Dark River Road (64 page)

That sucked. He looked down, shivered a little. At least he’d get a jumpsuit or denims, whatever the county used these days. Bud cleared his throat.

“Want to tell me what happened? Same ground rules as before on how much to say. In case you don’t remember them—”

“I remember.” He glanced toward the window, and Bud assured him no one was listening. So Chantry told him exactly what had happened. “It’s not my pistol,” he finished. “They need to run a check on it, check it for prints, too.”

“They didn’t find any weapon at the scene.”

Chantry frowned. “Brad must have taken it with him, then. Damn. That doesn’t help. They can run my pistol.”

“I’m sure they will if they haven’t already. You’ve got a permit, right? Good. Not that it won’t be suggested you have an unregistered gun as well. Okay. First thing tomorrow, I’ll file a motion to dismiss. Just try to last until morning.”

“That might not be so easy.”

Casey looked sympathetic. There wasn’t anything he could do and they both knew it. It was going to be a long night.

First he was strip-searched
and given denims, then he was put in a cell. No belt, no shoes, just some kind of thick socks on his feet. A stainless steel toilet was attached to the wall. Snores came from one of the metal shelves that served as a bed. Not exactly the Hilton, but he’d slept in worse. Memory flashes came to him sometimes, sand and heat, blinding dust storms, the rattling thunder of exploding mortars. A sense of urgency. It was something he’d just as soon forget, but it’d taught him a lot.

Maybe Quinton had done him a favor by getting him sent there. Not much else fazed him since then. He thought about that, sitting up on the shelf with his back against the cold concrete block wall, listened to the sounds of rattling keys and clanging iron bars, men snoring or talking. It was just one more part of his life he’d managed to close off. Like too many other things. He’d learned to shrug off what he didn’t want to remember.

His head throbbed. He had a cut over his brow as well as two cuts on his knuckles where he’d hit Brad. Tomorrow he’d be really sore but tonight he just felt tired. It was probably close to two or three in the morning by now, and guards would come around pretty soon with something that resembled breakfast. Watered down grits, most likely. That should start the morning off well.

He was under no illusions things would go smoothly in court. Bud Casey may be a good lawyer, but he had a feeling the cops wouldn’t be likely to cooperate. And if Quinton got to the judge before Bud did—well, he pretty much knew how that would go. Judges won elections in Cane Creek when they had Quinton’s backing.

His cellmate snorted, woke up, and looked over at him. Chantry looked back. Neither said anything, and after a beat, the guy rolled over and ignored him. He put his head back against the wall and tried to relax. Sleep eluded him, but if he could do what he’d learned in the Marines and loosen his muscles, rest his mind and body just enough, he’d get through the night. Tomorrow would take care of itself. It always did.

He must have dozed sitting up. A harsh clang on the bars jerked up him upright. A guard called his name, told him to stand up and turn around. It had to be early. He did, slowly, looking at the guard warily. He seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place him.

“Lock your hands behind your head, spread your legs,” the guard ordered, and he did that too, not liking this one bit.

He got patted down again, then shoved roughly up against the wall and cuffed with his hands behind his back. When he turned his head, the guard slammed him hard against the wall and told him not to move. Leg cuffs were snapped around his ankles. Two guards walked him down the corridor, one on each side like he was a flight risk. Like he’d get anywhere even if he got free from the cuffs. It was quiet, sounds muffled. Dim light kept shadows in the cells and corners he passed, making it even more furtive. This was not promising. Something was up that he was sure he wouldn’t like.

He didn’t know quite what to expect, but he certainly didn’t expect Bert Quinton to be waiting on him in one of those drab rooms. His belly tightened. Oh yeah. This would definitely be something he’d hate and Quinton enjoyed.

“You’re up kinda early, aren’t you,” he said when the guard shoved him down into a chair opposite Quinton. “Or late.”

“My work is never done, it seems. So, I see that you’ve gotten yourself in a situation here, Mr. Callahan. Tragic.”

Chantry’s throat tightened. “Cathy—is she all right?”

“A little late for concern, don’t you think?”

His mouth flattened. “Maybe you need to ask her husband about that.”

“Do I?” Quinton stared at him coolly. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Chantry just gave him a look. After a moment, Quinton sat back in his chair.

“You’ve always played your cards close to your chest. It doesn’t seem to be working well for you lately. Maybe it’s time you rethink your strategy. Despite the fact that this latest debacle is your worst to date, it’s not too late to make things right. Save taxpayers the time and money and ordeal of a trial.”

“You mean confess to something I didn’t do just to make you look good? Not a chance.”

Quinton’s eyes narrowed. “You were always an obstinate boy and you’ve learned nothing over the years.”

“I’ve learned to recognize a pile of shit when I see it. Or smell it.”

