Dark River Road (65 page)

“I doubt the cops are even looking that hard for Brad,” Chantry said after a minute, and Doc nodded agreement.

“Quinton probably has a lot to do with that. Brad works for him. Looks bad to have your employee involved in a violent domestic dispute when he’s head of casino security.”

“With Quinton, violence is probably a job requirement.” Chantry eased into a comfortable position in the chair, flinched slightly when his ribs protested with a sharp twinge. Nothing was broken, but he did have a cracked rib that hurt almost as much. Doctors had bound his chest with one of those elastic bandages, then told him to be careful and not lift anything heavier than five pounds. As if he could have managed that anyway.

“Chris doesn’t seem so bad,” Doc said, and Chantry didn’t say anything to that. He had his own opinions about Chris Quinton. “Heard he’s decent to work for, tries to be fair when the old man isn’t around,” Doc continued. “Gets his decisions overrode a lot. Quinton makes his life hell as often as he can.”

He couldn’t work up much sympathy for Chris. Shrugging, he said, “He can leave Cane Creek any time he gets tired of it.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

No point in going in that direction. It’d be one of those things they’d just have to disagree about. He changed subjects.

“Sending Ledbetter’s pup home tomorrow. Did he ever hear back from the breeder about how he got a dog with ICH?”

They talked for a few minutes about breeders and puppy mills, then the talk switched to a brief discussion of local dog fighting. Chantry hadn’t forgotten his intention of finding out more about Billy Mac Stark. He’d just been distracted for a while. When he had time, he’d ask around and see what he could learn. There had to be more than just Doc and Mindy who knew about it. It’d be an entire underground operation. Dogs, owners, trainers, spectators, lots of betting and money would be involved.

“You’re liable to bite off more than you can chew if you try to take that on,” Doc said. “I remember when Earl Stryker tried to stop it. He got hurt pretty bad before he decided it wasn’t worth it. Said it was an accident, but how the hell he ended up at the bottom of a gravel pit with two broken legs is still a mystery. Keep that in mind.”

“So you’re telling me small towns aren’t really less dangerous than big cities.”

Doc laughed. “That’s a crock. Maybe some folks think that just because they hear about a lot more crimes in big cities, that small towns are safer. Percentage-wise, I’d say Cane Creek is on a par with Memphis or New York. We just keep it quiet better.”

That sounded about right.

Chantry went home early, more tired than he’d thought he’d be, and ended up parking in the alley instead of the garage because he didn’t feel like walking down from the main house. It seemed like a mile instead of a few yards. Later, he’d go see Herky, thank him for saving his butt for him. Right now, all he wanted to do was sit down in front of the TV and have a cold beer.

They’d prescribed pain pills at the hospital, but he figured a beer or two was all the pain killer he needed. He didn’t like anything that took away his choices, and drugs did that to him. A simple muscle relaxer could make him too slow, dull his senses past what he liked. He didn’t drink to excess for the same reason. Only once or twice in his entire life.

It was a balmy evening, enough of a breeze to cool the air and ground mosquitoes, leach away heat from the day. The courtyard had a pergola, one of those open-air things overhead built of sturdy weathered timbers. This one had vines climbing all over it, dripping down in places, some of them sweet-smelling, some just thick greenery. He wandered out to smoke, restless and uninterested in anything on television. The beer should take the edge off, let him relax a little.

Dusk slowly sucked light from the sky, shadows deepened, and something like silence eased across lawns and streets. A dog barked, a horn honked, but other than that there were no sirens, no traffic noises. Someone was grilling out, the smell drifting on the wind.

“Thought you’d be celebrating,” a voice said behind him, and he turned to see Chris at the side of the courtyard, staring at him over a brick planter filled with bright red flowers.

“Celebrating what? Cathy getting shot? Getting arrested? Getting my ass kicked? Which is it?”

“Take your pick. You have a way of cutting to the chase anyway.” Chris stepped around the planter and came into the courtyard. One of the lanterns flicked on, gleamed in his hair. “So how does she look? Did she—ask about me? You saw Tansy, didn’t you?”

He looked at him for a minute. “You’re not going to pretend that you haven’t.”

Chris leaned against one of the support posts, crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve seen her every time she’s come back. Just not up close.”

“Why? You like suffering that much?”

“It’s worse wondering. At least
 . . .
at least when I see her I know she’s okay.”

“Why the hell do you come talk to me about her? Don’t you have any friends who’d give a damn if you want to whine about lost love?”

“No.” Chris laughed, but it sounded more bitter than amused. “Not any who I’d want to hear about Tansy. Think I’d want that to get back to my grandfather?”

Chantry was really in no mood to deal with Chris’s brand of masochism. “Then grow some balls and do what you want for a change. Go see her. Talk to her.” He smoked the last of his cigarette and stuck the butt in a pot of sand, irritable and short-tempered. When he looked up, Chris was staring at him with an odd expression.

“You look like hell, Chantry.”

“Thanks. Did I invite you or do you just come with the house?”

Chris smiled faintly. “I’m not part of the furnishings, if that’s what you mean. Hell, I don’t know why I’m here. Maybe because you’re the only one who knows. Everything.”

