by Ace Atkins
Fannie shifted on her nice Italian booties, taking a drag of a cigarillo. “Whatever you heard about Miss Fannie has been greatly exaggerated.”
“I heard many good things about you,” he said. “Someone I know said you were a tough woman but loyal. And could be trusted. They thought very highly of you.”
She nodded, thinking that this man had a nice, rugged face, like it had been carved from stone. He was older, maybe in his fifties, but looked like he kept in shape, strong and rough in the right way. Fannie had a hell of a hard time finding men who weren’t soft. She walked up on him, close enough that he could smell her gardenia perfume, letting her red coat open up a little and letting him see what was working under her blue wrap dress. When this was all over, perhaps . . .
“The man I know was named Mingo,” the dark man said. “Do you know him?”
Fannie felt a coldness spread across her back and down her legs. She felt her mouth twitch a little as she pulled on the cigarillo again, nodding.
“He disappeared two years ago,” he said. “He worked for you?”
“Yes,” she said. “He was a good worker. A good kid.”
The man’s eyes were dark and serious as he stared at her for a good long while. “Sometime after all this, I’d like to talk to you about him,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “You knew Mingo on the Rez?”
The man didn’t move at all, another car flying past, lighting up his face. Fannie’s left hand in her coat, finger on the trigger of the gun, as she licked her lips and smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Mingo was my son.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
It was getting past six, Quinn supposed to be rolling off duty and meeting Maggie in town to go trick-or-treating with Brandon and Jason, laughing and talking, enjoying a night off with family. They planned to meet over at Caddy’s house, Maggie’s grandmother’s old place, and then make a round down Stovall Street. They’d zigzag their way up to the Square, where some churches had organized a “trunk or treat” for the kids from out in the country and those who wished to keep the devil out of Halloween. Every year some pastor had convinced the kids not to go as ghosts and goblins but instead seek out their favorite biblical character. Jericho Square would be filled with Moseses and Jacobs, Ruths and Naomis, the prophet Elijah, and John the Baptist, before he lost his head.
“My momma wouldn’t let us have Halloween at all,” Reggie said, sitting in Quinn’s office right before the day and night shifts traded off. “She said it was Satan’s hour, time to tempt kids with all his wickedness.”
“Y’all didn’t do anything?”
“Nope,” Reggie said. “No costumes. No pumpkins. No parties. I used to get real jealous of my friends loading up with all that candy. I’d ask my momma what was so wrong with just dressing up, knocking on a few doors? And she’d turn to me, mad as hell, with smoke coming out her ears, and say Halloween was a night when the devil rejoices.”
“Hard to argue with that.”
“Speak of that ole devil,” Reggie said, leaning forward in his chair. “Don’t know what to make of it, but I heard those two young ladies from New York been meeting with folks at the Daily Journal and some man at CNN. Is that true?”
“That’s their business,” Quinn said, shrugging. “Nothing changes for our work, making sense of what happened to that Taylor kid and the girl in that hole.”
“For Maggie?” Reggie asked.
Quinn nodded, looking at his watch and standing up. Out the window, two of the county jail inmates were working in the parking lot, building a bookshelf for the common area. Miss Janice from over at the library had donated a pile of books for the inmates to read. Most of them self-help books, stuff like 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, The Secret, and Unlimited Power by Tony Robbins. Quinn told Miss Janice he wasn’t really sure he wanted dope dealers and serial thieves to be that much more effective in Tibbehah. He said his job was to feed and lodge until trial, not rehabilitate. But Miss Janice wouldn’t take no for an answer and dropped off four full boxes of books. What could you do?
“I don’t mean to get personal, Sheriff,” Reggie said. “But I hope Maggie finds some comfort in the knowing. I heard she stayed away from Tibbehah for a long while after it happened. Couldn’t have been easy.”
“It was one of the first things we discussed when she moved back.”
“I guess that helped draw y’all closer?”
“That and having a sociopath for an ex-husband,” Quinn said, turning away from the window as Cleotha opened the office door. She put a hand on her big hip and made a sour face, holding up two call-back slips.
