South of Shiloh (38 page)

Brushing elbows in a gesture of gallows humor, they continued across the damp open field. Then they crossed a road and threaded through tree lines and monuments and thickets until they passed a small Methodist church with a smaller, restored log cabin located to the left. They stopped on a thickly wooded slope overlooking a brush-choked gully.

“You know what happened here, the first day?” Beeman asked.

“Some,” Rane said. “This is where Sherman had his camp on the Union right. The Rebels marched out of the woods across the valley…”

“Yep. Right down there,” Beeman said, pointing to the tangle below. “When the Rebs attacked, most of Cleburne’s Brigade got mired up in the marsh farther down the ravine. Two regiments, the Sixth Mississippi and the Twenty-third Tennessee, skirted the swamp, crossed the creek and come up through here. Sherman’s troops rallied after the first shock, hunkered down on this ridge and put up a fight. The Tennessee boys broke and ran. The Sixth Mississippi reformed and hit them again.”

Hearing the husky undertone come into Beeman’s voice, Rane might be tempted, in different circumstances, to reach for his camera. “Well,” Beeman said, “the Sixth Mississippi got wiped out on this slope, three hundred out of four hundred twenty-five men killed and wounded. My great-great-granddad, Matthew Beeman, was one of the lucky ones who walked away…”

Rane was thinking of the fixed stare on the face of the young man in the picture on Beeman’s fireplace, when his cell phone jingled in his trouser pocket. The electronic chimes struck a jarring counterpoint to the vision of Beeman against the black trees, paying homage to his ancestor.

Rane took out the phone and felt a twinge when he saw the number of the incoming call pop on the display. Uncle Mike? He let it ring, twice, three times, four, and go to voice mail. When he looked up, Beeman was watching him delete the call.

“What is it, John? You okay?” Beeman asked.

“Sure,” Rane waved vaguely and said, “So, the Sixth Mississippi got stuck in that briar patch?”

“Yeah, and other brigades got mixed in and it turned into this real clusterfuck.”

They walked along the ridge and Beeman pointed back toward the church. Tongue-in-cheek, he said, “We almost lost Sherman over there. Now that woulda been a shame…especially for the folks in Georgia.”

Then Beeman’s cell phone rang. Rane concentrated on the raindrops that trickled down the pumpkin-colored steel barrel of the Sharps rifle as Beeman hunched to the phone, face intent. Rane thinking…maybe it’s Marcy Leets…

Then no. Because he saw Beeman’s expression soften.

The undercover cops were fifty yards away on either side. The van was barely in sight, screened by trees. Rane stared down at the gully full of brambles, where the Sixth Mississippi perished.

“Yes, ma’am,” he heard Beeman say. Then Beeman’s eyes narrowed with that slow, “no shit” amusement. He advanced, holding the phone to his ear, and his polite, controlled voice sounded like reverberating thunder: “Just a moment, Mrs. Edin.”

Beeman lowered the phone, stepped up to Rane, and said in a firm voice, “Okay, John; you just relax. You get any ideas I’ll have them in on you real quick.” He nodded toward the nearby undercover cops. Then he lifted the Sharps from Rane’s hands and slung it on his shoulder.

John Rane expelled a lungful of air and fingered the fate card in his pocket. The long-range gamble was coming apart. Iraq. Jenny. Now this. Shit comes in threes.

Turning back to the phone, Beeman said, “Mrs. Edin, I got to move around a little, see if I can get better reception. Just bear with me…”

54

AS SHE WAITED FOR DEPUTY BEEMAN TO RELOCATE,
Jenny stared across the lake. There was a small bay to the right, and at the end of it she saw a mound of debris she thought might be a beaver dam. For one moment, the wind held its breath and the surface of the lake popped tight as a silver platter filled with pumice-colored clouds.

Beeman said, “Can you hear me better now?”

“I can hear you fine,” Jenny said.

“Okay, you can relax, I got the rifle. I’ll get the ammunition next.”

“His uncle stressed the fact that what he did in the war was a long time ago. He doesn’t even know the whole story…” She turned and looked up the yard at Mike and Karen standing on the deck. Mike had one hand over his wife’s shoulder. She turned back toward the lake and said, “His uncle feels kind of bad, like a squealer.”

“You did the right thing, Mrs. Edin. Tell his uncle not to worry. I’ll take it from here.”

“Where will you take it from here, Deputy Beeman?”

“Well,” Beeman said slowly. “He came down here to take a picture. I’m going to hold him to that.”

Jenny blinked at his answer. Wincing slightly, she asked, “But about the gun and bullets?”

“Mrs. Edin, Jenny, there’s hundreds of men walking around with rifles and black powder. Bound to be a few live rounds here and there.”

Jenny frowned. “But…is he…in trouble?”

