30 Porter Hayes

They weren't an hour out of Memphis that morning, tailing Dean McKellar's Land Rover for the second straight day, when Deacon Malone started to witness to Porter. Asking him if he's got his house in order, straight with the Lord, and that kind of thing.

"I'm good," Hayes said, driving south on I-55 past Coldwater. "But appreciate you asking."

"I don't think I could get out of bed without His help," Malone said. "I know you go to church when you can. Mainly doing it for Nina and your grandkids. Keeping up those appearances. A nice Sunday suit. Cash in the collection plate. But when you're there, are you listening?"

"You understand my situation with the Lord."

"He will ease your mind a lot more than that Rémy at night," Malone said. "I don't want to be all up in your business, Porter. But I been there before. You know, it's later than you think."

"I think I better find my client or I'm not much of a detective," Porter said. "I think that I promised to help this woman get out from her husband and then don't hear anything else from her. I knock on her door and the lying husband shuts the damn door in my face. None of this is looking real good."

"When we were up at Coletta's the other night, you just looked troubled is all," Malone said. "I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't try to share the Good News. Even knowing your position on the church."

"I don't have any position," Hayes said. He was pretty sure that McKellar was headed down to his hunt camp in the Delta, unless he kept on truckin' on the interstate past Batesville and Grenada. The morning had started off normal, McKellar going for a five-mile jog and stopping by the Starbucks on Union before heading back to his big English Tudor. He came out thirty minutes later in dress clothes—black turtleneck, gray slacks, and camel coat—and got into his Land Rover. They expected another round at the Club or maybe lunch with his fat-cat attorney, Jimbo Hornsby. But instead, he jumped on 240 and then south on 55. It was that long leg down 55 that got Malone into preacher mode, wanting to talk about Porter's situation. "Genevieve been gone for almost twenty years, man."

"I know how long she's been gone," Hayes said. "No need to remind me."

"That woman had a strong bond with God," Malone said. "Never heard a voice so mighty. That wasn't just her gift. That came from how strong she believed."

"You know what I think?" Hayes said. "I think Dean McKellar's keeping Addison locked up down on the farm. We should've checked this place two days ago instead of following this man all around Memphis. That's why she never left her house. Because she's not in her house."

"Guess we'll find out," Malone said.

At Batesville, Dean McKellar took the second exit and headed west toward the Delta. If Porter was right about things, he'd be getting off Highway 6 in about fifteen minutes to go deeper into Quitman County.

"You know Charley Pride grew up down in Sledge?" Malone said, watching the flat landscape fly by the passenger window.

Hayes didn't answer, keeping back four or five car lengths from Dean McKellar. But the farther they got on into the Delta, so damn big, empty, and treeless, it would be a hell of a lot harder not to be spotted. He figured if McKellar made the turn Porter thought he'd be making, then they'd just pull over for a few minutes and drive straight to the property listed on the deed.

"Preacher said you can't spell life without if," Malone said. "If stands for both a choice and a chance. Make a choice or take a chance with the Lord. You know what I'm saying?"

"Sure thing, man," Hayes said. "Hey. You mind checking in my glove box?"

Malone leaned his big ass forward, grunting, and opened up the glove box, pulling out some speed loaders for his .38. "This what you're looking for?"

"This man will shoot our Black asses dead and then drop us in the river without a thought," Hayes said. "I known folks like him back in Nam. Fellas like him don't kill for their country. They kill 'cause they like watching shit burn."

"You ever think this may be the final days of our story?"

"All the time," Hayes said. "Live each day as if it were your last, without frenzy, without apathy, without pretense."

"Don't think I know that verse."

"It's not a Bible verse," Hayes said. "It's Marcus Aurelius."

Hayes watched the taillights of the Land Rover cross a rusted bridge over the Tallahatchie and then approach a country crossroads, where McKellar turned left and headed south just as he expected. Hayes pulled off onto the shoulder and let down his window for some fresh air.

"You a hard man, Porter Hayes."

"Not hard," he said. "Just realistic. I'm too old for some bedtime stories."

"What happened to Genevieve wasn't about you," Malone said. "He had greater plans for that woman. We can't even understand how this whole big story fits together."

"Appreciate you, Deacon," Hayes said. "You're a good man and a better friend. And I thank you for witnessing to me today. But once we go on down into the Delta, some shit's gonna fly and I need you to be on it. You got your big-ass gun?"

"Always do."

"Good," Hayes said. "Because I'm not going back to Memphis without my client. Some things just aren't done."

Deacon hadn't spoken since they'd pulled off on the side of the road and then continued on five minutes later. He only called out the country roads where Porter was supposed to turn, keeping to the map of north Mississippi they'd brought from the office.

"Should be about five miles down the road."

"Might have a gate," Hayes said. "White folks love to have their property sealed off with cattle gates. Maybe some No Trespass signs and Rebel flags."

"Since when has that stopped us?"

"Never."

"You know you saying that losing a client just wasn't done had me thinking on that old movie with Bogart."

"The Maltese Falcon."

"Yeah," Malone said. "I don't recall much about that movie other than Bogart saying that you can't allow anyone to kill your damn partner. You think you'll say that if I hike my Black ass into a hunt lodge to find some white woman?"

"You mean, would I avenge you?"

"That's right," Malone said. "Avenge me."

"Maybe," Hayes said, following a big curve of road under a canopy of oak trees, leaves falling down brown and dead across the windshield. "I never took on a partner. But I'll see what I can do if you get yourself killed."