“That woman Dana Ray won’t stop calling, Sheriff,” Cleotha said. “I told her you off duty, but her crazy ass called three more times in the last hour.”
“And what’d she say?”
“That peckerhead boyfriend of hers got out on bond and is messin’ with her mind,” Cleotha said. “I said, ‘If he’s threatening you or coming near your house, you give us a call, but until then I ain’t setting up no chat line with Sheriff Colson.’”
“And this last time?” Quinn asked.
“She say ole Bradley Wayne called and said he’s coming for his shit,” Cleotha said. “He got himself a big-screen TV and one of them rowing machines. Some porno movies and beef jerky. Woman said it just like that. Like she’s the star of her own goddamn Hallmark movie of the week. The Stripper and the Shitbird.”
Quinn looked down at Reggie, who stood and opened his hand for the call-back slip. Quinn intercepted it, checking out the address. He hadn’t realized Dana Ray had stuck so close, living up on Perfect Circle Road. “Y’all have enough on your plate,” Quinn said. “And you’re down a deputy tonight.”
“Sheriff, I don’t know why you mess with that trash,” Cleotha said. “I seen that girl when she come in to press charges and, damn, if she didn’t have a tattoo of a pistol aimed down at her privates. That’s what I’d call asking for your own damn shit.”
“Serve and protect, Cleotha,” Quinn said. “If we cut out those who made some poor life choices, we all would be out of a job.”
“I’ll get Kenny to follow you out,” Reggie said. “That fella sure has it in for you, Sheriff.”
“Do I look concerned?”
“Petrified,” Reggie said, smiling.
Quinn patted him on the arm and reached for his cap and jacket. A rough wind buffeted the windows, stirring up dirt in the jail yard. The sky filled with a weird orange glow.
“Sometimes I feel like we running a damn day care center in this county,” Cleotha said, turning and heading back to her desk. “You doing the Lord’s work. You hear me, Sheriff?”
* * *
* * *
Maggie and Boom sat in the gazebo on the Square, watching the kids running loose, filling pillowcases and little plastic pumpkins with candy from the back of cars and pickup trucks. Boom had insisted on coming along, Tashi and Jessica now headed back to Brooklyn to piece together their story, leaving some of the details with a few local reporters. The oak tree branches shook in the hard winds blowing across the Square. Maggie hoped they’d get enough trick-or-treating in before it started to rain.
“Wasn’t like this when me and Quinn were kids,” Boom said. “Miss Jean just kicked our asses outside and told us to get back before midnight. We’d knock on a few doors, but mainly we liked to fuck with people. Shooting out lights with BB guns. Rolling folks’ houses. Putting shaving cream and eggs all over teachers’ cars. We just ran wild.”
“Y’all were lucky you didn’t get arrested.”
“Naw,” Boom said. “We were just having a little fun. Real thin line between cutting up and being a juvenile delinquent. Me and Quinn walked that razor’s edge.”
“Y’all turned out just fine,” Maggie said, watching Brandon, dressed as Spider-Man, fill up his pillowcase and
then dart down the center path of the Square. Small orange lights blinking above, cutouts of ghosts and witches hanging in the trees and turning in the wind. “My grandmother didn’t like me out late at night when I’d come visit. I had to promise to be home by dark or else she’d call the sheriff on me. I remember her waiting up, sitting on the couch, smoking Kool cigarettes, with a loaded .22 next to her.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that,” Boom said, grinning, pulling back his plaid hunting coat to reveal the biggest damn gun she’d ever seen in her life. “I’ll move along when Quinn gets here.”
“We appreciate you, Boom,” Maggie said, resting her hand on his metal hook. “I hope you know that. You gave Quinn a lot of comfort being at the house while he did his job.”
“Ain’t got much else to do.”
“Sure you do,” Maggie said. “You and Quinn—y’all always watched each other’s back.”
“Always.”
