A tree in the distance caught Quinn’s eyes, skeletal and alone, blackened from fire and spiky-branched. The dead tree resembled a black pitchfork.
Quinn shut off the engine. Diane took in a deep breath. Something about that old tree captivated him, like it was from a half-remembered dream.
“The house was up on that hill?” he said.
She nodded.
“You want to walk up that way?”
She took another long, deep breath. She rubbed her fingers over her eyes. She breathed again. “Oh, hell,” she said. “Come on.”
They got out of the truck, Hondo following. They walked through a cattle gate and then out into the pasture, among the growing weeds, wandering cows, and piles of shit. An old bull sat up on the hill, watching them without menace, just slow and lazy but curious, wide-eyed and snorting a bit. The other cattle grazing and chewing as Quinn walked side by side with Diane until she stopped and said this is where the man had taken them that night, under the full moon and with a pistol on them, telling them they were going up to that old abandoned house and sit a spell.
“‘Sit a spell’?” Quinn asked.
“That’s what he said,” Diane said. “But you could see what he wanted from his eyes and the way he was sweating.”
“I’m sorry,” Quinn said.
“I’d like to say you forget in time,” Diane said. “That some of all this is fuzzy. But that would be a goddamn lie.”
• • •
The city and county leaders decided to hold the announcement at the Jericho Square. It had taken some time to remove all the debris and contractor trucks from the park and get it all looking straight again. The city work crews had strewn white lights in the newly planted trees and across the gazebo that had remained untouched after the storm, as well as the monument to the fallen heroes of the World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, and the Global War on Terror. The heads of the automotive components company had flown into Memphis and would arrive within the hour. Tibbehah was going to be supplying parts to that new Toyota plant in Blue Springs, one of the country’s biggest. And already Johnny Stagg had spoken to no less than four news crews from Tupelo and Jackson bright and early that morning about what folks were calling the Tibbehah Miracle. Not only did it look like this little backwater county would survive after being hit dead-ass-on by an F4 tornado, but, damn, if it didn’t look like it was going to be stronger and better than ever. A new industrial park, grants to rebuild the old downtown in the historical style of the original, and new road and highway improvements.
“People know it takes a good man to grease those wheels in Jackson,” Ringold said, saying it in that flat, solemn way he spoke. “You’re a hero. Folks say it takes a businessman like Mr. Stagg to get things done.”
“Is that what they’re saying?” Stagg said, grinning. He popped a piece of peppermint candy in his mouth and chewed hard. “The gratitude does keep me going.”
“Are you going to speak?”
“No, sir,” Stagg said.
“Senator Vardaman?”
“It’s more his kind of show,” Stagg said. “I just handle the introductions around here. I’m what you call a facilitator.”
“You’re also the man who pledged a half-million dollars to rebuild Jericho before any of this happened,” Ringold said. “If I were you, I’d at least say a few words and take a fucking bow.”
“People know what I done,” Stagg said. “That’s enough.”
“Tupelo paper this morning called it an overall story of redemption,” Ringold said. “They referred to you as the former owner of a roadside strip club turned entrepreneur.”
“Is that a fact?” Stagg said. “‘Former’? Bless their hearts.”
The chamber of commerce president, Wade Mize, waddled on over with five folks who looked to be dressed for Sunday service. He wore a blue suit and bright gold tie, fat jowls recently shaved and smelling of cologne. He introduced a minister from Southaven, a couple businessmen from Memphis, and a couple women from Oxford who were looking to start a restaurant and maybe a boutique. Stagg grinned and shook their hands, smiling to all their praise, especially when the minister told him that most often miracles sprout from unlikely places. Stagg winked at the man and continued walking with Ringold. “Uh-huh,” Stagg said.
“Mize sure seemed happy to see you.”
“Funny, the people who call me Mr. Stagg these days,” Stagg said. “Wade Mize’s mother is a stone-cold crazy woman who’s made it her personal mission to drive me from this town. I could take all the newspaper columns she’s written about the old Rebel being a den of iniquity and we could wallpaper the whole truck stop. And you know what? I hadn’t heard a damn peep from her after the storm. She still won’t speak to me, but at least she shut her dry old mouth.”
Stagg and Ringold walked on up to the gazebo where Stagg would stand behind Vardaman and the boys from the automotive company. There’d be talk about the opening of the production line and a grant to finally complete the industrial park right off Highway 45 that would bring jobs, money, and growth to northeast Mississippi. People had flyers and big blown-up pictures of the architectural drawings and such.
There would be a short prayer for the nine dead souls and a bell rung from the Baptist church at noon. After, the way Stagg understood things, they’d all go on over to city hall for a plate lunch of barbecue and catfish catered by Pap’s.
Stagg looked out on the town square, taking a lot of pride in how much had been done in such a short amount of time. The broken shit had been hauled away and already a new row of four storefronts was being built. Stagg had offered the owners of the old stores a solid price for the destroyed property, telling them the recovery might take years—if at all. And now he already had agreements from a bank from Tupelo, a steak restaurant, and a combo coffee shop and tanning parlor.
“You think a dozen girls is enough?” Ringold asked. “For tonight?”
“Depends on the girls.”
“Best we got.”
“Make sure you got a couple real young ones,” Stagg said. “That’s been requested direct by one of the guests. Young, black, and happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gonna be a hell of a party out at the ole hunt lodge tonight,” Stagg said. “You better believe it. Those sonsabitches couldn’t wait to get back to ole Jericho.”
Stagg started to step down from the gazebo, walk across the park, and say hello to the meat manager of the Piggly Wiggly when he heard a guttural growl that nearly made him swallow the rest of his candy. He stopped cold on the steps and held up a hand for Ringold to do the same. “You hear that? You fucking hear that?”
He looked into the distance to see a half-dozen motorcycles with big engines and big pipes rip and vibrate the town square. The men had broad backs and leather vests worn over denim jackets. They had long hair and beards and looked as if they’d just stepped off horses from another century.
Stagg wandered out on the walkway, trying to get a glimpse of the pack rounding the Square, see if he recognized any of the bastards who’d come to town to make a stand and go ahead and squat and shit on his big day.
“Mr. Stagg?” Ringold said. “You OK?”
• • •
“Y’all didn’t make it to the house?” Quinn said.
“No, sir,” Diane said. Diane and Quinn stood in the pasture a few hundred meters from where the old house had been. “This is where he grabbed Lori and started to mess with her, putting his hands all on her, reaching under her shirt and into her jeans. He kept the gun on me and told me to sit, wait till he was done. I told him we needed to get to the old house, you know, just to keep him moving, trying to figure out a way we could get loose before we got inside.”
Quinn nodded. Hondo broke into a wide circle and started to bark a bit at the cows, getting one big fat heifer to trot forward, the dog nipping at her heels. The dog barked some more and nipped at some other cows. Quinn looked up to the big bull on the hill and then back to Diane. The morning so gray and cold, he could see her breath as she spoke.