The Redeemers (35 page)

“Who?”

Quinn wasn’t a bit surprised when he heard their names, asking when the roundup might start. The two men stood together along the Trace but at another marker, another burial mound, about twenty miles north of their regular meet. The sun would be going down soon and the temperature had dropped nearly twenty degrees. Some snow was expected in Little Rock and Memphis, but it didn’t look like Tibbehah County would get more than some cold rain and sleet.

“We’re still pushing some paper around,” Ringold said. “But if all goes as expected, I think Johnny Stagg might have a real shit morning.”

“Y’all need some local help?” Quinn said.

Ringold smiled. “I’d do about anything to see you slap those cuffs on Johnny Stagg,” he said. “You know I would. But we got to do everything right. You can’t give that bastard an inch.”

“Have you talked to Sheriff Wise yet?”

“I planned to make that call on short notice,” Ringold said. “Can I trust him?”

“Lillie thinks so,” Quinn said.

Ringold nodded, stroking his big black beard. Everything was turning to shadow around them, dark creeping up on and over the mound, sunlight shrinking back to the edge of the woods. He had on his green parka with the fur hood dropped over his bald head. When he pulled his sunglasses off, Quinn could see his light, almost spooky-looking eyes. “Maybe you can tip him a raid is going to happen,” he said. “Just don’t tell him who or where. I know Stagg doesn’t trust him, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to curry some favor.”

Quinn nodded. “Just how good is that shit you have in Cobb’s books?”

“Larry Cobb was so damn paranoid about not getting his cut, the bastard wrote down every nickel, every slush fund account. This all is going to embarrass some known people.”

“God bless him.”

“If they hadn’t shot your deputy,” Ringold said, “I’d be inclined to give those safe-busters some kind of citation. Or at least go easy on them.”

“But they did shoot Kenny,” Quinn said. “Almost killed him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And now Lillie thinks the crew is turning on each other,” Quinn said. “Mickey Walls says Kyle was behind everything. But he also believes Kyle might be dead.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I like how it’s turned out,” Quinn said. “But it was born of some rotten, greedy shit.”

“You’ll talk to the sheriff?”

“Roger that,” Quinn said, grinning. “My pleasure.” He reached into his Uncle Hamp’s old coat and pulled out two of his best cigars, still wrapped in cellophane. “I can’t be with you. But smoke this after you bring in Stagg. OK?”

Ringold smiled and stuck out his hand. Quinn met his eye and gave him a firm shake. “Good luck.”

•   •   •

P
eewee drove on through Mississippi and into Louisiana, seeming to forget about the
EMPTY
gas light that had come on back in Slidell. It was dark and they hadn’t stopped since picking up a new car in Mobile, a twenty-year-old Buick Park Avenue. Chase hadn’t been wild about the selection, but Peewee explained he had to get an older model that didn’t use those damn digital keys. They’d screwed up everything for the working man.

“You plan on us running out of fuel on the interstate?” Chase said.

“Just trying to put some distance between us.”

“We got all of Mississippi between us,” Chase said.

“Well, if you see a fucking service station, professor, how about you letting me know?”

“God damn, we just passed two exits full of them.”

“Hell,” Peewee said. “Just pass me one of them Zagnut bars.”

They hadn’t brought a lot with them, just a couple duffel bags full of clothes, a bag full of Peewee’s bustin’ tools, clean drawers, and some fancy-ass clothes for New Orleans. It had been Chase who’d had the forethought to buy the Gatorade and candy bars at the Flying J outside Birmingham. Peewee had already eaten three of them but hadn’t once mentioned Chase’s cut since they’d met up with Mickey Walls and gotten some more money along with that dead son of a bitch wrapped in black plastic bags.

It had been Chase who’d wrapped the man tight with duct tape and fishing line, shoring up the shit work Walls had done, fastening a half-dozen concrete blocks to old Kyle before dumping his body in the Tombigbee.

“That sign right there says Gas,” Chase said.

“I can fucking read.”

Uncle Peewee just didn’t seem himself without the party van. The Alabama van had been a part of his identity, the way a hero of the west was tied to his horse or the way that Bobby Allison was tied to Miller beer and number 12. Chase just couldn’t remember a time when Peewee wasn’t running around Gordo in that vehicle, picking him up from school or when his momma had been tossed out by another uncle, not a real uncle but them fellas she dated. One time for a couple weeks he and his momma had lived in that van.

