Dark River Road (56 page)

“It does okay.”

“It’d probably do a little better with air in the tires.”

All four tires were flat. Not slashed, just flat. Maybe he should be mad or surprised, but he wasn’t. He just gave Donny a wry look. “Any place open this late to get some air?”

“There’s a gas station over on Market where you might can buy some canned air. If not, I got an air compressor at my house. Not that it’d do us much good unless we towed your car over there on a flatbed.”

“Right. We’ll try the canned air first.”

Donny’s truck was an older model and smelled like sour milk, but it got them to the gas station where Chantry bought eight cans of compressed air to fix flats. He hated using it on his tires, but he sure wasn’t going to leave it parked all night on the dark street outside the Wreck Room.

“Any idea who mighta done this?” Donny asked while Chantry put air in the tires.

“Multiple choice. Take your pick. You’ve got a whole town to choose from.”

“Could be a kid’s trick. We did the same kind of stuff when we were kids.”

“Not me. That was you. I was into other stuff.”

“Yeah, that’s right. You were always grounded or on probation.”

“No, just had other interests.” Chantry finished the last tire and stood up. “Gotta drive it to distribute the stuff evenly. Going with me?”

“Naw, better go on home. Patty’ll be wondering what’s going on.” Patty Jablonski, now Patty Caldwell, had been a pretty, plump blonde several years behind them in school. He vaguely remembered her but was pretty sure she remembered him a lot better. After everything that had happened, she’d have had to sleep through the entire ninth grade not to have heard the gossip.

When Donny turned left to head south to the new subdivision built a few years back for first time home buyers, he turned right to air up his tires. Then he headed north, just cruised along the highway for a while with the windows down and night air blowing over his face. There was a lot more traffic on the road than he remembered, probably because of the casinos. Quinton County wasn’t isolated any more, if it’d ever been. And now old man Quinton had his hands in the revenues of both counties.

He thought about that, then about Cinda. She was still in Cane Creek. That surprised him. He’d never asked, hadn’t wanted to know, hadn’t figured it’d matter. They’d just been kids the last time he’d seen her, and she would have moved on with her life, like he had. But somehow when he’d let himself remember her, he’d thought of her in exotic places like she’d talked about going one day, far away from Cane Creek, maybe even living in the mountains. Not still here in the flat delta land living in her grandfather’s shadow. It was vaguely disappointing. He’d wanted to think of her being elsewhere. Out of Quinton’s reach.

But maybe that wasn’t possible.

Rainey had once said Quinton was like a big toad gobbling up secrets and people, and he doubted he’d changed that much. Or could change that much. It’d be like turning a dog into a cat. Damn near impossible.

So what the hell was he doing back here? Why had he even come back to Mississippi at all when he could have gone to veterinary school anywhere? He’d had offers from other clinics for his residency, but somehow he’d always known he’d come back to Doc. It wasn’t so much loyalty as it was curiosity. Mama had been fond of saying that curiosity killed the cat, and he’d always replied that satisfaction brought it back. Maybe they were both right. But sometimes satisfaction was elusive and the cat stayed dead.

It was after midnight when he returned to the Best Western, and he parked his car under a big light and set the alarm. The repairman must have come while he was gone, because it was cold in his room. He altered the temperature setting, then grabbed the ice bucket and headed to the ice machine he’d spotted on the first floor. Except for the noise from some of the big rigs parked in the lot, it was quiet, only a few trickles of headlights on the highway. Behind the motel stretched a cotton field, dark where the motel lights didn’t reach. A shaft of light suddenly speared the field in an arc as someone started a car, twin beams sweeping across the parking lot as it turned toward the exit.

When he got back to his room, his phone was ringing. He answered it. A man said, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave Cane Creek.” Then the line went dead. Not exactly a real big surprise. Someone still thought of him as a threat.

He thought about the curious cat and knew who it had to be.

Sunday in Cane Creek hadn’t seemed
to change much on the surface. A church bell rang, the C&P rattled down the tracks with freight, and cars filled the parking lot of the New Cane Creek Baptist Church. Chantry’s wasn’t one of them. He passed by on his way to Tyler’s Drugs, and thought of Mama lying under an oak in the cemetery. He hadn’t visited her grave since the day of her funeral, and when Miss Pat and Doctor Mike wanted her moved to the family plot in Memphis, had flatly refused to even consider it. Mama had chosen to live in Cane Creek, and it was where she needed to stay, whatever her reasons for coming here. With the distance of fourteen years, he figured now that his main reason for protesting then may have been he just couldn’t bear the thought of living through her death again.

Services were letting out as he passed, people coming out to stand on the wide front steps and talk, kids running around to release pent-up energy. It wouldn’t surprise him if Reverend Hale came out to drag him back into the pastor’s study to lecture him on the evils of sin. He had more than a few new ones to add to the list. No doubt the good reverend did as well. Chantry slowed the car slightly. Then he could almost see Mama coming down those steps in her white dress with lavender sprigs, and gave the car a little more gas to get past. Despite the blast of cold air from the air vents, his palms got sweaty. Old ghosts. Mikey was right. He’d said Chantry just replaced old ghosts with new demons, and wouldn’t ever get past any of them until he figured out what he really wanted in life. What was important. Advice from a twenty year old. Just what he needed.

