“You’re wrong there,” said a voice in Jimmy’s ear. “That kind of acid eats down to the bone. Messes up your heart.”
Panic flared in Stump’s eyes. Jimmy didn’t sense even a millimeter of room for negotiation in the men who had bushwhacked them. Surely these guys didn’t mean to kill them, though? Niggers preferred drive-bys, lots of noise and attention. Even in prison, they always used shanks. And Jimmy had yet to see a weapon.
“Listen, bro,” said Stump, and Jimmy cringed. “We ain’t the guys you want. We didn’t have nothing to do with that business. Some oilfield boys were talking about it in the bar earlier, but we don’t know shit.”
“You’re lying,” said the voice in Jimmy’s ear.
“That’s God’s truth, I swear!” Stump cried.
“It don’t matter,” said the giant. “You part of the same poison. And I’m tired. You’ll do.”
Just then Jimmy realized that the giant was wearing gloves. Leather work gloves. Where the hell did he find gloves to fit those monster hands? he wondered.
Then Jimmy saw the hand at the collar of Stump’s jacket move up and close around the top of his skull like a five-point vise.
“Oh Jesus,” Stump groaned. “Aaaggghhh . . . don’t do that!”
“Ain’t done nothing yet, mister. You’ll know when I do.”
Panic tore around inside Jimmy’s chest like a crazed rat.
“They got security cameras here, man! If you hurt us, the law gonna get you for sure!”
“No cameras,” said the voice in his ear. “We already checked.”
“Please,” begged Jimmy. “Let us go. You can have the bikes. I got nothing against brothers, myself. I had a bunch of black friends in Angola.”
“What that VK on your jacket stand for?” asked the voice in Jimmy’s ear. “Viking something? That’s what the FBI man told us.”
“Varangian Kindred. ‘Varangian’ means Vikings, though, yeah.”
“That a prison gang?”
“No, no. A motorcycle club. One percent.”
The giant reflected on this for some time. “They told me in college that the Vikings settled America before Columbus ever got here. Hundreds of years before.”
Jimmy felt a flicker of hope. “That’s right, man! What college did you go to? You play ball? You must have, big as you are.”
“You reckon them Vikings ever got to Africa?”
Jimmy couldn’t think. Stump had shut his eyes, and Jimmy knew his old buddy was praying silently for mercy.
“If they didn’t,” said the hot breath in his ear, “I’d say they were lucky. What you think?”
Jimmy nodded, believing it.
“So . . . my sister,” said the giant, giving Stump’s head a squeeze, like a man checking a melon. “Time to pay. Make your peace with God.”
“Hold on!” Jimmy shouted. “You want us to give a message to somebody?”
“You are the message,” said the voice at his ear.
“Wait!” Stump shrieked.
But the big hands had begun their work, as slow and sure as if the giant were trying to twist free a bolt that had rusted to a metal plate.
“Oh, Lord,” Jimmy moaned, as infantile shame flooded through him. “I shit myself.”
“Don’t worry,” the giant said gently, his jaw muscles clenching with effort. “All be over in a minute.”
Saturday
Chapter 14
Saturday morning brought bad news. Keisha’s condition had worsened, and Drew Elliott was considering having her flown to University Medical Center in Jackson. At the hospital, John Kaiser informed me that two damaged Harley-Davidson motorcycles had been found in the parking lot of a dive bar on the Louisiana side of the river, their license plates removed. Kaiser pointed out the strangeness of someone stealing the license plates but not the bikes themselves, and of no one claiming two motorcycles. Then he asked me if I knew the whereabouts of Keisha Harvin’s brothers last night. Thankfully, I did not.
At the prompting of Serenity Butler, I negotiated a limited period of freedom from my security team, then drove Tee across the river, through Vidalia, then Ferriday, and on to Clayton, where the church that hosted Henry Sexton’s funeral stands. There we met with Reverend John Baldwin and his son, who is also a preacher. Serenity introduced herself, then spent an hour patiently questioning the two pastors about their lives in Clayton. The elder Reverend Baldwin is in his nineties, and he told Tee about serving in the navy during World War Two, then returning home to help found the Deacons for Defense. Baldwin’s son served in Vietnam and still suffers from PTSD as well as an autoimmune disease he believes to be linked to Agent Orange. Like most people, the Baldwins were surprised to learn that Serenity had served in a war, but that common thread quickly established a bond of trust between them.
As we left their church sanctuary, Tee gave the preachers a card with her cell phone number and told them she’d welcome a call at any hour of the day or night—especially one regarding information that might help in the quest for justice for Keisha Harvin, or in the larger battle against the Double Eagles. Then she hugged both men and led me out to the Audi, which was parked near Henry’s grave.
“Where next?” I asked.
“We’ve touched base on the black side. Let’s see if we can stir whitey up a little bit.”
“What?”
Tee grinned. “Which of the Double Eagles do you most want to talk to you?”
“Doesn’t matter. None of them will talk. And with you there, they might get crazy. A couple have already pulled guns on me.”
“We’ll see, then. Give me a name.”
Against my better judgment, I said, “Will Devine. He’s one of the original members. He might know something about Viola’s death.”
“Will Devine it is.” Serenity slapped the roof of the S4. “Let’s move.”
Will Devine lives on the western edge of Vidalia, not more than a couple of blocks from the houses of Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield. During the drive over from Clayton, I give Serenity a briefing on my history with the Devine family and what I hope to learn from him or his sons.
“So Devine probably took part in the murder of Sonny Thornfield,” she says. “Inside the Concordia Parish jail?”
“If he didn’t take part, he saw it happen.”
“And Snake Knox was in there at the time?”
“Yes.”
“Well, damn. Let’s get this redneck talking.”
“I don’t think you appreciate the reality of this situation. The two times I’ve been there, Devine met me at the door with a double-barreled shotgun.”
She laughs. “Maybe you need lessons in sweet-talking, Mr. Mayor. Your history as a prosecutor obviously didn’t give you the proper skills for this kind of work.”
“Okay. We’ll see how you do. Devine weighs about two seventy, and he’s ugly as an albino sea lion.”
“Then attention from a sister like me ought to be even more welcome.”