“You think we’ll ever get her back?” Chase said, knowing what had put Peewee in a shit mood.

“What?”

“The van.”

“It’s not a she, it’s just a goddamn ride.”

“We partied hard in her, lots of miles between Gordo and Tuscaloosa.”

“I had that van since your momma got knocked up with you,” Peewee said. “I drove her to the damn hospital in it ’cause your daddy was too fucked-up.”

“She was the first thing I drove,” Chase said. “You’d let me sit on your lap and take the wheel. You had one hand on a cold can of Bud and the other on a cigarette.”

“You did good,” Peewee said. “Never wrecked us. How old were you?”

“Six,” Chase said. “I was six, first time I got to drive.”

“Well, fuck it,” Peewee said. “She’s gone now. Probably stripped clean by a bunch of blacks. That’s why I put her out where I did. Gangbangers probably cruising in her right now until the law shows up. And, haw, haw. Lord, ain’t they gonna be surprised.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Chase said. “I don’t think we could ever get that smell out.”

“You smell him, too?”

“Some of them trash bags were leaking and the boy’s juices got into the carpet,” Chase said. “I didn’t want to get you all riled-up, so I tried some of that Purple Power and a little bleach.”

“If cops ever pick us up, we can say we was carjacked and them blacks took Kyle with them.”

“How you know it’s gonna be blacks?”

“Son, it’s always blacks,” Peewee said. “White man wouldn’t bust into a fine machine like that unless it was an emergency situation.”

“Is that what we got?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“But we’re just gonna lay low in New Orleans,” Chase said. “Until things sort out.”

“That’s about it.”

“Uncle Peewee?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’d like to get my cut tonight,” he said. “If you don’t mind. Just in case something happens. That way, I’ll have the means to move on.”

“Yeah?”

“I saw how much Walls gave you back in Jericho,” Chase said. “That’s a shit ton of cash.”

“Oh yeah?” Peewee said, taking an exit and rolling on off Interstate 10, stopping at a stoplight and looking both ways to figure out where they’d put the filling station. He leaned forward over the wheel and stared out those smudged glasses of his.

“I want half,” Chase said. “I want half of that.”

•   •   •

R
usty Wise’s land used to belong to a man named Jerry Shaw before Shaw sold out and retired to Florida, leaving Jericho with a big send-off at the VFW a couple years back. Luther Varner had been there. Donnie Varner, too, before he’d been caught running guns and sent off to federal prison. It was a nice piece of land, about twenty-one acres, with a little pond and some old-growth trees. About the best part is that it ran flat against the National Forest that took up all of Tibbehah County’s western border. No matter the logging around him, Rusty could count on that funnel from the forest bringing in some solid wildlife.

Quinn parked a few hundred yards from the gate, down at the bottom of the hill, near the remnants of Shaw’s old trailer, set up on blocks without stairs, no one caring to haul it off or take it apart. The windows had been busted out and weeds had sprouted on the roof. A path had been cut into the mouth of the woods that would connect on into the National Forest and run for miles and miles until it was sliced through by the Natchez Trace. Before sundown, the clouds looked strange, gray and angry, rolling low over the hills.

Quinn followed the wide trail, noticing well-worn ruts from an ATV moving uphill. He didn’t fault Rusty for it, but a lot of what Quinn enjoyed about hunting in the woods was leaving all man-made things behind except your gun. The moldy old oak leaves and wet brown pine needles felt good underfoot. Lillie told him that Wise was using the same deer stand that old Mr. Shaw had built, a ramshackle design of plywood and tin about a half klick from the road that fronted a wide-mouthed clearing. He’d enter from the rear, move around the back end, as not to startle Wise.

He’d tried to call, but there were no cell towers out this way. A GPS would think it was part of the National Forest, only an invisible line separating the two.

