The Broken Places (27 page)

“You?”

“Hell, naw.”

“Me, either,” Esau said. “But I sure as shit believe he wants Dixon dead.”

“And then he kill our ass.”

Esau nodded. “Hands clean, everyone gone,” he said. “And he keeps all that money. Yeah, I thought about that. But if he’s got himself a small plane and a pilot, it’s worth taking the chance. You know every road is blocked. If the old man makes a play, you and me gonna finish it.”

“All about the women now,” Bones said. “Next move decided by the goddamn women.”

“It will work if Dixon’s woman got any sense.”

“You mind killing him?” Bones said. “We all pretty tight at the farm. I’m pissed but don’t want to be the one turn out his lights. Something’s gotta be bad about killing off a preacher. I don’t know what kind of man he is or if I can trust him, but I think he’s a man of God.”

“I don’t have a problem killing Jamey Dixon,” Esau said. “Nobody forced him to keep that money. He can say what he wants, but he’s a skillet-licking greedy motherfucker like us all. We find his ass, I’ll be the one turn out the lights. Trick is getting that money first. You think he may have spent it all?”

“On what? Bibles and hymnbooks?”

“Well, he ain’t keeping it in coffee cans,” Esau said. “And he didn’t give it all to Stagg.”

“That’s what Stagg say.”

“Makes sense to me,” Esau said. “Becky never did show him that pond.”

“If that happens,” Bones said. “If he got it somewhere we can’t get to and he can’t get to fast, let’s just get the fuck outta here, man. We outstayed our welcome in this county for a couple days by my account.”

“Good place to be,” Esau said, looking around all the marble and stainless steel. “Nicest place I ever been.”

“You know I got that senator’s underwear on right now,” Bones said, grinning. “I think my momma be proud.”

“Since we broke out, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“When Dixon was praying for you and got you cleaning toilets and painting walls at the Spiritual Life Center, did you buy into it?” Esau said, putting down his fork. “Did you believe when he was preaching to us that Dixon was really somebody and that he’d been forgiven?”

“You know, I been thinkin’ on that, too,” Bones said. “Way I figured it out is that just ’cause a man is forgiven don’t mean he won’t fuck up again. Plenty of men ask for some forgiveness but go back to their old ways. I think when you shared that about the truck and all that money, it was just too much for Jamey Dixon to take. Like a drunk man staring at a whiskey bottle.”

“I believed him,” Esau said. “Reason I told him. I believed he had the hookup with Jesus. Now I know I was just bending over and taking it deep.”

“We out, ain’t we?” Bones said, throwing Esau his sack.

“Yes, sir.”

“And free?”

“Not yet.”

“Maybe Dixon was right,” Bones said. “God got a plan for everyone.”

“To shoot to kill until you get that money you stole?” Esau said, slipping on the backpack, checking the load on the .357 and reaching for the shotgun he took off Dixon’s woman. “That it?”

Bones shrugged. “Maybe this ain’t our story,” he said. “Maybe this is Dixon’s, and we’re here to set things straight.”

“Hand of God?”

“Both of ’em,” Bones said, and bumped fists with Esau.

•   •   •

Quinn had the deputies rally
two miles from the hunt lodge, still wet and dark as hell. Quinn had on a slicker, same as Lillie, same as Kenny, Dave, Art, and Ike. Ike had just driven up in his sheriff’s office truck, another Ford painted the same dark green as Quinn’s. Only Ike’s didn’t have the winch and the big tires or the rack of KC lights that lit up the spot where they met. Lillie showed them all an aerial map she’d downloaded and covered in a Ziploc bag.

“I just got off the phone with Willie Tucker, and he told me the layout inside the lodge,” Quinn said. “We’ll enter at a rear door by a swimming pool. Mr. Tucker even told us where to get a key, so we move in quiet. This is just like what we drilled all summer and fall at the shoot house. No different. Art is our breech, I’ll go first, and we pie up that space. It’s a big space, a big open room for the senator’s trophies and a bar and TV. What we need to worry about is eight doors opening from up above. The rooms all look down on the open space, and we’ll make for fine targets. You’ll need to be aware of not only the room but anything popping up from above.”

