set her SO coat on the rack. She sat back down with Quinn and ate another few fries, thinking on things, and then took his last bite of cheeseburger. She thought some more as she ate. “Funny thing is how little people have talked about all this. What exactly did Diane Tull tell you?”
“Pretty much what she told my uncle in 1977.”
“And nothing more?”
“What else could she say?” Quinn said. “How about you spell it out to me, Lillie Virgil?”
“OK, Sheriff.” Lillie nodded, mind made up, and walked over to a long row of dented and scratched file cabinets. Using a key from her pocket, she opened one in the center, two drawers down, and pulled out an old manila folder, shut and bound with an old piece of string. “Call me when you get done reading this.”
She slid the file far across the table to Quinn and he immediately wiped his hands on a napkin and opened it up. Stapled reports, autopsy files, several black-and-white photos that brought to mind many images of the hills of Afghanistan and burned-out homes in Iraq. He could recall the horrid smell of charred bodies. “Jesus.”
“You bet,” Lillie said. “They found this goddamn crispy critter on Jericho Road about three days after Diane Tull was raped and Lori Stillwell was murdered. You think nobody in this office thought about a connection?”
“Who is it?”
“A man,” Lillie said. “A black man. That’s about all anyone knows about him. You can read about all there is in the report, but it looks like Sheriff Beckett didn’t so much as lift the phone to find out who he was, why he was here, or what happened to him. Seems like your uncle pretty much knew this all was a done deal.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Like I said, call me when you’re done,” Lillie said. “I think it’s about time you had a come-to-Jesus with Diane Tull and find out exactly why she’s getting this thing opened far and wide. And if someone tells me this is about God’s will, I’ll punch ’em in the mouth. God may be strange and mysterious, but this didn’t come out of nowhere.”
• • •
Stagg met Craig Houston out on his two-thousand-acre spread out in the county, a good portion of Tibbehah that he’d controlled for decades,including what used to be a World War II airfield and some old hangars and barracks. Before and since the storm, Stagg had his crew out paving back over the tarmac, propping up those old Quonset huts and adding a few more, building up some cinder-block bunkers and then laying out miles and miles of chain-link fencing to keep the nosy out of his business. Stagg had told everyone he was working on his own hunt lodge, the airfield just part of his land, bringing in drinking buddies from Memphis and Jackson. “You like it?” Johnny Stagg said.
“All this shit yours?” asked Houston. “The fucking land? This whole damn compound?”
Stagg grinned and nodded. He stood against his maroon Cadillac, chewing on a toothpick, taking in the possibilities of his own little valley. A cold wind whisking down through the valley and across their faces.
“God damn, man. You ain’t no joke. From here, we do what the fuck we want.”
You didn’t have to tell Houston much about how it would all work, the smart kid in the bright blue satin warm-up stood next to his bright white Escalade just smiling. He talked about their partnership, now a friendship, and how an airfield would get those Burrito Eaters off his back. Those Burrito Eaters now calling the shots from below the border in a town some had never even visited.
“Don’t need no trucks coming in from Texas,” Houston said. “Don’t need no shit from New Orleans. We call it. Deal direct.”
“And you can make it happen?” Stagg said. “You lived with those people down there for how long? Learned their practices and their ways?”
“Four years,” Houston said. “They call my black ass Speedy Gonzales. Understand honor, respect, and that you shoot a motherfucker
“Pretty much what she told my uncle in 1977.”
“And nothing more?”
“What else could she say?” Quinn said. “How about you spell it out to me, Lillie Virgil?”
“OK, Sheriff.” Lillie nodded, mind made up, and walked over to a long row of dented and scratched file cabinets. Using a key from her pocket, she opened one in the center, two drawers down, and pulled out an old manila folder, shut and bound with an old piece of string. “Call me when you get done reading this.”
She slid the file far across the table to Quinn and he immediately wiped his hands on a napkin and opened it up. Stapled reports, autopsy files, several black-and-white photos that brought to mind many images of the hills of Afghanistan and burned-out homes in Iraq. He could recall the horrid smell of charred bodies. “Jesus.”
“You bet,” Lillie said. “They found this goddamn crispy critter on Jericho Road about three days after Diane Tull was raped and Lori Stillwell was murdered. You think nobody in this office thought about a connection?”
“Who is it?”
“A man,” Lillie said. “A black man. That’s about all anyone knows about him. You can read about all there is in the report, but it looks like Sheriff Beckett didn’t so much as lift the phone to find out who he was, why he was here, or what happened to him. Seems like your uncle pretty much knew this all was a done deal.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Like I said, call me when you’re done,” Lillie said. “I think it’s about time you had a come-to-Jesus with Diane Tull and find out exactly why she’s getting this thing opened far and wide. And if someone tells me this is about God’s will, I’ll punch ’em in the mouth. God may be strange and mysterious, but this didn’t come out of nowhere.”
• • •
Stagg met Craig Houston out on his two-thousand-acre spread out in the county, a good portion of Tibbehah that he’d controlled for decades,including what used to be a World War II airfield and some old hangars and barracks. Before and since the storm, Stagg had his crew out paving back over the tarmac, propping up those old Quonset huts and adding a few more, building up some cinder-block bunkers and then laying out miles and miles of chain-link fencing to keep the nosy out of his business. Stagg had told everyone he was working on his own hunt lodge, the airfield just part of his land, bringing in drinking buddies from Memphis and Jackson. “You like it?” Johnny Stagg said.
“All this shit yours?” asked Houston. “The fucking land? This whole damn compound?”
Stagg grinned and nodded. He stood against his maroon Cadillac, chewing on a toothpick, taking in the possibilities of his own little valley. A cold wind whisking down through the valley and across their faces.
“God damn, man. You ain’t no joke. From here, we do what the fuck we want.”
You didn’t have to tell Houston much about how it would all work, the smart kid in the bright blue satin warm-up stood next to his bright white Escalade just smiling. He talked about their partnership, now a friendship, and how an airfield would get those Burrito Eaters off his back. Those Burrito Eaters now calling the shots from below the border in a town some had never even visited.
“Don’t need no trucks coming in from Texas,” Houston said. “Don’t need no shit from New Orleans. We call it. Deal direct.”
“And you can make it happen?” Stagg said. “You lived with those people down there for how long? Learned their practices and their ways?”
“Four years,” Houston said. “They call my black ass Speedy Gonzales. Understand honor, respect, and that you shoot a motherfucker
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