The Inside Ring (22 page)

She glanced over at a photograph of Billy on the television set. He was wearing an army uniform, his chest decorated with rows of medals, and he looked about twelve years old. DeMarco was again struck by the handsome purity of Billy Mattis—Lancelot in olive drab. He should never have been dragged into this sordid mess.

“Max said he didn’t know anybody in the FBI but he knew a fella in the Secret Service. He told Billy to send in an application and a couple weeks later he had a job. I don’t know who Max talked to.”

DeMarco did, but he still didn’t understand why Taylor had a special relationship with Donnelly.

DeMarco looked at his watch. He needed to get going; the longer he stayed, the greater the chance that Max Taylor or his pet police force would find him. But there was something else he had to know.

“I can’t believe nobody’s ever tried to stop him, Jillian. I can’t accept that the people here just allow him to drag a young girl to his bed like he’s some kind of feudal lord.”

Jillian looked at DeMarco in disgust. “You don’t get it. I didn’t say nobody ever tried to stop him. My daddy did, and he got a dead dog for his trouble and the message that it coulda been him. Another fella, fella named John Chism, he tried to get the state attorney’s office interested. They sent this lawyer down from the capital. Well, Max paid off the lawyer and after the lawyer left, Morgan beat John so bad it put him in a wheelchair. Handsome man, he was. Drools down his chin now while he sits in that chair.

“’Nother time,” she continued, “a young man named Tom Hendricks shot at Max with a pistol ’cause Max was sniffin’ around Tommy’s wife. They’d only been married a year, them kids, neither of ’em over seventeen.”

“What happened to Tommy Hendricks, Jillian?”

“Max’s sheriff arrested him and Max’s judge tried him, and Tommy was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison for attempted murder. He’s been in prison now for, let’s see, twelve years. His wife divorced him and moved away after Max finished with her. Are you starting to get the idea now, mister?”

DeMarco nodded. One last question and he was gone.

“Jillian, you know Taylor as well as anybody. Do you have any idea why he’d want to assassinate the President?”

She shrugged. “Coulda been anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Max’s folks were so poor he didn’t own shoes until he was five or six, and people here treated his family like the white trash they were. But Max had pride. He hated everybody in this county by the time he left to join the army. Well, when he came back from Texas, or wherever he was, he had money. A lotta money. He started buyin’ things, and gettin’ richer and richer, but he didn’t so much want to be rich as he wanted to get back at everybody for the way they treated him when he was young.

“He wanted to make everybody bow and scrape and kiss his ass. He wanted to control everything, and eventually he did. When you get that kind of power over people, mister, and everything you want gets done your way, well after a while you start thinking it’s your God-given right to have it
all
your way. If somebody around here does something that makes Max mad, he fires them or has his police arrest them, and if that don’t work, there’s Morgan.

“Anyway, I can see the President doin’ something, God knows what, that riles Max. Maybe he raised taxes or said something in a speech. Hell, who knows? And Max, he’s so crazy with power and pride that he just gets it into his head to kill him. He thinks he’s, he’s . . . oh shit, what’s the word?”

“Invincible,” DeMarco said.

“Yeah, that’s it. He thinks nothing can get to him. He’s the King of Charlton County.”

DeMarco thought about what Jillian had said, but it didn’t feel right. As arrogant as Taylor was, he still couldn’t imagine him trying to kill the President because he’d simply raised taxes or caused a problem with one of Taylor’s investments. There had to be something more.

They sat quietly in the darkened living room for a few minutes, Jillian slowly sipping whiskey, her finger again twisting the lock of hair. DeMarco was trying to think of something to say, some comfort to give her before he left, when she said, “Do you think you can get Max for what he did to my Billy?”

“Yes, Jillian,” he said, “I’m going to get him.”

“Well if you don’t, I’m gonna. I’m gonna get a shotgun and blow his damn head off.”

“Now that’s a real nasty thing to say, Honey. Ain’t it, Morgan?”

DeMarco closed his eyes momentarily, hoping he was dreaming, then looked over to see Taylor and Morgan standing in Jillian Mattis’s doorway.

38

Jillian jumped up from the couch spilling the whiskey glass from her lap. “Oh my God, Lord Jesus,” she said when she saw the two men. Morgan was standing in the doorway behind Taylor, his body blocking out the weak light remaining in the evening sky. He didn’t say anything and his dark face was as wooden as always, but his presence permeated the room like the smell of rotting flesh.

“Honey, you know nothing happens around here without me knowin’ about it,” Taylor said to Jillian. “When Morgan said this fella’s car was parked here at your place . . . well, Honey, I just can’t tell you how disappointed I was.”

Jillian stood there, too frightened to answer, both hands pressed against her lips as though trying to push back the words Taylor had heard.

Pointing a finger at DeMarco, he said, “And you. What happened to Dale?”

“I don’t know anyone named Dale,” DeMarco said.

“I’m so damn sick of you lyin’ to me, mister,” Taylor said. “I’m gonna find out everything you know, and after I find out, you just might disappear.”

