The Redeemers (24 page)

“Why?”

“You recall shooting a lawman?”

Chase dropped his head, nodded. Peewee handed him back the book but kept the watch. Chase noting Peewee slipping the gold and diamonds on his own fat wrist.

“Burn those books,” he said. “Bring me back everything else.”

•   •   •

A
t the Carthage Volunteer Fire Department, Lillie Virgil found Eddie Fudge making chili.

“I’m calling it five-alarm chili,” Eddie said, opening the top of the Crock-Pot in the back kitchen. The department was nothing more than a metal shed, situated right next to an Assembly of God church.

“I figured you would,” Lillie said.

“It’s some bold stuff,” Eddie said. “Some folks can’t handle it. Especially women.”

“You know women, Eddie,” Lillie said. “We faint when there’s heat.”

Eddie was tall and thick, bald and bearded, and had taken to wearing ball caps too small for his head. He had on a white one today that told folks
With a Body Like Mine, Who Needs Hair?
He and Lillie had been in the same class at Tibbehah High. And when he wasn’t out playing assistant fire chief, he fixed heating-and-cooling units. Sometimes he drove a school bus. “I used my own habaneros, a whole bottle of Louisiana hot sauce, and an entire cup of chili powder.”

“And that’s how you came by the name,” Lillie said. “Clever.”

“Want a taste?” he said, slipping the wooden spoon out of the pot and offering her some.

“Actually, I’m looking for Kyle Hazlewood,” she said. “He wasn’t at his house. Figured he might have stopped by here to play cards or wax the fire engine. Or whatever you boys do on your off days.”

“Had a brush fire last week,” Eddie said. “I know y’all think we just sit around and play with our hoses. But we got to be on call. You know how much I’d like a cold beer right now with this chili? But you never know when that cell phone’s gonna ring.”

“Don’t I know it,” Lillie said. “But Kyle. Have you seen him?”

“I haven’t seen Kyle since that brush fire,” he said. “Why? Something a-matter?”

“No,” Lillie said. “Just had a quick question for him.”

Eddie sipped from the spoon. “Wow. Ho-ly shit.”

“Hot?”

“As two nekkid women in a pepper patch.”

Lillie grinned. “That your own?”

“Nah,” he said. “Fella over in Eupora told me that one. You can use it, if you like.”

“Appreciate it,” she said, turning back to the door. “Stay out of trouble, Eddie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lillie shook her head and headed out of the kitchen and into the main shed, where they kept their four-wheel-drive fire engine, the red paint and chrome gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Lillie’s boots thumped on concrete as she headed to the door. As she walked, a big tangled contraption set in the corner caught her eye. She’d been at accident scenes enough times to recognize the Jaws of Life and the compressor that worked it.

She got down to one knee and saw it was splattered in fresh mud and had several deep scratches in the paint. She called back to Eddie. “When did y’all get these?” she said.

Eddie came out, small bowl in hand, and walked over to see what Lillie was talking about. “Summer,” he said.

“Y’all been training?”

“Not yet,” he said. “I don’t know what they’re doing out. Someone’s been fucking around with them.”

“Why would anyone fuck around with the Jaws of Life?”

“Shit, someone probably used them as a bottle opener,” he said. “They should have put it back where they found it. What if we had an emergency situation?”

Lillie nodded. “You ever had to use them?”

“Did some training couple years ago in Hernando,” he said. “Hadn’t used these. But they’re pretty much the same thing.”

“And they’ll open anything?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eddie said. “Those pinchers can tear apart anything metal. Why?”

“I’m going out to my vehicle to get a camera to take some photos. OK? I’ll be right back.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just thinking, is all.”

“Do what you like,” he said. “You sure you don’t want some chili to go?”

“Only if you tell me how hot it really is,” Lillie said.

“Two rats fucking in a wool sock can’t generate this much heat.”

“Wow,” she said. “Make it to go. Some things are starting to come together for me.”

21.

J
ason Colson brought Quinn a cheeseburger and fries, chocolate shake on the side, from Sonic.

Quinn was sitting in a hard chair next to Kenny’s bed at the hospital. He’d been out of surgery for an hour but was still asleep. Both Kenny’s folks had been killed in the tornado. He had a sister in Columbus, but she hadn’t made it to town yet.

