The Lost Ones (28 page)

The shotgun lay half covered in rotting cobs, but the blued edge of the double barrel shone bright and clear. Quinn stumbled and reached for it, Porter gripping his arm. But Quinn reached back and bit into the man’s furry hand, pulling away gristle and flesh. Porter yowled and fumbled back. Quinn turned the shotgun and saw Caddy in the corner of his eye. Time stayed like that, him knowing there was no going back for any of them. She was torn and broken and uncovered, openmouthed and vacant.

As Quinn raised the gun, he knew his sister had been taken from him.

He pulled on both triggers at once, sending fattened Porter back with a mule kick to the barn wall. His head landed with a thud against a hard floor beam.

Even in the horror, Quinn marveled at the way a shotgun could open up a human body.

Caddy stood there. Everything was silent and crisp. The blood smelled like old pennies.

Quinn pulled off his coat and covered her. He reached for her torn overalls and underthings. He gathered Porter’s clothes to cover the man’s face, frozen in a final confusion.

He pushed Caddy ahead, finding two-by-fours hammered into the wall, to get back to the loft. In the high corner of the barn, two pack rats, white and gray and as large as opossums, looked down with their red eyes and hissed at the disruption. Caddy’s teeth chattered, and her entire body shook. Quinn carried her back down the ladder and into the yawning mouth of the barn, where they could see the gray daylight and the steady fall of rain.

Quinn found several pieces of scrap wood and old corncobs and kicked up a fire, smoke billowing up and out of the open barn.

“Caddy?”

She sat on the ground, knees reaching her chin. She was crying, although not hysterically, and rocking back and forth.

“Caddy?”

She did not answer. Quinn kissed her on the forehead.

“Are you sick?” he asked. “Did he hurt you?”

She nodded.

“Hurt you bad?”

She nodded.

Quinn found his .22 and those things that Porter had stolen from them. He discovered a half-empty bottle of whiskey among some Log Cabin pancake mix and pure maple syrup. He mixed the pancakes in a coffee mug, using rainwater to make batter, and set an iron skillet on a rock he placed dead center in the fire. The fire hissed and popped, embers glowing as night fell. Caddy had yet to speak.

Quinn cooked some cured bacon and added the batter to the grease. He set the pancakes and bacon on a tin plate and set it in front of Caddy. “We got to walk out of here tomorrow. You’ll need your strength. Come on, eat.”

She took the plate. She took a few bites.

Quinn ate three pancakes and bacon.

He watched the fire and the rain. The embers glowed hot and steady.

“You still have the compass I gave you?” he asked.

Caddy nodded.

“You follow that thing due west till you hit the interstate,” Quinn said. “You hear me? You flag down a ride or call Momma from a fillin’ station.”

Her eyes turned on Quinn.

“I can’t go back,” he said. “Not after what I done.”

“But.” Her mouth was parched and clumsy as she spoke.

“Don’t worry,” Quinn said. “Don’t cry. You hear me? I’m a bad kid, and he was a bad man, and something happened out here. But ain’t no one gonna catch me now. I’ll head out west. Maybe I’ll find Dad out in Los Angeles. Hell, I don’t know. I just know I can’t go back.”

Caddy started to cry again. She pulled her knees up even with her nose and started the rocking again.

“Aw, hell. Don’t do that. All you got to do is get safe. You promise me that? You get safe.”

She nodded.

“Finish those pancakes, it’s a long walk.”

“Quinn?” Caddy asked.

“It’s all going to be fine.”

Quinn reached his arm around Caddy. He was very cold now without his jacket and he took some warmth from her as they watched the fire for a long time. She left her plate unfinished. He added more wood to the fire until there was a slow, even heat in the barn, woodsmoke catching the wind and scattering out into the rain. Every time he would move, she would call to him, and he’d return quickly by her side.

“What if he comes back?” she asked.

Quinn said that wasn’t going to happen.

Caddy fell asleep some hours later, and he held her until morning. The rain clouds scattered, leaving a crisp blue day. She cried—hadn’t stopped crying, really—but she stood tough as he pointed west, that compass in her hand. He would walk south and catch the Natchez Trace, follow it as long as he could.

He didn’t have plans much beyond that.

Quinn tried to give her his .22, but she wouldn’t take it.

“I packed you some cookies and pancakes we didn’t eat. OK?”

Her little blond head was bowed as she walked away, step for step, and Quinn hoisted his pack on his shoulder. Down the long, winding fire road they’d followed with Porter, he saw a darkened figure in a suede rancher coat and slanted Stetson. The man whistled out for them both.

Caddy turned. “It’s Uncle Hamp. It’s Uncle Hamp.”

Quinn wanted to run away, but his legs felt lazy and wooden as his uncle came up on them out of breath. He looked to Caddy, set down on his knee, and studied the scratches and bruises on her little face. “What in the hell?”

Caddy turned her head away from him.

“Did he find you?” Uncle Hamp asked.

Neither one of the children spoke.

“Quinn?”

“The son of a bitch is dead,” Quinn said. “He come after Caddy. I shot the bastard, and I’m glad I did it.”

Uncle Hamp removed his hat and studied the cloudless sky. He picked up Caddy, still wearing Quinn’s oversized mackinaw, and walked with her over his shoulder, heading around in circle after circle. Hamp’s big hand on her back, soothing and comforting, wordless to Quinn but saying many words to his sister. When they looped back again, he set Caddy’s feet back on the ground.

“He in there?” Uncle Hamp asked.

Quinn nodded.

