The Innocents (22 page)

O
rdeen met Nito down at Shooter’s on the Square later that night. Shooter’s pool hall was in the basement of the old Jericho Five & Dime that had been defunct for about a thousand years. Nito was in the back corner of the pool hall, practicing by himself on the only one of the ten tables being used and smoking a long-as-hell cigarette. Nito didn’t move when he saw Ordeen, just took it slow and easy and knocked in two solids, back-to-back, into a corner pocket. “Whew,” Nito said. “You see that shit?”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Ordeen said. “What’s up, man? I got to work tomorrow.”

“Work?” Nito asked. “Since when?”

“County work,” Ordeen said. “Cutting trees and shit. Coach set it up.”

“Go, Coach, go.”

“Why you down on Coach?”

Nito chalked the cue, circled the table for the next shot. “Hmm,” Nito said. “Maybe ’cause that fat white motherfucker trying to cornhole us both.”

“How you figure?” Ordeen said, hands in the pockets of his shorts, Tibbehah Wildcats T-shirt crisp and laundered, with his braids pulled back into a ponytail. “I said the man just got me a job. He got me out of some real trouble. What else you want from him?”

“Oh, yeah?” Nito said. “You think he’s doin’ for you ’cause he’s the coach? Mr. Fellowship of Christian Athletes and all that.”

“I do,” Ordeen said. “I think he just might be.”

Nito leaned into the table, set that shot, running the cue between his two knuckles, and popped it hard and fast, damn reverb shot off the wall and into the side pocket. Ordeen recognized when his buddy was jacked-up and Nito was jacked-up as hell, running the table, talking shit. He was on something and Ordeen didn’t want no part. Back toward the door, old man Shooter was cleaning beer bottles off a few tables even though serving beer was illegal at a pool hall. It was the law, but no one really made a big deal of it. They used to have a town cop, a marshal, or something that did that sort of thing, but he was dirty and got shot.

“How long you known Coach Mills?” Nito asked.

“Junior high,” Ordeen said. “He used to come watch the young boys play. Said he was keeping his eye on me and that made me feel real good.”

Nito held the cue in his hand like a staff, reaching down below the table for a pint of flavored vodka in a paper bag. Ordeen smelled his breath from across the table.

“Keep an eye on you,” Nito said. “That sound like ole Bud.”

“Man, what are you talking about?”

“I know’d Bud since I was eight years old,” Nito said. “He knew my momma. Found out she had some kids and he started trying to preach to us, teach us football and shit. One Christmas, he bought me a whole damn Ole Miss uniform. I’m talking shoulder pads, helmets, and cleats. Wasn’t no Walmart special. I’m talking just like the team play in.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“Coach running me down to you,” Nito said. “And running you down to me. He thinks we both mixed up in this Milly Jones business.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“You tellin’ me?” Nito said. “He told me that folks are already talking about seeing you and me riding around with Milly Jones. How’s that look, sweet little white girl riding around in my damn pussymobile with two black thugs. They gonna hang our ass high.”

“Coach would never do that,” Ordeen said, feeling his heart race, hands gone cold. “He look out for us. He’s just telling us to watch our backs.”

“Let me ask you something, Ordeen,” Nito said. “Are you sure those charges been dropped?”

“Yeah.”

“How you know?”

“’Cause Coach told me.”

Nito shook his head, took another swallow of that flavored vodka, under that low light. Ole black-ass Shooter playing some Chitlin’ Circuit soul from an old stereo. Music Ordeen’s grandmomma liked but his pastor momma hated. Denise La Salle. “Trapped by a Thing Called Love.”

“Coach told me a lot of things when I was little boy,” Nito said. “He used to make me feel real special riding in his truck, going to the games.
I got to stand on the sidelines, help him pick up the jerseys and shit, do the wash. I wasn’t ten years old and I felt like I was already a Wildcat, on the team.”

“Coach is a good man.”

Nito swallowed, looking like he was in some pain, red-eyed and swaying a bit. He shook his head, crooking his finger at Ordeen.

“What?”

Nito leaned into the table and whispered something up to Ordeen, dead-faced and serious as hell. But when he was done with it all, he doubled over and started laughing so hard, he squirted that vodka from his nose.

“You sick, man.”

“I’m sick?” Nito said. “You got that shit twisted. And a man like that sure as hell want to be a hero to everybody else. You know, he might sell us out, talk about what we done. What he knows. Lead them bloodhounds right to our ass.”