There was a new Walmart in Cane Creek, but Tyler’s appealed more to him so maybe Mikey was right about some things. Eldridge Tyler was behind the pharmacist’s counter, and looked up with a faint frown as if trying to place him, then his brow suddenly cleared and he got this look on his face like he’d just been pole-axed. Chantry ignored him. He’d probably have to get used to that during the next six months. He damn sure didn’t intend to let it run him off.

When he left Tyler’s, he went to the Sonic for a cheeseburger, then back to the motel room to make some phone calls. He still had to have a place to live, and now that Cinda had obviously gone to the trouble to be sure her agent found him a place, the least he could do was check it out. A phone number was written on the outside of the folder under a card stapled to it.

A woman answered when he dialed the number, and he said, “Nancy Owen?”

There was a pause and he thought maybe he’d dialed wrong, but then came the reply, “Chantry? This is Cinda. Nancy’s number is on the card I left you.”

“This is your number written under it, then.”

Another pause, then she said, “Yes.”

For a moment he didn’t know what to say. She’d written her number down, but that was before she’d seen him with Cathy. He got that much. He just wasn’t sure if she’d included her number for him on a personal or professional level. It was awkward. He felt sixteen again, unsure of anything but that he wanted to see her. He gave it a shot.

“Since I’ve got you on the phone, why don’t you show me the rental properties. I don’t think Nancy and I are going to get along too well anyway.”

“Nancy is an extremely competent agent. I’m certain she can help you.”

“She looks at me like I’m going to slit her throat. I’d rather deal with you. Unless that’s a problem?”

There was another silence then she said, “Not for me. It might be for Cathy.”

Jesus
. “It’s not. Is today convenient?”

“I’ll pick you up at two in front of the motel. There are only three suitable properties, so it shouldn’t take long to show them to you.”

At two he went outside just as Cinda drove into the parking lot in a tan Escalade SUV. It looked new, but had mud splatters on the sides and a car tag that read Ridgeway Realty on the front bumper. He slid onto the front seat. She flicked him a glance and impersonal smile, handing him a folder as she put the vehicle into gear and rolled toward the exit.

“There aren’t many rentals available in Cane Creek these days. The casinos keep us pretty busy.”

“Guess you get the overflow from Tunica County.”

“A lot of it, yes. Occasionally, we’ll have something available. Nancy just wasn’t certain if these were cleared yet for rental. Inspections, leases, that sort of thing.”

“And she wasn’t certain Bert Quinton’s granddaughter would want her to rent to me. Sure. I get it.”

Cinda’s silence verified his comment. After a moment, she said, “Which one would you like to look at first?”

“You choose. I can’t tell anything from this.” He didn’t want to waste time looking at the typed descriptions when he could be looking at Cinda. She’d changed, but he’d have known her anywhere. Her blonde hair was a little darker but had light streaks through it, and she wore it to her shoulders in a loose cut that made it swing around her face. All traces of the girl were gone except for her mouth. It still had slick shiny stuff on it and still made him want to kiss her. That could be a problem. He looked away.

She took him first to an empty house in the new family-style subdivision. Kids on bikes and skateboards cluttered the streets, and skinny new trees struggled to survive in the red clay. He wasn’t impressed though the house was fine, three bedrooms with a fireplace in the living room and a double carport.

“I can see you’re not bowled over,” Cinda said, “so we’ll just keep this one in mind.”

The second house was better, on a tree-lined street off the main drag, small and neat, with a white picket fence along the front. The rooms were dark but clean, with high ceilings, lots of old cabbage rose wallpaper, and lace curtains. Very pretty. And very feminine.

He looked at Cinda. “Let’s look at the last one.”

The last house was an old carriage house that’d been renovated into a guest house. It had high ceilings, plenty of light, and a fireplace that dominated the living room. It sat behind the main house by at least thirty yards, separated by a thick boxwood hedge, private and accessible by the rear alley, with a bricked courtyard heavy with blooming plants. There was only one bedroom, but that was all he needed. It was already furnished. He nodded.

“Yeah. This feels right. Will the owner rent to me?”

“Yes. The property belongs to Ridgeway Realty.”

He glanced up at the main house, one of the oldest in Cane Creek, a two-story white mansion that had been built twenty years before the Civil War. “So who owns that house?”

“It also belongs to the realty company.” She said it coolly, with no inflection, but he read what she didn’t say.

“And you own Ridgeway Realty.”

She met his eyes, hers cool and green. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

He shrugged. “Not to me.”

“Then we’ll draw up the contract. You can come in tomorrow afternoon and sign it. It’s very simple, first month’s rent and a security deposit up front. Three hundred each. For an extra fifteen a month, you’ll have access to the washer and dryer in the basement of the main house.”

“Who lives in the main house?”

“I do.”

Right. He didn’t know what to say to that so didn’t say anything. It seemed safer.