Maggie turned to see Brandon running toward the gazebo while Caddy and Jason walked across the Square, Maggie not quite making out Jason’s costume, maybe some type of pro wrestler. He had on a long black leather duster and wide-brimmed black hat. Brandon ran up to him, always admiring his older cousin, and laughing and saying something about The Undertaker. Jason had on eyeliner and a fake mustache and goatee. When he walked up the steps, he looked right at Boom and rolled his eyes back into his head. “You will rest in peace!”
Boom stood up and pounded fists with the kid. Caddy stepped up to join Maggie, her hair even shorter than usual, dressed in old jeans and boots, a threadbare barn coat over her narrow shoulders. She sat down and fired up a cigarette as Boom walked down with the boys, following them over to another row of trucks and cars to candy. They sat there in the dark for a moment, taking in the scene.
“Where’s Quinn?”
“Out on a call,” she said. “Said he’ll head straight here when he’s done.”
“Weird night,” Caddy said, looking up at the orange sky behind the old water tower, branches whipping back and forth, grit kicking up off the footpaths. “Better get these kids knocking on doors before the bottom falls out.”
“Why’d you ask about Quinn?”
“Just thought he’d be here,” she said. “Wasn’t he working a day shift?”
“Sure.”
Caddy blew out some smoke and smiled, patting Maggie on her leg. “How’d you like Jason’s costume? I sewed it myself from a bunch of donations I had out at The River. Isn’t he a damn trip?”
“I heard about Bentley,” Maggie said. “You OK?”
Caddy shook her head and took a drag off the cigarette. “Let’s talk about anything else,” she said. “I should’ve seen that shitstorm coming from a mile away.”
* * *
* * *
Quinn had agreed not to talk about Brandon Taylor until the news broke. And maybe not even then. The women had spoken to some local media, some Quinn knew and some he didn’t, and headed north as quickly as they’d arrived. Tashi had apologized to him again, sorry for doubting what he said, for thinking that maybe he’d been involved in Brandon’s death. It was just an ugly lie, Quinn had said, told by an ugly man. Quinn still not able to summon any grief for E. J. Royce’s sorry ass, even if he wanted to find his killers.
The wind kicked up as he drove south on Sugar Ditch Road, the cotton fields dry and brittle in the bottomland, the sun going down in the distance, orange and black. Just as he turned onto Perfect Circle Road, the rain started, tapping light on his windshield, wind buffeting his truck as he slowed, hit the high beams, and searched for Dana Ray’s trailer. He passed the old Blue Sky convenience store, now nothing but a burned-out shell, no one bothering to clean up or rebuild. He drove, winding his way deeper into the Ditch, past the little trailers up on the rolling hills or down in the bottomland, porch lights on, some decorated for Halloween with inflatable pumpkins or black cats. One woman, Miss Eubanks of Big Momma Bail Bonds, really did it up. Music, flashing strobes, and purple lights all down her chain-link fence.
Quinn looked down at the GPS on his phone and then back in his rearview mirror, Kenny following close behind in his patrol car. He was within a quarter mile of the address as he picked up the phone and called Maggie, letting her know it wouldn’t be long. “How about dinner at El Dorado after?”
“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll ask Boom.”
“Margaritas?”
“Twist my damn arm.”
Quinn rolled down a flat stretch of gravel, shooting down the other side of Perfect Circle Road, the loop making a sloping half oval. He spotted an older trailer with a handmade porch outside, a blue light on by the front door. He stopped his truck, Kenny pulling up beside him, his patrol car idling as he let down the window.
“Sit tight,” Quinn said.
Kenny nodded as Quinn approached the front porch, walking up a homemade plywood ramp, buckled from sun and water damage, and pounded on the door. He could hear music playing inside, Miranda Lambert threatening to burn some shit down with kerosene. Quinn knocked again, hearing some rustling inside, a shadow taking shape on the other side of the curtains. Quinn waited for the door to open as he heard the landing buckle and crack.
Three men in black approached from around the corner, sending Quinn into a crouch, reaching for his gun as he felt a weapon pressed into his spine, the man telling him to move slow and easy, raise those damn hands, or he’d be wandering about this world in a fucking wheelchair. Quinn recognized the voice as the short fella’s from the Neshoba County Fair, turning his head to see Kenny out of the patrol car and on his knees in the flashing blue lights. Four men surrounded the deputy, lashing his wrists in zip ties and forcing him to the ground.