The shoot house Quinn had constructed over the summer was considerably smaller, him trying to get the deputies ready for houses and trailers with a main room and a couple doors off center. It was pretty much just a barn with inside and outside walls made of railroad ties and filled with gravel, a tin roof, and a catwalk above to observe and critique. But the entry would be the same, his deputies all knew how to pie the room, carve up that space, and make sure it was all clear. If not, and if the convicts were there, Quinn had spoken to one and all of his deputies that hesitation was not an option.

“Remember, this isn’t for show,” Quinn said. “We hit that door and move as fast as tactically sound. You hear me? I don’t want any of y’all to be in a rush to get shot. Move as fast as tactically sound.”

There were mumbles of approval. A couple
yes, sir
s. Quinn would have felt better with a loud “Roger that, Sergeant,” but that shit wasn’t going to happen here. They headed back to their vehicles, driving within a quarter mile of the house. Quinn handed Ike the keys to his truck and told him to be on standby; he’d radio if the men tried to escape in a vehicle. Kenny would park his patrol car on the opposite ridge in case they ran in that direction.

Quinn, Lillie, Dave, and Art walked uphill all the way in their slickers and hats and carrying pistols and shotguns. Quinn smiled at the deputies as they moved, thunder shaking the low Mississippi hills. First light still a half hour away. All of it felt familiar and right marching in the muck in his boots.

“Am I crazy, or are you smiling?” Lillie said.

“I love it.”

Rain poured down on her face and into her eyes while she repositioned her ball cap. “You let me know when the fun starts, OK?”

“You’ll know,” Quinn said.

“What if it’s not them?”

“Then we would have scared the ever-living shit out of some squatters,” Quinn said, marching on ahead and watching the big log house growing larger and closer, two yellow lights burning inside. “Right?”

Esau had gone ahead and gassed up a couple 4-wheelers, Kawasaki Brute Force 750s, the damn things looking as if they’d never been ridden. Esau was careful to check the oil, make sure the engine had actually been broken in, and started them up. Bones walked on in the tin shed that was clean as hell, with a polished concrete floor and rows of landscaping equipment, pole saws and chain saws and even a little backhoe. Esau wondering out loud if the senator ever used this stuff himself or just got people to clean up his shit.

“What the hell do you think?” Bones said.

“There’s a fire road run south of here,” Esau said. “I seen it on some maps in the man’s study. It runs all the way down south till it dovetails with Highway 9. We get to 9 and pick up a new car down there. We ride out of here with only what we can carry. I don’t give a shit about no souvenirs.”

“If I could take that TV on my back, I would,” Bones said. “But I hear what you sayin’. Sure like that Winchester special edition with the gold plating.”

“I packed some food, shotgun shells, and bullets,” Esau said. “He got about every kind of caliber in this shed. I’d fill up one of them backpacks before we head out. Ole Dixon won’t take but the only bullet he’s worth. But dealing with Stagg is going to mean some shooting. He’ll probably bring that fat-ass police chief and some other good ole boys if he’s smart.”

Esau fitted on a ball cap that read
O’TUCK FARM SUPPLY
and tightened the backpack over his shoulders. He straddled the ATV and rode on out of the shed, the high-pitched whine of that fresh engine sounding good enough to ride clear on to California if they decided to head that way. Bones got on his and followed till they both slowed where a ravine ran down the hill with a narrow wooden bridge spanning into the fire road that would zigzag and trail south all the way to the state highway. Bones kept the engine running but told Esau he’d changed his mind. He wanted to carry that Winchester as a souvenir, saying it would come in handy when they finally would have it out with Stagg’s boys. Esau nodded and told him to hurry his ass up, heart beating, sweating a bit, excited to finish his business with Jamey Dixon as it all was supposed to be. He had a memory, a not too distant one, of Dixon preaching to the boys in Unit 27, hands raised to high heaven on the basketball court and telling them all to be grateful for every day God gave them. There were some snickers and laughs, just as the sun rose big and fat over the flat Delta land. A scattering of sparrows looping and swirling, tangled and bunched together in flight, Dixon’s eyes closed talking about a life that was promised to all of them, a world anew with faith and strength and forgiveness. Death was all. He said everyone standing with him today on that court was given another chance. The laughter stopped. He said no man was fit to judge another. Forgiveness was a personal thing between you and the Lord.