DeMarco sat back in the chair and crossed his legs in an attempt to appear relaxed. “After your boy roughed me up, Taylor,” he said, “I made some calls. The governor knows I’m here and so does the federal marshals’ office in Savannah. If something happens to me they’ll be coming after you.”

Taylor grinned and said, “I think you’re bullshittin’, mister. Not that it matters though because I think you’re gonna have an unfortunate accident—with a whole buncha witnesses to say exactly how accidental it was. I’ll betcha I can arrange that. What do you wanna bet? But we’re gettin’ ahead of ourselves here. The first thing we have to do is see what Honey told you.”

“I didn’t tell him anything, Max,” Jillian said. “I swear.”

DeMarco could see that her whole body was trembling, she was so frightened of Taylor.

“Honey,” Taylor said, “this man’s havin’ a bad influence on you. You should know better than to lie to me. It angers me somethin’ fierce.”

“Please, Max . . .” Jillian said.

Taylor walked over to Jillian and took her chin gently in his hand and raised her face so he could look into her eyes. Speaking slowly and softly, as if he was trying to reason with a naughty child, he said, “Honey, I’m so upset with you right now I’m thinkin’ of giving you to Morgan.”

“Oh, God no, Max. I promise—”

“Yeah,” Taylor said, “I didn’t think you’d like that, Honey. You’re gettin’ a bit long in the tooth but Morgan don’t care. Morgan don’t care if a woman’s young or old, fat or skinny. Hell, he don’t care if you’re bald and toothless, as long as you’re female. It’s all the same to ol’ Morgan.”

DeMarco looked over at Morgan. His face was as impassive as ever but there was a sick, wet gleam in his black eyes.

DeMarco stood up. “Leave the woman alone, Taylor,” he said. “I’ll tell you what we talked about. You don’t have to take it out on her.”

Still looking into Jillian’s terrified eyes, Taylor said, “Morgan, I wanna talk to Honey here without this jackass interruptin’. Give him a little love tap, will ya, so I don’t have to listen to him until I’m ready.”

Fuck! DeMarco turned toward Morgan but the man moved so fast he was a blur in the half-light of the darkened room. As Morgan’s right fist moved toward his head, DeMarco raised his arms and partially blocked the blow, but partially wasn’t good enough. He didn’t actually feel the impact of Morgan’s fist; the universe just swallowed him whole.

DEMARCO CAME TO in the small barn behind Jillian Mattis’s house. The only light in the building came from a Coleman lantern hanging from a support post. He could see two stalls where horses could be kept in the winter, and on the wall near the double doors was a collection of bridles and a worn saddle. Tools—a rake, two shovels, and a rusty pitchfork—hung on hooks near the door. The walls of the building leaned drastically and there were large gaps between the warped wooden siding, which allowed in the night air and the too-sweet smell of some native plant.

DeMarco was lying facedown on a straw-covered dirt floor and around his neck was a metal collar welded to a heavy chain. The chain was maybe eight feet in length and was attached to a metal stake driven deep into the earthen floor.

Morgan was in the barn, standing, leaning casually with his shoulder resting on the wall that contained the double doors. A baseball cap shaded his eyes. Sitting on the floor a few feet from him was Jillian Mattis. One of her eyes was swollen and her lower lip was cut and bleeding. The collar of her dress was torn, exposing one pale shoulder, and two raw-looking, red circular marks were visible on the bare skin of her collarbone. The marks looked like burns made with a cigarette. She appeared to be in shock, her eyes wide open but seeing nothing. She was hiding in a locked closet within her mind.

DeMarco tried to get up—actually all he did was move his head—and a white-hot lance of pain pierced his skull. He cried out and immediately collapsed back into the dirt and straw. Morgan had broken something with his “love tap.” DeMarco didn’t know the medical term for his condition—he was suffering from a concussion or skull fracture, or a combination of the two—but whatever the exact nomenclature, it was serious. It felt as if his head was being squeezed in a vise.

He must have passed out again briefly because the next time he opened his eyes, Morgan was squatting on his haunches near him. Morgan’s face was a dark blur to DeMarco, the pain in his head almost blinding him. Taylor’s man sat there quietly watching DeMarco for a while, his black eyes unblinking and unfeeling. Suddenly he reached out and pulled DeMarco violently to a sitting position and propped him up against the nearest wall. The rough movement made him nauseous and the pain was a jackhammer trying to crack through the thin bone of his skull.

Morgan stood, looked down at DeMarco, and nodded in satisfaction for some reason. He walked back to where Jillian Mattis was sitting, grabbed her under one arm, and dragged her over to where DeMarco was propped against the wall, stopping about two feet from him. He checked to make sure DeMarco was conscious and watching, making eye contact briefly. Morgan’s eyes had the luster of Lucifer’s wings.

