Free The Redeemers by Ace Atkins Page B

said, shrugged, the tip of the cigar glowing a bright orange. A hard, cold wind lifted up off the roadside as a couple more cars drove slow and steady on past. In the clearing, two large does snuck out from the edge of the woods, heads up, ears twitching, catching the scent of the smoke and scampering back into the darkness.
    “What do you know about Cobb?”
    “He’s the uncle of a woman I know,” Quinn said. “One of the richest men in town. Church deacon. Civic leader. Oh, and he hates the shit out of black people and thinks his success in business was a gift from God.”
    “Is he as bad as Stagg?”
    “He’s a cheater,” Quinn said. “Some might say a liar. But I don’t think he’s got ole Johnny’s ambition. And truth be known, he’s not as smart.”
    Ringold nodded, smoking, watching the wide-open empty field. The deer were long gone after the smoke hit their nostrils and sent them hightailing it far away. Quinn had been trying to teach his nephew Jason about smells as they walked the woods. He’d told him to walk lightly without leaving a mark, not letting yourself be known to the animals, or even plants, around them. Walk soft. That way, you could be part of the whole woods, feel it and sense it. It didn’t matter if you were hunting or passing through, you treated the woods, the natural world, with a sense of respect.
    “Nothing changes after you step down,” Ringold said. “You got that?”
    “Shit,” Quinn said. “Like a neutered hound.”
    “You can do things, talk to people, outside your work. Outside your duties.”
    “OK.”
    “Let me ask you something.”
    Quinn looked up and ashed his cigar at the edge of the picnic table. Ringold took a puff on his and then rubbed his thick, almost biblical-looking beard. “Does all this seem familiar to you?” he said. “Folks blindly listening to whoever is in charge without asking a thing? Drug running. Political corruption. Bullshit road projects and nation building.”
    “Tibbehah and Trashcanistan?”
    “Yes, sir,” Ringold said. “Nobody gives a shit as long as they can sit on their ass and watch football on Saturday and stuff themselves after church on Sunday.”
    “Southerners aren’t real good on change,” Quinn said. “Or calling out the folks in power. In case you need a reminder.”
    “I’m not Southern.”
    “No kidding,” Quinn said. “Just where are you from anyway, Mr. Ringold?”
    Ringold smiled, thumbed the side of his nose, and turned his back, walking away. “Appreciate the smoke, Quinn,” Ringold said. “You’re too good for these folks.”
    “Maybe,” Quinn said. “But a man’s never too good for his family.”

8.
    H ello, Momma,” Quinn said as he walked into his farmhouse and removed his ranch coat and dark green ball cap, hanging them on a single hook. He lifted the Beretta 9 off his belt and locked it away in the side drawer of his office desk, while Jean Colson followed him, drying her hands on a dish towel, a worried look on her face. She had on a gold scarf draped around her neck and an oversized green sweater dotted with snowflakes and gold ornaments. She was a slightly heavy but beautiful woman with a lot of red hair and love for all things Elvis Presley. A long time ago she’d ridden around north Mississippi on the back of Jason Colson’s Harley, wearing hot pants and boots.
    “She wants to see him,” Jean said. “All she’s been talking about this morning is little Jason. I think it’s a terrible idea. She looks like hell.”
    “She sure does.”
    “No six-year-old boy needs to see his momma like that,” Jean said. “It might do her some good, but it will scare the boy.”
    “Roger that,” Quinn said. “We all need to keep them far apart. I don’t care what Caddy wants right now. She’s not in her right mind.”
    “Oh, Lord,” Jean said. “This whole thing’s a mess. You want some coffee?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “I finally got her to sleep in your room,” Jean said