Soil (18 page)

A fantasy unfurled in Jay's mind, that the law had coerced Sandy into helping them lure him out with a fabricated story about Jacob's fall break. Once in town, Jay was on their turf and more prone to slip up and reveal something. It was a good thing he'd come to town, if only to uncover their plot. His paranoia had been justified. They were, in fact, waiting for him. They were onto him.

So where did he go from here? He wondered how much of Sandy's letter was true. To ignore her plea might invite suspicion. He'd play along, offer his help. But it would be on his terms and his property. They'd need a warrant to search. He'd make them work for it.

A rumble in the nearby dumpster gave him a start, and he slumped down in his seat. Chipper yipped, and Jay slapped him quiet with his hat. They waited a moment before Jay got out and peeked in the side hatch. Someone had deposited several bags of trash. He slipped into the otherwise empty bin and rummaged through the plastic bags. A lot of loose garbage, greasy napkins, half-eaten meals, empty drink cups. But one bag was filled with fried chicken. Whether it was scorched or too old to serve, it seemed like perfectly fine chicken. He took a bite of thigh. It was cold but still heavenly. He scooped up the bag and jumped in the truck to feast. He shared some with
Chipper, then pitched the bag of gnawed bones back into the garbage and sat in the truck worrying over how to proceed.

In the glove box he found an old pink carbon receipt from a long-ago car repair and crafted a note for Sandy, accepting responsibility for Jacob next weekend. Would he be playing right into their hands? Maybe so, but if this charade about fall break were true, he couldn't deny his son.

Jay cranked the engine and swung back around toward the park. He came in behind Waller again, but this time he pulled around by the dugouts and home plate, got out, and squinted to see if he could make the Mustang. It was gone. He closed in on the apartment with extreme caution, making a pass or two before he pulled up in front. He left the engine running as he ran to the house, stuck the note in the door, scrambled back, and hightailed it toward his country haunt.

PART

IV

Leavenger was scoping the back roads on a cool Saturday morning and believed he had it all figured out.

Earlier in the week he'd been at Fred Littlejohn's place and put the last piece of the puzzle together. Littlejohn farmed just west of Silage Town. He'd put in a full day and invited Leavenger to stay for a beer. They were sipping longnecks, sitting in rusty iron chairs on the chipped concrete patio, when Fred's son Hutch roared up in a noisy blue mud racer. The boy, all of nineteen, jumped down in a huff, and when Fred asked about his trouble, young Hutch let sail a stream of profanity—some so and so said such and such about this or that.

“Who're you talking about, boy?” Fred asked.

“That dude with the pyramid in his yard, down Silage Town Road.”

Fred nodded. “Weird fella, younger? Tall and thin?”

Hutch stared dumbly in agreement. “Had a gas mask and a shotgun, run me off,” the kid said, his face a red blotchy mess of embarrassment and anger.

Fred knew Jay Mize from the farm service, one of the field agents. Wound tight, he said, had strange ideas about things. “The guy would scoop a handful of dirt, then put it up to his ear and listen. He'd sniff it. Even put it in his mouth and taste it,” said Fred. “He's crazy as hell.”

It struck Leavenger like a fresh scalding. “That's gotta be the one,” he said.

Somehow, through the haze of pain pills and drink and sorrow, he'd forgotten all about their awkward run-in by the flooded field. Probably a day or
two before Virginia was gunned down beside the river. Leavenger had been driving out the Tockawah levee road to see the bridge and noticed the man in his johnboat. He called to him for a bit of neighborly chatter, and the guy rowed off in a huff. The profile of an edgy, antisocial outcast and his peculiar farm on the river matched that of the dog-killing stranger with his cooler full of frozen fish.

Leavenger related this all to Fred Littlejohn as it coalesced in his mind, confirming Mize's physical description and offering his latest rendition of the riverside slaying, with all its gathering shades of menace. By the end, he was soundly convinced of the killer's identity.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Littlejohn offered in vague accord.

Now Leavenger had his name and address. All he needed was justice.

And that was why he'd driven out to Tockawah Bottom this morning, down the road from the dead-end bridge, right near where the culprit lived, guilty as the day is long. Was he ready to confront him, maybe pull a shotgun on him and give him a taste of his own medicine? Or perhaps Leavenger just needed to reassure himself, to look for signs, for further clues and confirmation.