Morgan pulled Jillian Mattis up until she was on her knees, took hold of her hair with one large hand, and unzipped his pants with his other hand. DeMarco attempted to speak, to make some sort of protest, but his mouth was so dry he couldn’t force the words from his throat. He knew he had to do something to help her. He couldn’t just sit there, no matter what condition he was in, and watch this. Ignoring the pain in his head he struggled to get to his feet—to do what, he didn’t know—but before he was halfway up Morgan’s right leg whipped out and the point of his cowboy boot caught DeMarco square on the chin. He fell onto his side, vomited into the dirt, and passed out.

DeMarco was unconscious for only two or three minutes. When he regained consciousness he could hear Jillian gagging, then heard a grunt of release from Morgan. He looked up at the two of them and immediately closed his eyes in shame. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but he knew his presence had added to Jillian’s degradation.

Morgan threw Jillian roughly to one side and rearranged his clothes. She stayed where she had landed, facedown in the straw, sobbing quietly. Morgan studied her briefly, his face an obsidian mask devoid of emotion.

Morgan looked down at DeMarco, then began to search the floor of the barn with his eyes. Seeing what he wanted, he walked over and picked up something lying in the straw. He walked slowly back to where DeMarco was lying and reached down and grabbed the chain where it connected to the collar around DeMarco’s neck. With one hand, he once again jerked DeMarco into a sitting position and braced DeMarco’s back against the wall of the barn.

Morgan squatted down in front of DeMarco. In his right hand was the object he’d picked up from the floor of the barn: a small stick, two feet long, no more than half an inch in diameter. He sat there for a few seconds on his haunches, studying DeMarco, then he began to tap the stick against his left palm.

Morgan suddenly flicked his right hand toward DeMarco’s face and the stick hit DeMarco’s forehead in the exact spot where Morgan’s fist had hit him earlier. It wasn’t a hard blow but DeMarco cried out in agony. Morgan didn’t do anything more for several seconds except study DeMarco patiently, like a sadistic child trying to decide which wing to pull off a moth.

Again his hand flicked out, and again the stick hit the bruised area on DeMarco’s left temple. DeMarco tried to block the blow with his hands but his reactions were ridiculously slow, and Morgan just swatted his hands aside. Morgan then began tapping the stick against the side of DeMarco’s head with the unrelenting regularity of a metronome, one light blow every three or four seconds. Tap. Tap. Tap. While he hit him he gripped DeMarco’s wrists in one of his strong hands to keep DeMarco from defending himself.

Through a blanket of pain DeMarco could hear a sound he didn’t recognize at first, then he realized he was the one making the sound. When he was very young, maybe seven or eight, he saw a puppy run over by a car. The animal’s hindquarters had been crushed, and as the puppy dragged itself along the pavement, trying to crawl away from its own death, it made a sound just like the one DeMarco was making now.

“Damn it all, Morgan, what the hell are you doing!” DeMarco heard Maxwell Taylor say. Morgan stopped tapping the stick against DeMarco’s head and stood up and Taylor took Morgan’s place, squatting in front of DeMarco.

“For Christ’s sake, Morgan, I told you to just give this fool a little tap. Look at him! You damn near caved in the side of his head. The bastard’s no good to me in this condition.”

Taylor studied DeMarco a few more minutes then said, “Honey, go on up to the house and bring back a pitcher of water and a bottle of aspirin. Go on now, get up. You’re not hurt that bad.”

Jillian got slowly to her feet and started walking toward her house in a halting, stiff-legged gait.

“You make it quick now, Honey, ya hear,” Taylor called after her. “If I have to send Morgan to fetch you, you’ll regret it.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Taylor carefully wiped off DeMarco’s face. “I’m going to let you sleep through the night, son, and hope like hell you don’t go into a coma. Now you might be wondering why I’m bein’ so solicitous of your health. Well the fact of the matter is, I have to ask you a few questions and I’m afraid I ask questions kinda hard. In your present state you just might die on me before I get all the answers I need.”

Jillian reappeared with water and aspirin. Taylor gently braced DeMarco’s head with his hand, placed two aspirin in his mouth, then held the water pitcher up to his parched lips so DeMarco could drink. When he choked getting down the aspirin, Taylor made little clicks of concern with his tongue.

Standing, Taylor stretched and yawned. “Morgan,” he said, “I don’t feel like driving back to Folkston tonight. I’m goin’ on up to the house and watch a little TV, then I’m gonna sleep in Honey’s bed. You and the woman stay out here in the barn and keep an eye on this fool. Hopefully he’ll be well enough to talk come first light.”

DeMarco tried to stay awake after Taylor left but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. He was disgusted at his own helplessness. He wanted to curl up into a fetal position and sleep until he was healed—and so he did.

He woke once during the night, his head still throbbing, but not with its earlier intensity. He moved his hand in the dark until he could feel the water pitcher and aspirin bottle, and took some more aspirin.

He thought he woke one other time before dawn, although he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a dream. He had a vague memory of a shape moving rhythmically in one of the stalls, and he heard the grunting of a beast and the moaning of a smaller creature in pain.