Dark River Road (71 page)

“What, am I supposed to be a natural born killer or something?” He stared at her, not at all sure he liked the direction this was going.

“Look, will you go with me or not? Sorry if I hurt your feelings or ruffled your feathers, but you gotta know folks around here look at you a little chary.”

“Yeah. I know. Okay. Against my better judgment. Maybe it’s time I found out what I can about this anyway. I’ve been meaning to do something, just hadn’t known what.”

“All I want is Sugarpie. If you go and start something, it may not work.”

“We’ll get Sugarpie. If he’s got her, we’ll get her.”

He wasn’t at all sure he could keep that promise, but it worked at calming Mindy down. She sucked in a deep breath, smiled. “Thanks, Chantry. Mama said I could count on you.”

They took his Rover out to the Stark place, bounced over a rutted driveway that wound back through trees and over a small creek forded by metal I-beams that Billy Mac had probably stolen from one of the construction sites where he infrequently worked. Mindy had her cell phone in one hand, ready to call the police if Billy Mac had her dog and gave them any trouble. It was one of Chantry’s conditions for going with her. He didn’t need any more trouble than he already had, and if the police were called in, he wanted it to be him that called them. Then it’d be on record that Stark was fighting dogs.

Billy Mac was standing in front of his blue and white rusted-out trailer, talking to two men who stood by a new big Dodge Ram truck with lots of chrome and a scoop on the cab roof. It shouldn’t have been too big a surprise, but Chantry was still startled when he recognized them.

Beau and Rafe Lassiter. Why the hell hadn’t he figured they’d come back? They’d grown up here, whether they liked it or not, whether their dad was still alive or not. Their mother had come from here, still had family nearby, a cousin. Oh shit. Sure. He’d just forgotten, never had paid much attention as a kid. Billy Mac was that cousin’s boy, and kin to Beau and Rafe. He was a lot younger so he’d never been around much, and Beau and Rafe hadn’t ever talked about him.

He stopped the Rover at the edge of the cleared lot that served as a yard, looked over at Mindy. “Did you know they’d be here?”

“No. I didn’t even know they ever came back here much, though Mama said she saw them after they got out of prison. I thought
 . . .
God, I’m sorry. Maybe we should just go.”

“No. We’re here. Just keep that cell phone handy.”

It was just like old times. He got out of the truck, saw Beau and Rafe turn to look at him, saw the surprise in their eyes turn to wary satisfaction.

“Well, looka here. If it ain’t our baby brother. Didja come out here to see us, Chantry?” Beau swaggered toward him, still big and broad, but with a beer gut hanging over his belt that reminded him of Rainey.

“No. Came for the dog Billy Mac found. Mrs. Rowan’s dog. Go get her, Mindy. I’ll wait here.”

“Hold on. I didn’t find no dog,” Billy Mac protested.

“Sure you did. I know you’re smarter than to trespass on someone else’s property to open a gate and steal a dog, no matter what all the neighbors said they saw.” It was a shot in the dark. But it worked.

Billy Mac grimaced, glanced at Beau and Rafe, then shrugged. “Maybe I did find a loose dog. Don’t mean I have to give it back.”

Chantry looked at the line of pens out behind the trailer. Some kind of treadmill had been set up. Even from where he stood he could see telltale signs of dog fighting. “Then don’t give her back. We’ll bring the cops out when we come back.”

“You ain’t none too popular with the cops, I hear,” Rafe said, and laughed.

“No, but Mrs. Rowan still serves them free coffee and pie at the diner. Bet she is.”

“Shit,” Billy Mac said after a moment. “Take the gawddamn dog then. I been feedin’ her for two days, so what do I get for my trouble?”

“Ask someone else. Maybe Beau and Rafe have some suggestions. I’m all out.”

He still stood by the open door of his Rover, not trusting any of them enough to get in an open spot. Always have a back-up plan, he’d learned, and so far, that lesson stuck pretty good. So he was ready when Beau shifted and Rafe moved to one side, walked around like he intended to come up behind him. Chantry reached inside the door pocket of the Rover.

When he brought up the thirty-eight, a Smith and Wesson that packed a pretty decent punch for a single-action, all movement ceased. They looked at him, obviously not prepared for a show of arms. Beau went pale, freckles standing out like warning flags.

“What the hell—?”

“Just my version of a peacemaker. I came here for the dog, not a fight.”

“You just don’t want your ass kicked again,” Beau said, not taking his eyes off the pistol.

“That’s right. I don’t.”

“You got a permit to carry concealed?” Rafe spluttered, and Chantry nearly laughed.

“You worried about me breaking the law, Rafe? I’ve got it covered. Maybe you just need to be sure you’ve got your own ass covered. Your parole officer might be interested in hearing you’re hanging around a guy who’s breaking the law. Dog fighting’s illegal.”

“These are pets,” Billy Mac said, and Chantry just looked at him.

When Mindy came up with Sugarpie, who looked a little worse for wear but unharmed, she said in a slightly shaky voice, “I’m ready to go. Okay?”

“Fine by me.”

“Chantry,” she said in a choked voice when they were out on the road again, “it was awful to see all those dogs
 . . .
skinny and scarred. I take back what I said. You know. About not doing anything. We have to do something about it.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Mama told me a long time ago that evil flourishes when good men do nothing. Guess she was right. I’ll talk to Doc. See what we can do.”

