it was always a pleasure to slide into a freshly made bed.

  Staring out the window into the New England night, Stephen's thoughts turned to Jason and their conversation a few weeks before. It had been on his mind almost constantly. The story about Claire's stuffed frog unnerved him. It reeked of a familiar touch, one he hadn't experienced in twenty-five years. Stephen still questioned his suspicions, but a feeling in his bones told him his doubts were related more to desperate hope than reality. What was happening to Jason was too similar to what had happened in his own life twenty-five years ago. It wasn't just coincidence, it was heredity.

  "God, I just hope I haven't waited too long," Stephen said.

  But he knew that in some ways he already had. It was irresponsible of him never to have told Jason about his heritage. Oh, he had reasons. They seemed like good ones at the time. But now that the horror was beginning again, reasons lost their power and became nothing but excuses.

  And what if you died? Stephen asked himself. Jason would be left alone with absolutely no knowledge. You might as well shoot your son in the back, old man.

  Jason was his first child and his only son. In the Medlocke family, the father-son connection ran deep, back through generations, across the
sea to the dark days in Scotland. Sons, especially first sons, were special in the Medlockes. They were cast into a harder life just by being born.

  But until her death, his wife, Maureen, was adamant about not telling Jason the truth.

  "You yourself said it sometimes skips generations," she argued. "Why saddle him with such a load if it's not necessary?"

  "Because of the chance that it might be necessary," he answered. "And if it is, he damn well better be prepared. When the time comes, it's not going to wait for him to get ready."

  In the end, however, Maureen always won the argument and Stephen hid the Medlocke heritage from his son. Even after Maureen died, Stephen kept the secret. During the first two years following her death, there was a dagger in his heart and he simply didn't have the energy to talk about her or anything connected with her. After the pain subsided—it never faded—he convinced himself that, as she had said, it wasn't necessary.

  Now the time had come and Stephen wondered how Jason would handle the news. How does a father explain such an inheritance? How does he tell his son that he's capable of feats that once had people burned at the stake? How does he tell him that he's in life-threatening danger? How does he cushion the blow?

  The answer was: He couldn't. He couldn't soften something that was going to irrevocably change the rest of his son's life.

  Turning off the bedside light, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, white hair. Locking his fingers behind his head, he lay back on the goosedown pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  He knew he was a strong man for sixty-four. Each morning when he shaved, he saw a face that was heavily lined, but with creases that revealed knowledge and solidity instead of age. He felt his jaw with his right hand. Still firm. Reaching under the covers, he ran his hand across his stomach. Thick, yes, but hardly flabby. Neighbors joked about how you could set your watch by Stephen's daily exercise. Come Arctic blasts of snow or monsoon rainstorms, he was up every morning at five, taking a brisk walk around the fifteen acres surrounding his house.