“Howdy, Sheriff,” the man said into his ear, pulling the Beretta off Quinn’s hip and pushing him down the ramp toward the gravel drive. Quinn counted out eight men in total, all outfitted in black combat gear and holding rifles, faces covered in balaclavas as if Quinn didn’t know they were part of the Watchmen Society. He was twenty meters from the woods, maybe fifty to the road running along a creek bed. The wind shook the trees and loose roof of the trailer, Quinn turning back to see the shadow of the woman opening the front door, silhouetted in the frame as she spoke to one of the men. It was Dana Ray. She was holding a cigarette in her hands and looked scared.
“Where’s Fannie?” Quinn said.
The man socked Quinn hard and fast in the back of his head, making him stumble forward, as another kicked out his legs, sending Quinn tumbling down on his back. He quickly found his feet and kicked one man straight in the groin. The fat, squat man had his face covered, but Quinn knew it was him, coming at him with the butt of his rifle, trying to take out Quinn’s head like a piñata. Quinn ducked and rolled. Another man’s boots finding his ribs and kicking hard, the others joining in with hard elbows and kicks, as Quinn got to his knees and covered his face. Some of the kicks connecting with bones and cartilage, Quinn tasting blood in his mouth, as fists and boots flew, taking out his legs every time he tried to get up.
Quinn tackled another man to the ground and punched him right in the throat. Three, four men on his back, trying to get him down. Guns were drawn, and they ordered him to quit fighting or they’d shoot.
In the silence, he heard Kenny yelling and then some scuffling sounds. Someone by Kenny’s patrol car said, “Put that fat fucker in the trunk.”
Quinn got to one knee and spit out some blood. He felt his eyes swell and sharp pain in his ribs with every panting breath. He looked up at the men, who had formed a ring around him, holding weapons. Quinn kept low, knowing what was about to come next. He’d have more luck taking a run right for the tree line. If they wanted to shoot him in the back, at least he’d have a damn chance.
Something caught the attention of the men and they all turned. A tall figure strode up, hands in the pockets of his coat, not bothering to hide h
is face. His face flat and wide, long black hair in a slick ponytail.
“Take him down to that creek,” said the man, who looked like he’d just stepped off the Rez.
“We ain’t through with him yet.”
“You’re through,” the Indian said. “Walk him down there and leave us. This man killed my friend. Not yours.”
“Leave?” the man said. “Shitfire. What the hell you talking about? You ain’t gonna fuckin’ kill him. Are you? We’re just trying to teach this cocky bastard a lesson.”
The Indian looked hard at the man as two others grabbed Quinn by the arms and force-walked him toward the winding creek, a gun in his back, the squat guy still trying to debate the Indian, saying he sure as shit wasn’t gonna be any part of killing a cop. “Have y’all lost your fucking minds? That’s not what we’re about, Tonto. I ain’t a part of this. No siree. No fucking goddamn way.”
The men walking with him let go of Quinn’s arms for a moment, the trees shaking in the violent wind shooting down through the cotton fields. A big harvest moon shone through the clouds for a moment. The blue light on the trailer porch went out, as did the light in the window.
“Get back in your goddamn car,” the Indian said to the squat man. The others momentarily distracted.
Quinn dove into the brush and tangled weeds by the creek, sliding down into the rocky bed, running through the shallow water, keeping close to the bank and down in the shadows as shots fired behind him, earth and stones kicking up around him. He pushed himself against the sunken edge of the creek bed, catching a ragged breath with the cracked rib, his mouth tasting like pennies, staying silent as he watched four men up on the edge of the creek, pointing and making their way down.
He pushed himself deeper under a root ball exposed by the erosion, waiting for one of the men to get close enough. He steadied his breath, staying as quiet as possible, listening to a Watchman move through the bed, splashing up water as dead leaves shook from the tall cottonwoods and floated down toward the sandy bottom.