As Quinn walked, the shadows flooded the deep woods. A cold rain tapped the tree branches and dead leaves, pinging off the visor of Quinn’s ball cap. He kind of wished he’d brought more than his nine-millimeter with him, maybe a thermos of hot coffee and a good rifle. Even if he didn’t see a single deer, he’d be in the middle of it all as the woods became electric and alive with animals coming out, seeking supper for the bad weather. Quinn never entered these woods, the big forest, without thinking back on his walk with Caddy when he believed he’d either have to run away or get sent to jail at ten years old. Caddy believed it, too, tagging along behind Quinn when he set off with his .22 rifle and fishing pole. She’d packed some food and what little bit of money she had, not knowing where he was going or what was the plan. Quinn had believed he could find his father and a way out to California, leaving Jericho and the mess he’d made far behind. Deer had been killed out of season, he’d broken the law, and it felt like he could never make it right.

As Quinn spotted the rear of Rusty’s stand, a steady rain was pelting the shit out of the woods. Quinn moved through a once-cleared space now growing up with gum trees and little pines not even knee-high and whistled to Rusty. He wanted to make sure he was expected; it was never a good idea to sneak up on a man crouched down with a rifle. A few seconds later, Rusty crawled on down the handmade ladder and stared into the graying day. He had on a camo jacket and pants, a dark brown hat on his head. His face looked chubby and bright red in the middle of the all the dark greens and brown. “Quinn?” he called out.

Quinn waved and pushed through the growth and into the clearing around the stand. He apologized for walking up on him like that.

“I was just about to call it a day,” Rusty said. “Saw a couple little does. Not worth shooting. Young and skinny. Maybe next year. My freezer’s nearly full. I just had to get out of that office.”

“Just wait a few months,” Quinn said. “You’ll want to live out here.”

Rusty smiled and asked if Quinn wanted to come on up to the stand. “I got some hot coffee and biscuits,” he said. “Wouldn’t mind giving it another thirty minutes. Maybe that big ’un will show. What do you say?”

Quinn nodded and followed Rusty up the ladder, hammered together with scrap wood.

Up top, Rusty unscrewed the cup of the thermos and handed Quinn some hot coffee. As Quinn drank, he looked over the expanse of the green field Rusty had planted, complimenting the man on his preparation. “What are those, turnips?”

“And some rapeseed, too,” Rusty said. “Deer just love that stuff. How’s that coffee?”

“It’s good,” Quinn said, lying. “Listen, Rusty. I never would interrupt a man hunting, kind of a sacred time, but you and me need to talk.”

•   •   •

L
ouisiana was some weird country. Didn’t look a bit like Gordo, with that black water everywhere, having to build highways up on stilts to skim over the bayous and all those alligators. Peewee drove over a railroad track and followed the hand-painted signs along a dirt road for
GAS, FOOD & BAIT
, skirting more water and prehistoric trees covered in green moss. It looked like a goddamn episode of
Scooby-Doo
, Chase half expecting some Confederate regiment to raise up out of the swamp, with skeleton bodies, ragged grays, and green glowing eyes, surrounding the Buick.

“You sure this is right?” Chase said.

“What the signs say.”

“You said to never follow no signs.”

“I said don’t follow signs like some revival preacher, thinking the Lord was showing you the way,” Peewee said. “Like when ole George Strait says, ‘I saw God today.’ A flower growing in the sidewalk and all the horseshit. I tried to teach you how to find your own fucking way, cut your own path through the damn jungle.”

They passed a few shacks, all of them up high on stilts with boats underneath instead of cars, and turned a sharp corner on toward the gas station, a blue clapboard building with neon beer signs blazing in the window. He didn’t see any gas pumps, but a sign read
SEE THE ATTENDANT
.

“Down there,” Peewee said. “Down by the boat ramp.”

An old-fashioned pump, the thick metal kind with spinning numbers that didn’t take credit cards, was set up on a dock. Chase got out of the car, stretched and spit and looked up to the station on stilts. “It’s closed.”

“How can you tell?”

“Ain’t no lights on up there,” Chase said. “Shit. We’re gonna run out of gas in the fucking swamp.”

“We can make it.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m gonna bust that fucking padlock off that pump,” Peewee said. “Use your head.”

“We done a bunch of shit,” Chase said. “I guess it don’t matter.”

“I’m sorry about the goddamn van,” Peewee said. “Jesus H. It’s just a van. You can buy another one, paint Nick Saban on the hood and Kenny Stabler on the rear end.”

“OK,” Chase said. “I can see it. Maybe get some airbrushed snake art around Stabler? A damn copperhead wrapped around his neck while he’s throwing the football?”