The men listened. Esau listened. The sun rose just as promised.

Esau believed he could be forgiven for what he was about to do. He didn’t just think it was necessary, staring down that zigzagging road that would lead him to Jericho, he knew it was damn well ordained.

•   •   •

Quinn, Lillie, Art, and Dave
stood at the back patio to the lodge, a pair of French doors looking into the wide-open den of the senator’s personal hunt club. All the lights were on, as was the television, set to a morning show in Tupelo. With all the glass windows and the glass doors, there wasn’t much chance to stay hidden. The best they could do is go ahead and bust inside before they had been spotted. Quinn had the key he’d found, just where Willie Tucker had told him, under a certain rock in a certain corner, and handed it on to Art Watts, who stood with his standard-issue Glock at the ready. Quinn waited behind him and Lillie and Dave in the respective order. Art turned the key and Quinn was inside, taking the center of the room, concentrating on nothing else, with his Beretta raised, finger on trigger, knowing from experience you don’t set up to shoot when you find a target. You set up from the get-go. “One clear,” Quinn said. “Two clear,” Art said. “Three clear,” Lillie said. “Four clear,” Dave said.

They all walked as a unit through the house, the layout being unusual: since the back wall was made of glass, any son of a bitch could watch every move after entry. They repeated the entry into the kitchen and then mounted the steps in single file, no one touching the loud television explaining how to make meatballs from scratch with nothing but healthy and natural ingredients. About halfway up the stairs, Quinn knew it was just fine to use turkey sausage in the mix, some whole-wheat bread crumbs, and light olive oil. At the top of the landing, the team split. Quinn and Lillie took the rooms to the left, and Art and Dave took the rooms to the right.

They met in the middle. All was clear.

Quinn lowered his weapon. He was not breathing hard or tense. He could still to this day hear his RI telling him to slow the fuck down, breathe, and engage the brain. Don’t get tunnel vision. See everything, slow down and relax in your own personal workspace. Quinn kept an eye on the back doors as they walked back down into the sprawling den. The meatballs apparently were delicious. The host of the show said she’d never eaten anything so good in her life and couldn’t believe it was healthy, too. She said all she needed was a nice Chianti, and that really broke up the local cook and the host. They laughed until Quinn walked up to the big TV and turned it off.

“Let’s check the grounds,” Quinn said. “Make sure we’re all clear. We got two outbuildings and some kind of pool house. Who the hell keeps a swimming pool at a hunt cabin?”

“This isn’t a hunting cabin,” Lillie said. “This is a pussy palace.”

“Where’d you learn to talk like that?” Quinn said as he followed her. Art and Dave already out back, checking on the sheds.

“You really think Vardaman comes up here to hunt?” Lillie said. “Stagg brings him in some of Memphis’s youngest and finest tail.”

Quinn shook his head, 12-gauge in hand, as he rounded the corner and heard the kitchen door slam. He looked to Lillie and then outside to see Art and Dave had disappeared, already into the big sheds. Quinn lifted the gun. Lillie moved quiet and fast to the kitchen door, standing to the side and nodding to Quinn that she was about to push it open.

Quinn kicked in the door, checked half of the room, Lillie behind him, sweeping the other. Room was empty. Refrigerator open. And the back door wide open, too. A blue-and-white gingham curtain in the door’s window waving in the wind.

Somewhere close, Quinn heard the whine of ATVs as he reached for the radio to call Ike.