“I didn’t do nothin’ to Milly Jones.”

“Since when does the truth matter?”

“You drunk,” Ordeen said.

“Well, you high,” Nito said.

“What?”

Nito lifted up his sagging T-shirt and showed a bright silver automatic stuck down between his drawers and his jeans. “About time we take Coach Bud outta the game.”

“Now I know you crazy.”

“I need some help,” Nito said. “Can’t do what needs doing without someone on my team.”

“Ain’t gonna be me.”

Nito shrugged, leaning down to take another shot, this one sending
the cue ball banking hard off the wall and landing in the pocket. “Figured you might say that.”

“So we straight?”

Nito shook his head. The front door to Shooter’s opened and an ugly white boy walked into the pool hall wearing a gray hoodie. He waved to them both, pulling the hoodie from his bald head, a bunch of scratches and bruises showing on his face, and smiled with rotted teeth. Ordeen knew the white boy but never liked him.

“D. J. Norwood?” Ordeen said. “You lost it. You gone.”

“I do what I got to do to get by,” Nito said. “It’s either me or Coach. If you don’t believe it, get the fuck out of here.”

Ordeen raised his hands high in surrender, turned his back, and walked from Shooter’s, brushing past Norwood on the way out. Norwood muttering to himself. “Pussy,” he said.

•   •   •

W
hy’s it wrong to teach a boy to shoot?” Jason asked.

“Wasn’t that it’s wrong, it’s that you didn’t ask permission from his momma,” Quinn said.

“Why do I have to ask permission about my own grandson?”

They were speeding north, headed back from Jericho, where they’d dropped off Little Jason with Jean after supper. Quinn behind the wheel of the Big Green Machine, Jason in the passenger seat. He and Jean had it out in the driveway when she found out Little Jason had been shooting guns with his grandfather again. Jason had pointed to Quinn, wanting to place him in the middle of their problems, and said, “Well, he did. Worked out all right for him. They gave him some damn medals.”

“We all want Jason to stay a boy,” Quinn said. “He’ll be a man soon enough. Don’t need to rush it.”

“A boy isn’t a boy unless he can fish, hunt, and kick some ass,” Jason said, laughing. “Right? You would have never made it out in those woods if your Uncle Hamp hadn’t taught you. Well, Hamp is dead. You’re busy as hell. It falls on me.”

“Do you want to know what happened in the woods?” Quinn said, reaching for his cigar. “It wasn’t some kind of coming-of-age ceremony when Daddy wipes deer blood across your face. It was damn instant manhood for me. We lost our childhoods. I don’t wish that shit on anybody.”

“I am sorry for being gone,” Jason said. “I left for a good reason, but I didn’t come home out of selfishness. I was living from movie set to movie set. It’s a damn nomad life I’d been leading since Mr. Needham hired me. I thought it was normal. I guess I turned gypsy.”

“Caddy was raped in those woods, Jason. She was eight years old.”

Jason didn’t say anything, the hot wind racing through the cracked windows, dashboard lit up in a soft blue light. Quinn sped up along Highway 9, passing a few cars, clicking on the brights during the long black stretch. Good, he’d finally said it. It was out of him.

“Who did it?” Jason said, all the laughter and easygoing bullshit gone.

“I poached some deer in a state park,” Quinn said. “The warden got some kind of crazy hard-on for me, wanted me to go to a reform school or something, wouldn’t leave me or Momma alone, so I left.”

“What’s that got to do with Caddy?”

“I ran for the woods,” Quinn said. “That being the only place where I felt safe, in control, and Caddy followed. She wouldn’t leave me. She was scared I’d get shot. I was only ten.”

“And this man, the game warden, he touched Caddy.”

Quinn ashed his cigar. “Did more than touch.”

“Good Lord Almighty,” Jason said. “Glad I wasn’t there. I would’ve killed him.”

“You didn’t need to,” Quinn said. “I did.”

Quinn turned off on his country road, slowing the car, the big moon high above the wide-open pasture and the acres of land Johnny Stagg had clear-cut. The radio played a classic country station out of Tupelo, the volume so low that Quinn could barely make out one of his favorites. Waylon. “I’ve Always Been Crazy.”

“What they do to you?”