He seemed to find all he needed as he approached Mize's place. Several vehicles were lined up on the shoulder in front of his property. He recognized a couple of the vehicles—Shoals's Sugarwagon, and there was Hutch Littlejohn's big blue mud machine. A county squad car, a couple of other unfamiliar trucks, and a rusty sedan were parked in a row.

“They got him!” Leavenger cried and slapped the dash, a little sorry that he'd not been present to lead the charge.

He pulled to a stop in front of Mize's driveway and watched several men walking to the road, stomping their boots and clutching their cups. Whatever had gone on here looked to be wrapping up.

Hutch, his spirits considerably higher since their last visit, was goofing with one of his pals when he walked by and slapped the hood of Leavenger's truck. “Hey, old man!” he shouted. Leavenger scowled.

The deputy Shoals followed, holding a leash with a pudgy blond Lab
panting behind him. Leavenger rolled down the window and called for his counsel. The deputy broke off from the pack, swaggering in his sunglasses and shitkickers, a big duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. He looked tired and grim.

“Hey, I already solved your case for you,” Leavenger cried.

Shoals frowned. “Which case is that?”

“The case of who shot my dog Virginia.”

“Oh, yeah? And who might that be?”

“You know who did it.”

Shoals stared chilly through his shades. “I'm sorry, but I don't.” The deputy seemed agitated, too busy for riddles and small talk.

“That son of a bitch right there,” Leavenger said, nodding at the field. “Mize.”

Shoals turned to look.

“Aint that why you're here?”

“No,” said Shoals. “We don't usually assemble a whole team to catch a dog killer.”

Leavenger huffed. “Well, what has he done now?”

“It's county business.”

“Well, so's this. Let's go up there right now. I can identify his boots and his hat and his gun. The cooler and four-wheeler too. I'm telling you, that man right there, that Mize fella, he shot my dog. Now you gonna help me nail this son of a bitch or what?”

Shoals's face tightened. “Can we do this another time? Call me Monday morning and set up an appointment. You can sit down in my office, we'll go over all the details, and then, if need be, we'll come out here and question him.” He spoke like he was trying to convince an old lady that no one was stealing her mail.

“Aint no time like the present,” Leavenger said. “We're all here. May as well nip this in the bud.”

“I've gotta get back to the office. There's a hundred fires waiting to be put out.”

Leavenger refused to be put off so easily. “That was my dog, Deputy. I had her fourteen years. She went everywhere with me.”

“I understand, Mr. Leavenger. And we're gonna make it right.” The deputy had a false authority and careless condescension in his voice.

“Aint no right to be made, Deputy,” Leavenger said. “But we can get square, sure as hell. Eye for an eye and such.”

“You leave that up to us,” the deputy offered as a cold warning. “Now let's talk Monday. Good day, sir.”

Leavenger shook his head and cursed the deputy's ambivalence. “
Mister
Leavenger, my ass.” No surprise that he wasn't willing to help. He hadn't cared a damn yet for this injustice. Leavenger decided that he'd come this far without the law's help. He could by god finish it himself too.

24

Shoals made the drop at three o'clock. The delivery was calculated to arrive about thirty minutes before Sandy got home. He knew her schedule, and she rarely deviated from it these days. He stood in her driveway, satisfied with this bait.

He'd left a cooler on the steps. Inside was a gallon freezer bag of fresh frozen strawberries in syrup and a tub of nondairy whipped topping, all packed in ice. On top, wrapped in wax paper and tucked in a brown paper sack, was his mother's homemade lemon pound cake. It was a frill, a little something extra if she so desired. He longed to spoil her.

He walked back to the Boss and sat under oak shade for a time, making sure no stray dogs or teenage punks came up and tried to steal his precious gesture. He began to visualize her eating the berries. She wouldn't put them in the freezer straightaway but would dig right in, handling the slushy fruit, maybe dipping it into the whipped topping, leaving a streak of red against the pure white. This wasn't your normal store-bought fare and should prove irresistible to her. She'd lick her fingers, a little dab of white in the corner of her mouth. He sat up ramrod straight. If only he could be there to watch the drama unfold.