“I don’t have a lot of law to work with in a case like this and I’m currently out of my jurisdiction, in Tennessee. I could try and read him the riot act. But John, well, my impression is he don’t scare easy.”

“This is serious, Beeman. God knows what he’s trying to prove but, goddamn it, it sounds like he went down there to
shoot
somebody,
and he knows how to do it
,” Jenny said, her voice rising.

“Yes ma’am, and I’ll talk to him real hard about that,” Beeman said in a reasonable voice.

Jenny’s voice trembled. “I don’t know what’s going on. And I have other things to attend to. But one thing I know is that I certainly don’t approve, and my husband would not have approved, of some…crazy,
macho, vigilante bullshit
…”

“Yes ma’am. And I respect that. Don’t you worry, you got enough to deal with,” Beeman assured her. “We’ll get this straightened out and send John home directly.”

After thanking Jenny for the heads-up and tendering a polite expression of sympathy, Beeman ended the call. Jenny turned and raised her hands in a befuddled gesture.

Mike called out, “What’d he say?”

“He said he’d send Rane home. He sounded…relieved.”

55

MITCH WAS HAVING A BAD MOMENT. HE’D BOLTED
awake, the lamp was off, and it was pitch-black. Panting, he realized he’d been trying to hold his breath in his sleep to avoid the smell from the chamber pot. Huddled against the damp stone wall, hugging the blanket around him, he shivered and pawed to fend off the buzz and tickle of the flies.

Could live with it in the light. Not in the dark.

Like this since he fell down and cut his face. Demerol vibrations. The pills eased the pain of his aching cheek but brought bad dreams. Flashes of his earliest memory in that country shack; clinging to his decomposing mother out of fear of the dark.

Gonna stop taking the damn pills.

Then the overhead light switched on.

“Sorry Mitch, came unplugged.” Blinking, Mitch saw LaSalle come down the passage and step through the choke point. “Assume the position. We’re going up front. Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Finally. Darkest before the dawn. Ellie was facing up to the mess she’d made.

Mitch sat straight-legged and put out his hands. LaSalle put on the cuffs. Then he removed the lock from the shackle.

“Outside,” LaSalle said.

Ellender Kirby wore running shoes and a damp gray sweat suit with a small Ole Miss logo on the left breast and dark sweat stains on the chest and under the arms. Strain raccooned her eyes and drew her freckled cheeks tight. Her shoes were scummy with mud and bits of leaves, like she’d been running the trails in the woods. Mitch recognized the expression on her face. Something was bugging her and she had to go run it off.

Well I guess. Standing in the doorway of the shack, he watched rain billow across the lake. Gray fuckin’ day.

She took a deep, preparatory breath, then pulled a cell phone—his cell phone, looked like—from her sweatshirt kangaroo pouch, turned it on, and stabbed the buttons.

“Here,” she said with a mortified look on her face. She leaned over and placed the phone on the shed steps and backed away. He bent forward, picked it up, and put it to his ear just as…

Marcy!

“That you, Sport?” Marcy said in that low, screw-your-brains-out, bored voice.

“Marcy?” Mitch grinned. Relief like anointing oil, like his brain dumped about a quart of serotonin.

“Look. I only got a minute. Hang tight. We’re gonna get you out. Your weird wife approached me and I talked to Dwayne. We’re working on it. She’s following our instructions so listen to what she has to say.”

“What’s going on?” Mitch bounced on his feet.

“One for the books.
She’s
paying
us
to let you go.”

“That’s all,” Ellie hissed. LaSalle grabbed the phone from Mitch’s hand, ended the call, and turned it off. “Back inside,” he said.

Mitch kept grinning as he noticed that ole LaSalle was working manfully to keep his face straight. Ellie was walking back and forth in the rain, down by the lake, with her arms clamped across her chest. Lips moving.

Damn.

The shackle now a minor bother, Mitch sat erect, cross-legged, shaggy and dirty as a barbarian chieftain holding court in his cave.

He lit a Marlboro, poured a cup of thermos coffee, and savored the minutes until Ellie dragged her ass in here for an audience.
Always had her daddy, her brother, and me to protect her from her impulsive decisions.

What we got here, Ellender Jane, is a little more serious than blowing your monthly allowance on furniture in Memphis.

He cocked his head. Scuff scuff went her running shoes on the rocks and rubble and dirt. Head lowered, arms stiff at her side, Ellie walked down the passage, stopped, and raised her eyes; the poor little rich girl discovering what her tantrums can cost out in the real world.

Mitch stood up so he could look down on her, smiled, and asked, “You think I could get a razor and some hot water? A mirror?”

“Shut up, goddamn it,” Ellie said, her jaw pulsing red like it was going to sprout gills.

Mitch waited, couldn’t help smiling.

She folded her arms across her chest. “This whole thing has become impossible. I need to get you out of here. But you have to understand, Mitchell Lee. This is the last one of your messes I clean up. Killing that poor boy…?”