“Just my luck.”

“Yeah. Listen, I heard my grandfather talking. He’s not real happy with you.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“No. But he’s talking about calling a friend at Mississippi State. Pulling some strings. You might want to watch your back.”

“I always do.”

“Right. Don’t underestimate him, Chantry.”

“There’s not much he can do. My grades are good, Doc will vouch for me.”

“Just keep what I said in mind.”

“Why do you always come ’round to warn me? Makes me wonder if you don’t have your own agenda.” Chantry narrowed his eyes, studying Chris in the dim light. He still didn’t trust him, still hadn’t forgotten their past. Not that he trusted many people anyway.

“I do have my own agenda,” Chris said after a minute, shrugging. “It just doesn’t have a whole lot to do with yours. Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass if you and my grandfather battle it out to the bitter end. Still not quite sure who I’ll put my money on, just don’t want to get caught in the fall-out.”

“So you’re hedging your bets. Riding the wheel until you know which way to place.”

“Something like that. Seems to work for others.”

“Yeah? Let me know how it works for you.”

“Oh, I will.” Chris looked like he was about to say something else, then changed his mind. He turned around and walked away, and Chantry had the distinct feeling that he’d missed out on something important.

He found out just how much influence
Quinton had the next day. Doc got a phone call from the university. They wanted a detailed report on Chantry, said it had to do with his exams. It didn’t matter that Doc gave them what they wanted in spades. Chantry got furious.

When he started for the clinic door, Doc stopped him. “Let it go, Chantry. He’s just doing his best to yank your dick. If you let Quinton know he got you, he’ll do it again.”

“He’ll do it again anyway.”

“Probably. But why give him the satisfaction of a reaction?”

That was true. Chantry let it go for now. Doc was right. What could he do besides give Quinton even more reason to go after him? Not that he needed any more reason. Hell, he’d been thinking about it for years, now he was here and he still hadn’t done anything besides go out to Six Oaks and come away empty-handed. It was time he went on the offensive.

In a few days, when his face didn’t look so bad anymore and he could move without pain shooting through his ribs like a knife, he drove back out to Six Oaks. This time, he waited until he knew Quinton was gone, over in Tunica at the Silver Dollar. That’d been easy enough to find out. One of the clinic clients worked there, had mentioned while he treated her dog for eczema that she dreaded Fridays because Quinton always spent the day at the casino looking over operations.

It was the same Friday he was supposed to go to Tansy’s show at the Grand Isle. His face still looked pretty battered; the bruises had yellowed, but his eye had healed and the swelling in his mouth had gone down so he guessed he didn’t look too scary to show up. Besides, Tansy would probably come after him if he didn’t keep his promise to be there.

When he parked his car in front of Six Oaks, he wasn’t even sure this would work, or that he’d get in. Quinton could have meant it when he’d said he wouldn’t be welcome anymore. Right now, it was worth a try.

The maid let him in, told him that Mr. Quinton was out until late that afternoon, looked a bit flustered when he asked if Mrs. Quinton was in.

“Mrs. Quinton? You mean Miss Laura? Why
 . . .
no, she’s not here. It’s her regular week for treatment—she won’t be back until Sunday. Shall I leave a message for you?”

“No. No message.” He paused, then said, “She’s still going to Parkwood for treatment, isn’t she?”

“Why—yes. I heard that name mentioned.”

He nodded. Parkwood had been a hunch. A lucky guess. Close enough for easy travel, far enough away from Quinton County to keep rumors at bay. Desoto County was an hour and a half away. He could still get there and back in plenty of time to get to Tunica for Tansy’s show.

Set in gentle wooded hills, Parkwood was right off the main drag in Olive Branch, not far from a Walmart Superstore, close to a main highway out of Memphis. Patients there were treated for some mental illnesses, drug addictions, and alcohol abuse. It was probably a toss-up which malady was the illness of the week for Laura Quinton. She seemed to have a fair share of each.

Sometimes he thought about Chris when he’d come out to get his mother that time, how he hadn’t even looked anywhere but at her, so gentle with her and patient despite the fact he had to be embarrassed and upset. It hadn’t shown in the way he dealt with her. That was the only time he’d seen them together, but he’d heard Colin Quinton yelling at Chris, sounding so much like Rainey that he’d realized then money didn’t really make a person better, just better-dressed. And he’d begun to understand what Chris and Mama meant when they’d said money didn’t solve all of life’s problems. An illuminating discovery for a fifteen year old boy.

The receptionist behind the desk in the glassed office had him sign in, then called back to check to see if Mrs. Quinton was allowed all visitors. Some were, some weren’t, for while there was a restricted juvenile side, the adults were pretty much like regular hospital patients. After a few minutes, someone came out to show him to the cafeteria, a bright room with plastic chairs and long tables and a few vending machines on one wall opposite a closed serving line.

Laura Quinton already sat at one of the tables, watching the door. She didn’t seem to be at all surprised to see him. He bought her a coke from the vending machine, sat opposite her, not quite sure where to start. She smiled.

“I know why you’re here.”