“Thanks,” Quinn said, his legs stretched straight out before him, boots crossed at the ankle.

“What’s the word?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Quinn said. “But if Lillie hadn’t found him, he would have died in that ditch.”

“Jesus,” Jason said, standing by Kenny’s bed, Kenny off in dreamland. “Any idea who shot him?”

“He hasn’t been conscious,” Quinn said. “But Lillie’s working on something. She’ll find who did this.”

“Is it true these bastards ran a fucking bulldozer through Larry Cobb’s house?”

“It was a backhoe,” Quinn said. “But, yes, sir.”

“Hate to say it,” Jason said. “I knew Larry back in high school and he wasn’t worth a shit back then. You know that mill was his daddy’s, and his daddy’s before him.”

Quinn reached into the sack and grabbed the cheeseburger and started to eat. Old habits of sleeping and eating when you can. Jason took a seat in the other free chair. Behind him was a framed Bible verse and a chart on how to measure your pain, 1 through 10. Blue was no pain. Bright red meant you hurt like a bitch.

“First, Caddy,” Jason said. “Now Kenny. How you holding up?”

“Fine,” Quinn said. “Nothing’s wrong with me. Appreciate the lunch.”

“Your momma called me,” Jason said. “First reaction was that something had happened to you. I don’t like getting calls like that from your momma. We haven’t exactly been on good terms since I came back. I don’t think she really wanted me back in Jericho.”

“You don’t say.”

“I know, I know,” Jason said. He was wearing his
STUNTMAN UNLIMITED
jacket, red satin, along with a belt buckle the size of a dinner plate. It read
Skoal Bandit Racing
. “Hard to imagine. But I do think that woman will come around.”

The last part surprised Quinn and he glanced up at his father. Jason shrugged. “Thought about riding over to Tupelo tomorrow. Check on Caddy.”

“You can’t,” Quinn said. “Not until she’s got that shit out of her system in detox. They also like to separate her from the family so she can focus and get with the program.”

Jason nodded, sitting wide-legged on the chair, both father and son staring at Kenny, all shot-up and in la-la land. He had a lot of scrapes on his forehead and a busted lip from being in that ravine. A nurse came in and checked his vitals, saying hello and then turning to leave. Jason Colson appraised her backside on the way out. He raised his eyebrows.

“I guess you get used to this kind of thing,” Jason said. “Folks getting injured. Shot-up.”

“Some,” Quinn said. “But usually we just tried to get them to the LZ and the hell out of the shooting.”

“You lost a lot of buddies?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Been over there, what, eight, ten times?”

“Thirteen deployments,” Quinn said. “Ten years.”

“Long time,” Jason said, stroking that goatee, thinking on things. “I’ve lost some buds, too. Mainly drugs. Alcohol. One of my best friends—this was even before you were born—jumped off a nine-story building, doubling for George Kennedy. The sorry thing was, he’d already filmed the gag but went back to reshoot because someone had broken his world record. You know, for height. That’s the ego we had back then. He landed the son of a bitch perfect, but the fucking air bag split and killed him. I can’t even recall the name of the picture. I know Lee Majors was in it. We went on to work together for a long time on
Fall Guy
.”

“Caddy and I met him,” Quinn said, eating some fries. “Out on one of our L.A. trips.”

“He was big shit back then,” Jason said. “Women wouldn’t leave his ass alone. I think they believed he had a bionic pecker.”

“That would do it.”

Jason smiled, nodding over to Kenny. “I’m glad he’s gonna pull through,” Jason said. “Always liked Kenny. I could tell how much respect he had for you. I think he’d walk straight through hell if you told him to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think Jean might let me pick up Jason later today?” Jason said. “I wanted to show him a reel of some of the gags I did in
Gator
and
Cannonball Run
. I think he’d get a kick out of it.”

“Knowing his granddad is crazy?”

“You ever turn down a dare, son?” Jason said.

“No, sir.”

Jason winked at him. “We just don’t have it in us.”

•   •   •

S
orry, buddy,” Mickey Walls said. “We’re closed.”

“That’s OK,” the man said, stepping into the warehouse behind the Walls Flooring showroom. “I don’t need any flooring.”

“Then what can I help you with?” Mickey said. “Like I said, we’re closed.”