He'd left his card in the paper sack, demure. If she needed him, she'd call. Maybe this gallant deed would be just the thing to break her ice.
Come over and help me eat this
, she'd text him. He'd come back by and find the door unlocked, the kid gone to play at a friend's house, and her lying down in the back bedroom wearing only a pair of tight gym shorts and the tub of whip
slathered across her bare chest. He'd saunter over and relieve himself of his T-shirt, nuzzle down, and come up all pie-faced.

This was how things should go for him. He was expert at creating this sort of scenario. Why wasn't there a career in such things? If his life could somehow be devoted to designing these episodes and fulfilling them, then he would be a hero in his field. None better. There were plenty more frivolous vocations being practiced every day across this land.

But he had a real job, an important one, and certain people, he feared, had started taking the notion that he wasn't giving it the serious attention it deserved. He'd even begun to realize himself that maybe he was taking the job for granted. It was time to straighten up, if only for a short while, and start planning for tomorrow.

After his delivery, Shoals drove to the Pioneers Shooting Ranch, an indoor-­outdoor range deep in the county. He'd been coming here lately, firing off several hundred rounds to practice his marksmanship. Some wise guy had made up life-size cardboard dummies of despised liberal politicians and encouraged members to blow them to strips at twenty yards or up to fifty. The lights were dim at the back of the indoor range so shooters could imagine scalawags lurking in the shadows. Shoals set up Al Gore at twenty-five and dinged him in the ear and grazed his elbow with the first two shots from his .44 Magnum, which had belonged to his daddy. He'd have to tighten up if he hoped to score high on the state accreditation test.

He'd found the opportunity earlier that day to prod his uncle about this proposed retirement his mother had mentioned the night before. The sheriff was standing around with some of the other deputies, who were griping about road conditions, when Danny offered, “You oughta lean on the mayor and make a big show for election season.”

The sheriff disagreed. “The mayor knows. He drives these roads like we all do. He's working the state reps for more funding.”

The sheriff was no rogue, for sure. His calmness and chivalry were probably what kept him in office.

“Besides,” his uncle added, “I don't even plan to go again. One of you jokers will have to take my job.”

They all laughed. No surprise on anyone's face. Was Danny the only one who hadn't heard? Were they all scheming for the job?

“Who you gonna pass the torch to, Sheriff?” Danny asked.

“Maybe we could make a game of hot potato out of it.”

The men laughed again. After a moment Bynum, nibbling peanuts in the corner, said, “I'll take it.”

Everyone got quiet, waiting for the sheriff to extend his opinion. “And you'd probably do a good job of it,” he replied finally. “You won't get rich at it, so you better love the work.”

It had left a bad taste in Shoals's mouth. He didn't really want the job, had never considered it until last night, but somehow he didn't think anyone else deserved it. His uncle's boots were too deep to fill. And if it had to be done, best to keep it in the family. He had six months or a year maybe to get close again with his uncle and to prove himself. Maybe at least he could convince the sheriff to stay on one more term, just another four years to teach him the ropes and make him an acceptable candidate.

Shoals switched to the lighter, standard-issue Colt .45 auto, tugged the cardboard dummy back another ten yards, and fired several rounds. He plugged the tree hugger in the groin and the kneecap, but everything else went wide.

On the way out he met Baby George Bundren, his old high school buddy and counterpart on the city police force. They didn't run into one another often enough, but when they did, they always swapped tales and talked a little filth, maintained an effortless camaraderie. Baby George said he was going over to the Delta that weekend. Duck season was starting early this year, and he and some of the boys on the force were going to bag the limit. He asked Shoals if he'd like to come along.

“That's mighty tempting,” said Shoals. “I'd love to hang with y'all, but there's some races going on at Bobby Waterman's place in Tockawah Friday
night. Those hot young things out there get wild when the mud starts flying. There's always at least one who crawls out of her britches. I'd hate to pass that up.”

“Ha! You're a mess, Shug,” said Baby George, a husband and new daddy. They all envied Shoals's bachelor pursuits. “You never change.”

They laughed and slapped five and patted each other on the back, best to all and see you round. Shoals set out for home, an empty cabin on the lake, and he started to think about Baby George, who used to chase skirt with the best of them. He thought about how they'd gone their separate ways. He thought about responsibility, fidelity, stability. They aren't the things men normally crave, but Shoals wondered if maybe sometimes they were the things men need.