If Beau and Rafe were involved, as they obviously were, it might be a lot easier to get the cops to check it out. Since that drug bust by the state police had forced Quinton to let Rainey’s boys flounder on their own, the local cops would probably check with Quinton before they did anything. Quinton would know they were up for any illegal activity; he usually had a hand in it. Men like that didn’t change that much over the years. Not for the better, anyway.

He drove out to Doc’s house, just to keep him aware of what happened.

Doc wasn’t happy to hear they’d gone out to the Stark place, but he wasn’t against doing something about the dog fighting, either. “It’s a bad situation. Haven’t been able to get local law that interested in doing anything about it,” he said, “but maybe since the Lassiters are involved, it might be easier. Cane Creek police would love to get their hands on them again. Looks good on the record books.”

“As long as Quinton’s not involved they would. It’d be best if I stayed out of it as far as the law’s concerned,” Chantry said, and gave a shrug when Doc looked at him. “They lump me in with Beau and Rafe. I’d be a liability instead of a help when it comes to that part.”

Doc nodded agreement. The cops would love nothing better than to get their hands on Chantry too. One of the perks of a misspent youth. It wouldn’t do the investigation any good.

With Beau and Rafe in Cane Creek, he expected trouble to pop up any time anyway. It had a way of doing that when they were around. And now that he’d confronted them and come away with something they’d consider theirs, they’d be just waiting for a chance to get back at him. Oh yeah, coming back to Cane Creek might be the worst move he’d made in a while.

As if reading his mind, Doc said, “Glad to be back here, huh. Well, just look at it this way, Chantry. Tie up all the loose ends now and you can go on with life without having to look over your shoulder or wonder what’s gonna bite you in the ass from your past.”

“There are too many loose ends for that to happen.”

Doc got up from his recliner, shook his head. “Not all loose ends are meant to be tied up, maybe. Just those that haunt you. Or can still hurt you.”

That sounded about right. For some reason he thought about Cinda, about the Italian guy she’d brought back with her. Savona didn’t look like he wanted to be just friends. He may be a lot older, but he looked at Cinda with a lot more than friendship, despite what she said. Maybe it was just one-way; maybe it was over if there’d ever been anything between them, on her part anyway. And maybe he was just kidding himself that he’d ever be able to do what he wanted where she was concerned. It’d never work. It was as doomed as Chris and Tansy.

Then he remembered what Chris had said and how happy Tansy had looked, and figured he’d better at least watch out for trouble that was bound to happen. Old man Quinton wouldn’t take kindly to Chris’s rebellion. It’d be dangerous to cross him.

It always had been. But now Chantry knew about the Klan.

After he left Doc’s house he drove over to Liberty Road. Dempsey came out to greet him, a smile on his face when he met him on the porch. “Been kinda expectin’ you to show up. Got some fish fryin’ for supper if you’re hungry.”

“That’d be good.”

They ate fried catfish, hushpuppies, and slaw, and Dempsey poured them both big glasses of iced tea. It was familiar, a ritual they’d done many times before. When the platter and plates were empty, Dempsey sat back and reached for his pipe. Then he paused, frowning a little before he shrugged and filled the bowl with tobacco.

“What’s on your mind, boy?”

Chantry didn’t even ask how he knew. He sat forward, curbing the urge for a cigarette as cherry tobacco spiced the room with another layer of smoke and scent.

“Just wondering if there’s ever been anything like burning crosses or men in sheets running around here that I don’t remember. Before I first moved here, maybe.”

Dempsey looked at him over the spurt of flame from his lighter, wisps of smoke making a wreath around his head. He clicked the lighter closed, puffed on the pipe a moment in silence. “I reckon you done heard something or you wouldn’t be asking that.”

“Right.”

Another few puffs later, he nodded. “Yep. Sure has been. Long time ago now. Folks don’t much like talkin’ about it. Bringin’ up the past ain’t always a good thing. There’s times it’s best to let go of it.”

“How come I never heard about it?”

“Ain’t something folks’d advertise.”

“But you’d think the police—news reporters, neighbors—someone would say that guys in white sheets showed up on their front lawn with a can of lighter fluid.”

“It was a long time ago, Chantry. Things change. Tactics change.”

Ah. So that was it. He leaned forward. “Threats take different forms, is that what you’re saying?”

“It happens. You should know that.”

“Yeah. Guess I do.” He sat back, thought a minute. Burning crosses and white sheets had to phase out eventually. Those tactics were for amateurs, show-offs like Beau, Rafe, and Rainey, not men like Quinton with their bone-deep, die-hard prejudices. Bert Quinton would evolve with the times, know better than to draw attention to himself by acting a fool with sheets and crosses. He’d be furtive. Elusive. Ruthless. It was second nature to him. After all, Quinton was trying to rewrite history lately, since it was no longer politically correct to be a racist. If it’d ever been. But now he tried to pretend he’d always been in favor of civil rights. A joke to those who really knew him.

Dempsey stirred. “Chantry, there’s some things you can’t change. People you can’t change. Quinton is one of ’em. He’ll be like he is ’til he dies.”

“I know. Too bad somebody didn’t send him to hell years ago.”

“He’ll get there, son. Don’t worry. He’ll get there soon enough.”