“Nothing,” Quinn said. “Uncle Hamp took care of everything. Got rid of the body, wrote a missing person report on the bastard, and that was about all of it.”

“And you came out of the woods a local hero,” Jason said. “‘Country Boy Can Survive.’”

“I never wanted to go in that place,” Quinn said. “And I didn’t want to come out so damn different.”

“Holy Christ.”

“How about we just give Little Jason a break,” Quinn said. “Boy likes wrestling. Just keep on telling him that it’s real.”

Jason was quiet until they hit the circular drive in front of the old farmhouse, lit up like a gold candle inside, shining down in a bright slant along the green hill.

“Can I tell Caddy I’m sorry?” Jason said.

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “That’s not your place to
say.”

Y
ou got some real trouble,” Boom said.

“Don’t I know it,” Lillie said. “But can you be a little more specific? If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got a leading role in this American Shit Show.”

“Coach Mills,” Boom said. “He’s scared as hell. Says Nito Reece wants to kill him.”

Lillie dropped the sack of biscuits on the table inside the County Barn. She sat down on the backseat sofa and grabbed one for herself. The sun wasn’t up yet and she’d already given a press conference, gone back to the crime scene, met with Milly’s mom, who was convinced Milly was an undercover informant, and gone into Jericho to Varner’s for the biscuits.

“But he won’t have him arrested.”

“Nope,” Boom said. “He told me all of this confidential.”

“Of course he did,” Lillie said. “So why are you telling me, Boom?”

“I love that man,” Boom said. “But me and you don’t ever keep secrets. You know, I played all four years for him. Coached linebackers for five. I’d do anything he asked.”

“Lots of folks feel that way,” Lillie said. “You want sausage or ham?”

“Whichever you don’t want.”

“What’s Nito’s problem with Mills?”

“Coach says Nito been borrowing money from him for a long time,” Boom said. “Not much. But it’s added up. This time, he said no and Nito showed him a gun. But here’s the thing. Coach believes Nito might have something to do with Milly Jones getting killed.”

Lillie added some sugar and cream to her coffee. She looked up at Boom, leaning against her Jeep Cherokee, Boom wanting her to turn it in and get something more modern. “That does interest me.”

“He a suspect.”

“You bet,” she said. “Even if he’s pointing the finger at someone else.”

“What you got on him?”

“Quinn heard he was rolling with the Jones girl right before she died,” she said. “Problem is, our witness is scared to death. When you light someone up like a candle, not a whole lot of folks raising their hands to help out. And, besides, Nito commands some respect in Blackjack. You think Mills can help?”

“I want to keep Coach’s name out of this thing,” Boom said. “He’s got a lot on his mind. He wants to do the right thing. But, you’re right, this thing has become a real shit show. Coach’s name means too much in this town to be drug through it.”

“No offense, Boom, but someone lit a little girl on fire,” Lillie said.
“I don’t really give two shits who’s inconvenienced by me asking some questions. Here. Get your biscuit.”

Boom walked over, reached for it with his metal-clamped hand, and unwrapped it with his real fingers. He ate for a bit, leaning against Lillie’s truck, dressed in camo pants and a short-sleeved Carhartt shirt. Boom always looked like he was ready to go hunting, even if it was off-season.

“Coach Mills doesn’t mind working with you,” he said. “He wants to help. But you tie his name to Nito Reece, start saying the man was giving money to a convicted drug dealer, and he’d lose a lot more than his job.”

“What’s bigger than his job?” Lillie said, leaning back, propping her boots on a coffee table made with plywood and concrete blocks.

“His reputation,” Boom said. “Bud Mills been here more than twenty years. If he didn’t give so damn much for this county, he might be the head coach in the SEC somewhere. He believes in the high school system, mentoring kids. I’ll tell you, he did it for me. If it hadn’t been for him, I might be in jail right now.”

“You and Quinn both,” Lillie said. “Not many kids get a second chance after stealing a fire truck.”

Boom smiled. “I got no idea what you’re talking about, Sheriff.”

“Talk to Mills,” Lillie said. “Tell him I can meet with him confidentially. He has anything on Nito Reece and I need to know it.”

•   •   •

I
kind of liked the beard,” Ophelia Bundren said. “And the longer hair. Didn’t figure it would last.”

“It felt sloppy.”

“How’d you begin your day?” she asked.

“Five-mile run.”

“Of course you did,” Ophelia said. “Always got something chasing you, Quinn Colson.”