“You Mickey Walls?”

The man was medium height and medium size, pretty much an unremarkable human being except for a big sprouting black beard on his otherwise hairless head. He wanted to say maybe he’d seen the fella somewhere, someplace. He looked familiar as hell.

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “If you’re gonna try and serve me with papers, why don’t you take the day off. I’m not in the mood.”

“I’m not the law,” the man said.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Then who are you?”

“I work for Mr. Stagg,” the man said. “How about we take a little ride?”

“I’m good right here,” Mickey said, standing tall in his shop. The ceiling raised up fifty feet in both directions, stacked with finished and unfinished hardwoods, rolls of laminate, and fine, high-traffic carpeting. Mickey didn’t know what else to say, as he looked at the fella, who seemed as serious as could be, and so he lit a cigarette and fanned out the match. He tucked the cigarettes back in his shirt pocket and waited.

“This isn’t a request.”

“I don’t have no truck with Johnny Stagg.”

“Didn’t say you did,” the man said.

“If he wants to talk business, let’s do it another day,” Mickey said, smoke shooting out the side of his mouth. “We’re fucking closed.”

The man smiled like an old friend of the family and opened his coat to show a shiny blued pistol of impressive size. Just as fast, the man closed his coat. Oh, hell. Here we go, Mickey thought.

“What’s your name?” Mickey said. “You never told me.”

“That’s right.”

“But you speak for Stagg?”

“I do.”

“OK,” Mickey said, shaking his head. This day had been so damn fucked-up, what was one more thing. He wondered how he’d gotten on the wrong side or the right side of damn Johnny Stagg. “Why not?”

The man drove a jacked-up blue Ford Raptor, a truck made for off-roading and mud-riding. As they walked out into the cold, the man put on his ball cap and set his sunglasses on top of the brim. The big engine revved with a growl and they were off into the cold and gray. Mickey didn’t have time for this kind of shit, worrying and trying to think just what he had done to piss off Johnny Stagg. He’d done some work for Stagg last year, but he’d done a solid job, as he did on all things. Like his business card told folks,
If You Don’t Like It, We’ll Make It Right
.

Whatever he did, he’d make right and then get on with his day. He had checked email and showered at the warehouse. He had a fresh change of clothes and a razor. He called Tonya eight times and left eight messages. She’d yet to call back.

“You had a busy night,” the man said.

“Just got back from the beach,” Mickey said. “I got a damn hangover that won’t quit.”

“Good for you,” the man said. “But not as bad as your pals.”

“What pals?”

“The ones who drove a backhoe into Larry Cobb’s house and took his safe,” the man said, driving slow and easy around Jericho and turning on toward two signs pointing to Choctaw Lake.

“I heard about it,” Mickey said. “Don’t have nothing to do with me.”

“I’m not the law,” the man said. “And I’m not here for a debate. Some other things were taken besides money.”

“I said, I don’t know nothing about—”

“Shut your mouth and listen,” the man said, taking the Raptor up to fifty, sixty, as the little houses started to spread out. They passed a cemetery and then a few farms and Mr. Randolph’s smithing shop. “There were two books.”

“I said—”

“Shut up,” the man said, just as easy as a man saying a prayer over supper. “We don’t care about the money. We don’t care what you’ve done or your trouble with Cobb. Just get us those books and we’re good.”

“How?”

The man stopped the big old truck on a dime, tires squealing and burning on the road. The big engine idling on the blacktop under the gray skies, bare trees, and endless rolling hills with muddy cows. “Get out.”

“Here?”

“Get out,” the man said. “Before I take offense.”

“Who the hell are you?” Mickey said. “I don’t give a good goddamn.”

But then he caught the man’s eyes and there was such a depth of fucking meanness that about the only thing to compare it with was a cottonmouth rared up. Mickey didn’t like it. But he shut his mouth and grabbed the door handle. He stepped down from the truck.

He waited for some instructions or an idea of what to do next. But the man just reached over and pulled the door closed, U-turned on the big country road, and hit the accelerator back to town. A plume of black smoke left behind like a nasty insult to all Mickey had been through today.
Son of a bitch.

He looked at the sky and shook his head. He started walking back to town, to his business and his cell phone. About a mile down the road it started to rain again. And, man, was it cold.