"That must be it," Malone said, pointing to a big log house with a green metal roof. A dirt road led straight to the main house with an open gate along the highway. There were a few cabins and neat trailers set up on the land and, as expected, a lot of No Trespassing signs and fences topped with barbed wire. Dean McKellar's Land Rover and an old truck seemed to be the only vehicles. "Place looks like a goddamn Cracker Barrel."

Hayes found a spot down the road to pull off where they were far enough away not to be seen but could still check on the house with some binoculars.

"You think he's trying to get her to change her mind about what she's seen?"

"Probably."

"You think he was a goddamn secret agent, superspy motherfucker?"

"Back in Nam I came across a few folks in that Phoenix program," Hayes said. "Counterintelligence against the Vietcong by any means necessary. He's way too young, but McKellar got the same air about him. You just know he's an any-means-necessary motherfucker."

Malone folded his arms over his big stomach. "That don't scare me," he said. "What are we waiting on?"

"Make sure we know what we're up against," Hayes said. "I want to make sure when we go in, we know the entire situation."

Malone lowered the binoculars. "Well," he said. "We won't have to worry about McKellar. He's headed back out now."

Hayes took the binoculars from Malone—suddenly struck with the memory of April 1968, watching the Lorraine Motel from the back of Fire Station No. 2. Dr. King dressed in a crisp dark suit, standing over the railing, facing the parking lot. Porter now focused his binoculars and followed the Land Rover as it headed back out the dirt road, kicking up a plume of dust on its way to the highway, where it turned north back the way it came.

"Long drive to stay for a few minutes," Malone said.

"Woman's got to eat."

"Like I said," Malone said. "What are we waiting on?"

They drove through the open gate, dust flying up around Porter's Mercedes, making hell of the detail he'd just gotten. He parked behind the old red truck, a Chevy, and they both got out of the car and headed up the path to the wraparound porch. Porter decided he'd approach the situation same as a wellness call, two ex-cops making an appearance to check on a client. If McKellar or his people wanted to get the local law involved, fine. He just wanted to make sure Addison was safe, and if she was locked up in this place, get her free and get Dean McKellar's ass charged with kidnapping.

He knocked on the door, and after they didn't hear a creature stirring, drifted around to the side of the property. Porter figured maybe the truck was just some old beater that McKellar kept on the land. From the creaky porch, Hayes got a good view of the open property. There were two other cabins and three small trailers, a decent-size pond with a pier, what looked like a gun range, and a thick batch of pines and cypress trees bordering the land.

"Redneck heaven," Malone said, pointing out a collection of ATVs parked in an open metal garage.

Hayes picked a door lock, deciding just to press on, better to ask for forgiveness instead of permission, and walked inside, calling out for Addison. The lights were off and no one answered, the building open and empty. A big stone fireplace dominated the center of the house, flanked by mounted ducks and animal heads.

They checked out several bedrooms in the big lodge, which weren't fancy, more like bunkhouses with shellacked pine walls and adjoining bathrooms. They met up by the fireplace and the open kitchen, which was the size of a small diner with a long bar to seat at least a dozen or so folks. There was a big-ass Viking range and two oversize stainless-steel sinks with pulldown nozzles. Everything was commercial grade, right down to the steel door of a walk-in freezer where they probably kept the duck, rabbit, hogs, and deer.

They looked at the walk-in and then to each other, both having the same bad thought. The big steel door was padlocked. "Got a crowbar in the trunk," Hayes said, tossing the big man his keys.

Malone returned a minute or so later with the crowbar, pressing it behind the padlock and straining until the screws popped free and the door opened with a hiss. Hayes walked in while Deacon waited by the door and peered inside. Sides of beef, pork, and maybe venison hung up on hooks, covered in plastic sheeting.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Deacon said.

"You never acted like that until you got off the pork."

"It's unclean, man."

"Where's it say that?"

"What have I been trying to say," Malone said. "The Bible."

"Same thing that says you can't eat any catfish."

"Bottom feeders," he said. "It's all unclean."

"Says who?"

"Says the Lord," Malone said. "Damn, Porter. That's a lot of blood on that floor."

Hayes looked down, barely noticing that he'd stepped into a pool of sticky half-frozen blood, his good Italian boots making tracks across the metal floor.

He walked down the rows of meat, each marked with dates, enough sides of beef to feed an army, until he came up onto something that damn near took his breath way.

"Deacon," he said. "Come on up and see this."

"Nah," he said. "I'm good."

"Deacon," he said. "Goddamn it. Bring the camera."

Porter felt like all the air had left his body, a heavy weight falling onto his shoulders as he saw the legs sticking out below the sheeting. So this is how it all worked. The man had killed Addison and then brought her here to cool out until he could make sense of things. Porter had seen dead bodies before, many more than he ever wanted, but he'd never been okay with it. The same broadside loss and emptiness fell over him as he took out his pocketknife and slashed the plastic in front of the distorted face.

Deacon was back, out of breath, and at his side holding the camera. "Gotdamn, Porter," he said. "That Mrs. McKellar?"

Porter Hayes stepped back and studied the woman's empty face. The eyes half open and mouth wide in horror. Her skin was bluish white, her lips still coated in garish lipstick.

"I saw this woman in the newspaper," Porter Hayes said. "Some kind of actress that made pictures with Elvis."

"What in the fuck is she doing in this man's meat cooler?"

Hayes didn't answer. He just turned away from the dead woman and shook his head. Addison sure was swimming in a river of trouble.

"Like the old song says," Deacon said. "Don't let the devil ride."