They’d met right off the Square at the Fillin’ Station diner, Quinn taking the back booth, the spot where he’d often done business as sheriff. He’d been there for three cups of coffee before Ophelia showed, carrying in a file of the final autopsy report of Milly Jones. Ophelia was dressed down that morning—light blue V-neck tee, slim-fitting khaki pants, and a thick brown belt with a heavy clasp. She carried a navy blazer over her arm, but it was too hot outside and too hot in the Fillin’ Station with the grill heated up. She’d wear it back at Bundren’s Funeral Home, where it was always a cool sixty degrees, colder in the refrigerator.

Quinn looked through the file, lifting his eyes every few minutes to make sure no reporters were coming through the door. Most of them were still camped out at the sheriff’s office or down at the Rebel Truck Stop. National news really loved the Rebel, with its big neon Confederate flag sign just made for TV.

“What am I looking for?”

Mary brought a cup of coffee for Ophelia. Ophelia thanked her and said she’d already had breakfast. She lifted the cup to her red lips and took a long sip, dark eyes still filled with apprehension about getting too friendly with Quinn again.

“Someone bashed her head in,” Ophelia said. “We didn’t know that.”

“With what?”

“I’m a coroner, not a psychic, Quinn,” she said. “Blunt force trauma, as we like to say. But given the size of the indention in the skull, I’d say something like the back end of a pistol or a pipe.”

“It caved in her skull.”

“You bet.”

“How the hell could she even move after that?” Quinn said. “Damn, that’s rough.”

“OK,” she said. “That’s why I wanted to meet with you and Lillie and share a few ideas of my own.”

“Lillie will be along,” Quinn said. “Her Jeep broke down.”

“Why won’t she just get a new vehicle?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Lillie is a little stubborn,” Quinn said. “She won’t go to the supervisors with hat in hand.”

“I’d call that just thickheaded,” Ophelia said. “She’s the sheriff.”

“For now.”

“OK,” Ophelia said, reaching for the photos and reports in front of Quinn. “Did you get the idea?”

“Those pictures were pretty exact.”

“You bet,” Ophelia said. “But you’re on the right track. How could the girl be conscious after a blow like that?”

Quinn nodded and drank some coffee. A couple walked into the front door, bell jingling overhead, but it was just Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins who ran the drugstore. He waved to them and they waved back, taking the first booth near the door, as was customary. Mary arrived with a pot of coffee and cups, talking about another hot one outside.

“I believe the killer thought she was dead,” Ophelia said. “She’d have been out cold, maybe even with a slowed heartbeat. The fire may not have been torture but a way to dispose of the body, and any evidence.”

“Changes things from a revenge killing.”

“I wouldn’t say it was accidental,” Ophelia said. “With that kind of blow. That kind of cracked skull. It’s damn murder. But the method and motive changes a bit.”

Quinn raised his cup to her.

“Wasn’t all me,” Ophelia said. “Hard to tell, at first. But the state people confirmed my thinking.”

“Now we just need to find a lead pipe with her DNA on it,” Quinn said.

“And a suspect.”

“We have a few of those,” Quinn said. “Ruled a few out.”

“Wash Jones?”

“Wash Jones can barely change his underwear, let alone set his daughter on fire,” Quinn said. “He’s a mean drunk. But he’s not evil.”

“Miss Hathcock?”

“Among others,” Quinn said.

“You know much about that woman?”

“I don’t know much about women at all.”

“Ancient history.”

“Y’all doing OK?” Quinn said. “Your momma handling all this? I know it all seems pretty familiar to you.”

“I don’t know,” Ophelia said. “At least Milly Jones had a body we could examine. My sister had been run over so many times, you could barely tell she’d been human.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ophelia nodded, looking fresh-scrubbed and pretty that morning. High cheekbones and dark eyes, tight red mouth that held back most of what she might want to say. Ophelia had always kept things close, tight, to herself. He’d only ever seen her explode twice. Once, when Jamey Dixon came home from prison, saying he didn’t have anything to do with her sister’s death. Next, when Quinn told her he didn’t really see a future between them. She’d wanted to kill Dixon, and she’d thrown a steak knife right at Quinn, finding a solid place in a nearby wooden wall.

“I haven’t ever said it,” Ophelia said. “But I do hope you find happiness with Anna Lee. Y’all have always loved each other.”