“Prove it. You can’t, can you? And you realized that. You and your brain-dead zombie had your fun and now the bill comes due and you’re looking for a way out.”

She drew herself up, indignant. “While my daddy is dying I have spent the week dealing with the scum of the earth.” Her lips curled in disgust. “…setting up this…arrangement.”

“I’m all ears, sweetheart.”

“I had to deal with your slut.” She balled her fists and took a combative step forward; seething now but careful to keep her toes on the safe side of the line. “Now I’m mixed up with your crooked cousin, Dwayne,” she cut him with a sharp look. “That gets out…” She shook her head. “You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

Mitch curved his lips in feigned sympathy—
right, bitch, and I been sunning myself here by the pool—
but, you know, just maybe Marcy and Dwayne could untangle it. Sonofabitch.

“What’s the arrangement?” he asked.

“Tomorrow morning LaSalle will turn you over to Dwayne. And we’ll…just make all this go away.”

“Uh-huh.”

She glowered and cut him off, “Don’t say
anything
. Just listen. We clear so far?”

Mitch bit his lip and nodded.

“Then Dwayne will take you back to Memphis where they’ll concoct an alibi. Something. I suspect Billie Watts will be involved. That’s not my concern.”

Mitch accepted her dirty look. This was starting to sound like it could work. “You think this up?” he asked.

“I’m paying for it, is what I’m doing,” she said in a frazzled voice.

Mitch nodded again. “And the rifle?”

Ellie raised her chin and sniffed. “Kenny Beeman’s already been by and I told him the rifle disappeared from the gun rack. LaSalle passed it off to Dwayne. I suspect it will turn up in the trunk of an abandoned car, along with other stolen items. The Minnesota guy’s death will stay as is, an accident.”

“What about Beeman?” Mitch asked, tapping his teeth together.

“What about him? Marcy says you’ll work something out with Memphis PD. Turn yourself in, like all the gossip had you spooked. I don’t know.”

Mitch mulled it. The plan, the dream, the land. Shit, if Dwayne had his hooks in her, it could still work. Even better with her on board. She’d have to go along and maybe get to keep her funny little life. He shrugged, “It could work.”

“I never want to see you again,” she blurted.

“Oh, I don’t know. Now that you’re getting to know my family?”

“Don’t even!” Her eyes flashed.

Mitch exhaled and nodded. “Okay. So where do I meet them in the morning?”

“Not around here, that’s for sure. Someplace over the line in Tennessee. We’re working that out,” Ellie said.

As she turned to leave, Mitch couldn’t resist calling out. “Ellie? Why’d you do this in the first place?”

She just kept walking, shouting, furious, over her shoulder. “You were in trouble. I was trying to help you, you dumb shit.”

After she disappeared down the corridor, LaSalle returned with the rinsed chamber pot. As he placed it on the floor, he gave Mitch one of his cold smoke looks. “You get all the twisted white-folks shit straightened out?” he asked. Then he placed a fifth of Jack Daniels next to the chamber pot. “Little going-away party for you tonight. And here’s two more Demerol.” He set a folded napkin next to the bottle. “You go with the Jack, lay off the pills. They don’t mix.” Then he withdrew down the passage.

Mitch studied the bottle of bourbon as he plucked up the napkin, dumped the pills into his palm, weighed them, and glanced back at the bottle.

Then he folded the pills back in the napkin, stuffed it in his pocket, dragged his chain to the empty pot, undid his filthy wool trousers, and splashed urine on General Grant’s scruffy face. As he buttoned up his pants, he caught his reflection flicker in the bottom of the pot. First look he’d had of himself in a week. Wincing, he jockeyed around to get a better view and fingered his week-old growth of beard, his unkempt hair. The idea of a hot shower…

Then, slowly, he ran his fingers over the square of gauze taped to his cheek. Looking at it got him thinking how his cheek hurt a hell of a lot more than falling on a flowerpot. So he dragged the pot closer to the overhead bulb and gingerly loosened the dressing and let it hang. Shifting around to get the best angle on the light, he knelt, waiting for his image to settle down in the lapping circle of piss. Slowly, his face came into focus and the four deep slashes on his cheek didn’t look anything like a laceration caused by falling down.

What the hell? Did the crazy bitch claw on him when he was out? What was in the tetanus shot anyway?

Mitch replaced the bandage and methodically peeled the cap off the bourbon. He took one drink, relishing the hot trickle down his throat and warming through his chest. Then he poured most of the bottle into the chamber pot, recorked it, and placed it aside. If he drank too much Jack on top of the drugs he’d been taking, he’d be easy as a baby to handle in the morning. Best wait on the party, think this through. He lit a cigarette, poured another cup of coffee from the thermos, and sat back against the wall.

Marcy’s voice on the phone was real.

But.

Were they getting tricky on him?