“Insults don’t faze me. I came here to help you, whether you want to believe that or not.”

“No, you came here to get a confession the police aren’t allowed to get when my lawyer’s not present. You think because you own half the town you can do what you want. That you’re above the law. You’re not.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice and kept his eyes fixed on him as he said, “Your hands aren’t all that clean, Quinton. I remember that even if you prefer to forget it whenever you can.”

For a moment nothing was said. The two stared at each other across that small table like two dogs sizing up their opponent. He knew Quinton had to be wondering what and how much he knew. How much he’d risk telling when the right moment came. It was true he kept what he knew to himself most of the time. It was usually safer. But there were times to be quiet and times to talk. He’d learned that through the years, too. The hard part was knowing when to do which. If in doubt, say nothing.

Quinton shook his head. “You’re making a big mistake, Chantry. Maybe I was wrong about you. You’re not that smart, after all.”

“You’re wrong about a lot of things.”

“Perhaps.” Quinton stood up, looked down at him for a minute. “But I’m not handcuffed to a chair and accused of assault with a deadly weapon. You are. Think about that.”

Like he hadn’t been all too aware of it already.

Quinton rapped on the door and it opened for him. He paused to look back at Chantry, a faint smile on his face. “I’ll do what I can to see you get treated well. If you change your mind, all you have to do is ask for me.”

He knew what that meant: Trouble.

Instead of being returned to his former cell, the guards put him in with two prisoners that looked like refugees from a wrestling tag team. They were waiting on him. Even if he hadn’t been cuffed, he’d have had a tough time, but as it was, the guards “forgot” to take off his cuffs and left him in there with them for a while. By the time they came back to check on him, he was barely conscious. They uncuffed him and left him there, lying on the cold concrete floor and bleeding.

When the next shift came on duty, they took him to the Quinton County hospital for treatment, and that’s where Bud Casey found him sometime around noon. Furious, he looked at Chantry lying on the stretcher in the emergency room, cuffed to the metal frame. Bud got so mad that even as dazed and in pain as he was, Chantry tried to reassure him he’d make it.

“S’okay.”

“The hell it is.” Bud paused in his pacing, looked at him and winced. “You look like hell. I know they put you in with those guys on purpose but we’ll never be able to prove it.”

No point in mentioning the cuffs. That’d never be proven either. Chantry sucked in a deep breath that made his ribs hurt. He wondered if one of them was busted. It sure felt like it. One eye was swollen shut, his mouth kept bleeding, and he thought a tooth might be loose. He’d been racked and rolled pretty good.

“Quinton showed up,” he got out after a few minutes, and Bud turned to look at him again with a lifted brow. “Offered to
 . . .
help.”

“Yeah, I bet he did.” Bud snorted. “Asshole. Dale’s right about him. Always has been. It’s a damn shame—well, enough about that. I found out a few things, got a judge to dismiss the charges. Seems your call to 911 proves you didn’t shoot Cathy.”

“How’s she doin’?”

“She’ll be fine. Still out of it, but she’ll make it. She’s at the Med in Memphis. Want to hear what I found out? Herky Welch said he saw Brad Durbin leaving the carriage house just a couple of minutes after he heard the shot. I knew you’d placed a call to 911, so I checked up on it. They keep recordings of those calls.” Bud nodded when Chantry blinked at him. “Yep. Proves you weren’t there alone. Apparently, you thought you’d hung up but you hadn’t. The operator got it all on tape. Heard you talking to Brad, heard him say he hadn’t meant to do it. They’ve got a warrant out for him.”

That should disappoint the hell out of Quinton. And Gordon. Chantry nodded. Sometimes things had a way of working out after all.

“And,” Bud continued, “I got a copy of the tape before it could mysteriously disappear. I know how that happens sometimes. Listen, Chantry, I know this may not be the right time to say this, but boy, you’ve got to think about whether or not you should stay in town. Quinton on your ass is bad enough, but he’s not the only one who’d like to see you go down. Think about it.”

He had. It’d probably make Bud think he was nuts, but it only made him more determined to stay. He’d only run once from Quinton, and that was to keep Mikey safe. He didn’t intend to do it again.

Maybe he’d said that out loud, because Bud just stared at him. Then he shook his head. “I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”

Yeah, so did he. One thing was for sure, he’d gone too far to back down now. He’d given Quinton something to think about, and if he judged him right, the old man wouldn’t rest until he’d managed to find out what he knew and just how big a danger he could be. He’d covered up the truth about Tansy’s real father all these years, so he’d be pretty anxious it didn’t get out now.

That was the biggest advantage Chantry had right now. It’d put Quinton on the defensive for a change. He’d be so busy covering his ass, he’d forget to watch shadows in all the corners. And there was a very big shadow living right at Six Oaks.