“Yeah?” Quinn said. “That would be nice.”

Ophelia tilted her head and studied Quinn’s face. The front door opened again, bell jingling. Lillie Virgil walked in, looking to each of them, smirking. She slid into the booth beside Ophelia. “What the hell did I miss?”

•   •   •

W
hat’s in it for me?” D. J. Norwood asked Nito.

It was a solid question, as Nito wanted him to join in on a felony against a man he didn’t have no trouble with. Nito didn’t speak, just passed the blunt they’d been smoking, roaming those back highways of Tibbehah on a hot Friday. Hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.

“You know what I’m saying?” Norwood asked.

“He’s got money and shit,” Nito said. “We can clean him out before we give him the beatdown. Jack his ass and then take him back to his place. Do it sometime early tomorrow, before the football game.”

“You don’t care about what he’s got,” Norwood said. “’Cause you got some personal thing going on.”

“Yeah,” Nito said, taking back the joint, blowing smoke into the Caprice Classic. “I want to close his fucking mouth before I end up in prison.”

“I played for him in ninth grade,” Norwood said. “The fat man look at me and said, ‘Boy, you even worse than your two brothers.’ Which is bullshit ’cause Larry was a hell of a strong safety, crazy as hell, until he got on the meth. And that shit just cleaned out his brain like Drāno. Motherfucker started talking to a tree like it was our grandmother.”

“You can have his credit cards, ATM, and shit,” Nito said. “I don’t want none of it. We cool on that?”

“Yeah?” Norwood said, slunk down low in the seat, wearing gas station shades and a sleeveless black CAT T-shirt. “I am flat-ass broke.”

“He’s got a big-ass TV for watching SEC games and shit,” Nito said. “All yours, man.”

“Maybe I could sell it,” he said. “I don’t know. What else?”

“Man has guns,” Nito said. “A shit ton of guns. Has a whole fucking room filled with them.”

“I do love guns.”

“Yeah?” Nito said. “Well, OK then.”

“But if we do it, we got to do it smart. How you plan on getting to him without anyone seeing us?”

“I got some things to say to the man that he don’t want no one hearing,” Nito said. “Figure I might get him to meet us out on the Trace, him thinking we’s alone, and then you pop out of the car and stick a gun up his ass.”

He passed back the joint to Norwood. “‘Up his ass’?” Norwood said. “Just what’d that bastard do to you?”

“He’s running his mouth how I kilt Milly Jones.”

Norwood started to gag on the weed smoke, coughing a bunch, leaning forward into the floorboard so he could get a breath in. “You didn’t, right? ’Cause I ain’t getting into that shit. Sure, I’ll do this with you—jack him and scare that old man. But if you killed Milly, I don’t want no part of that. I’m still looking at time for stealing that old woman’s Kawasaki. That was just a misunderstanding. She’s got the damn Alzheimer’s, can’t remember letting me borrow it. And then that stupid-ass woman sheriff knocked me in the head. You believe that? I been talking to a lawyer up in Memphis who said I might have a case to
sue. I got to see a doctor in Tupelo for a CAT scan ’cause my lawyer wants to know if it done something to my cognitive ability.”

“Coach killed Milly,” Nito said. He blurted it out just like that, like he was talking a fact about Ole Miss football or deer hunting. Coach Bud Mills killed the cheerleader.

“Bullshit,” Norwood said.

Nito shook his head, reached down in the floorboard for that flavored vodka they both liked, and took a long pull. His black face slick and dark as night. “Wants to pin it on my ass.”

“How’s he gonna do that?” Norwood said.

“Man’s gonna tell the law about what happened to my Nova,” Nito said, handing over the vodka. “They run a black light over my backseat and it’ll light up like a fucking Christmas tree.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said.

“You gonna help?” Nito said. “Or what?”

Norwood thought about it, scratching the scuff on his chin. “I better wear some kind of mask. He knows me. Like a ski mask. Or something I got for Halloween.”

“Whatever you want,” Nito said.

“You should, too.”

“Nope,” Nito said. “I want him to see me plain as day.”

“You ain’t gonna kill him or something crazy?” Norwood said, laughing. “Come on. You ain’t the law around here.”

“Oh, no?” Nito didn’t laugh.

“Well, hell,” D. J. Norwood said. “He got a TV, guns, and shit?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I guess it does seem like the right thing to
do.”