“Can you find that old Indian mound?” Uncle Hamp said. “Down on the Trace?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You walk that way,” Hamp said. “Don’t talk to nobody.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll come for you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Quinn headed out on a narrow path, trod by deer.

“And Quinn?”

Quinn turned.

“None of this ever happened,” Uncle Hamp said. “You got that? We all got to get straight on that.”

“WHAT DID THE SHERIFF DO?”
Boom asked.

Quinn stopped his old truck outside the County Barn. He killed the engine, it continuing to knock a bit.

“He buried Porter somewhere out in the forest,” Quinn said. “He never told me where. I tried to talk to him about it a few times, and he acted like nothing happened. He told Caddy the same thing. We were afraid if we did talk about it, something bad might happen. Might put me in jail or something.”

“And you walked out of those big woods a hero,” Boom said.

“I did get lost,” Quinn said. “Caddy had my compass. My uncle didn’t find me for another five days.”

“Why didn’t your uncle just bring it all out?” Boom said. “After what that man did, nobody would blame you.”

“He thought it shamed Caddy,” Quinn said. “He was a proud old man. He didn’t want anything to stain her. He and Aunt Halley never had children. He loved her very much.”

“Shit.”

“Yep.”

“I won’t tell nobody,” Boom said.

“We thought we were doing right by my uncle to leave it alone,” Quinn said. “It’s corroded her. How in the hell did we think it couldn’t have?”

“Jean know?”

“Nope.”

“Wish we could go find that son of a bitch out in the woods and shoot him again.”

“I don’t know what to do, man,” Quinn said. “I’ve always blamed myself for getting her into my shit. She wouldn’t have followed me out there if I hadn’t shot those deer and started that mess. I was always in trouble, doing stupid shit to show off.”

“This man got off on hurting kids,” Boom said. “Hadn’t been you and Caddy, been someone else. It’s a sickness. You know? Man like that. Ain’t but one way to deal with it and you did that.”

“I was ten.”

“And did the right thing.”

“I’ve been hard on her.”

“’Cause you carry your own water and think she need to do the same.”

“We’re not the same,” Quinn said. “That man broke her.”

Boom nodded. They sat in the truck for a long while, leaves blowing past headlights shining onto the County Barn. The barn’s metal doors locked up tight with a chain. “I’m sorry, man,” Boom said. “I’m real sorry. What are you going to do now?”

“It’s been a rough twenty-four hours,” Quinn said. “I don’t know. Shit.”

“Come on,” Boom said. “Let’s take out this new vehicle for a spin. Fine by you? We don’t have to talk or nothing. Just ride around like we did when we was in high school.”

Quinn nodded, and Boom opened up the barn with one hand and rolled back the doors.

37

DONNIE REACHED OUT TO BOBBY CAMPO IN MEMPHIS A LITTLE PAST
midnight. He didn’t have a number but knew Campo owned all those shake joints in south Memphis near the airport and kept on calling ones until he found someone at Southern Belles who said they’d relay a message. Campo called him back maybe five minutes later and asked if he wanted to meet up for breakfast at a CK’s Coffee Shop right across the street from East High School. At five-thirty in the a.m., Campo was there as promised, sitting in a corner booth facing the window, adding some ketchup to a big mess of scrambled eggs. He didn’t look up as Donnie took a seat, only scooped the mess up into his mouth and chewed for a long time before he said, “You Mississippi people are going to give me a fucking heart attack.”

“Does that mean I can’t get a cup of coffee?”

Campo shrugged. He wore a bright red Ole Miss sweatshirt—advertising the school as
The Harvard of the South
—with a big gold Rolex on his wrist. He didn’t seem to take any notice of Donnie as Donnie made a little small talk with the waitress, trying to show all was cool and easy this morning, and ordered some biscuits and gravy with black coffee.

“You see the
Commercial Appeal
?” Campo said, pushing across the A section. “Christ. Just what happened down in Union County? Are those your Mexicans?”

“Ain’t my problem,” Donnie said just as the waitress returned. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Where’s Stagg?”

“He’s out.”

“Because of Union County?”

“He was out before that mess,” Donnie said. “He made his money. He’s more interested in making speeches for pancake suppers these days. I sometimes doubt his sincerity.”

Campo nodded and ate some eggs. He drank some ice water, cubes rattling around in the glass, and studied Donnie’s face to see if he was making a joke.

“I can’t help you,” Campo said. “Not now. Not after all this shit. Did I tell you my wife is speaking to the Feds now? I’m pretty sure she’s screwing them, too, pillow talk about what an asshole I am. You know what an asshole I am? I paid for sixty-five thousand in plastic surgery to get her tits and ass lifted. Me? I can get the best grade-A snatch outside an Ole Miss sorority house. But you think I fooled around on her? Not once. And I’m the one who’s living in a hotel by the airport with his dick in his hand. This is the best meal I’ve had in three days.”

“I’m sorry.”

The waitress slid Donnie’s biscuits and gravy in front of him. He started to dig in as Campo craned his head to watch a big black sedan pulling off Poplar. When an old woman and an old man climbed out of the car, he turned back to Donnie. “I feel like I can’t take a shit without being watched. I got high blood pressure and asthma. It’s gonna kill me.”

Donnie scanned the story on the front page of the paper, reading how six men had been shot and eleven children had been recovered. The story said that Janet and Ramón were still wanted and the dead men had criminal records from Texas, possibly associated with the Zetas Cartel. There was a big photo of Janet’s and Ramón’s ugly mugs and a faraway photo of a woman deputy carrying a child. Donnie couldn’t tell from the angle but was pretty sure it was Lillie Virgil.

“They get all the guns?” Campo asked after he’d scraped the plate clean.