The Ranger - Ace Atkins [103]
“How many with him?”
“He’s got seven of his boys and I got five, counting me,” she said. “He killed that preacher.”
“Johnny Stagg offered me a reward to get back his collection plate,” Quinn said.
“And you told him to go fuck himself.”
“You should probably wait for some more folks,” Quinn said. “Who’s in charge anyway?”
“I guess that’s me,” Lillie said. “We got deputies headed this way from Webster and Choctaw.”
“Folks will say a woman shouldn’t take action,” Quinn said, playing with her. “That Tibbehah always needs outside help.”
Lillie studied Quinn’s face as he moved slowly off the end of the bed, slipping down light and easy on wobbly legs. They held steady but hurt like hell, the medication wearing off.
“I can see your ass,” Lillie said.
“Troopers got him bottled in,” Quinn said. “He’s in the bank right now. No other way out?”
“Pretty much.”
“And he’s killed three men we know about.”
“And Jill Bullard.”
Quinn shook his head, handing her the suicide note Johnny Stagg had given to him. Her face dropped a bit, eyes lifting up and meeting Quinn’s. She shook her head like she didn’t believe a word of it even though they both damn well knew it was written in Hamp Beckett’s own hand. Shit, it was flecked with his blood.
“I don’t believe it.”
“You should,” he said. “We can debate it later.”
“We could just wait around.”
“Yeah,” Quinn said, grinning. “Sure thing.”
“Let everyone think that this whole county is corrupt and weak.”
“Would you please have someone get me a pair of jeans, a gun, and boots,” Quinn said, winking at her. “I’d like a shirt and jacket, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
Lillie wadded up the suicide note and tossed it in the trash. “Be right back.”
“And Lillie?”
She hung at the doorway, hand on the doorframe. She had to lift her chin to see him from under the dropped bill of the ball cap.
“We’ll need some more local folks to make a stand.”
35
The old men seemed frozen in the same spot at the VFW where Quinn had joined them one week ago after the funeral, where they’d first asked him to pull up a chair, share in some whiskey, and explained how his uncle stuck a .44 in his mouth and pulled the trigger. They all looked up from their ceremonial cups of coffee, seated at a corner table below a group photo from 1993 of the same men plus his uncle. Mr. Jim pointed to a chair—his uncle’s chair—and asked Quinn to join them, saying he was headed down to the barbershop and he always cut the hair of active service members for free. “High and tight,” he said. “I can give that Ranger cut as good as anyone.”
“We need help,” Quinn said, explaining the situation.
Varner walked behind the VFW bar, reaching for an M40 sniper rifle that hung in a red velvet perch. He checked the sight and racked open the chamber. “I keep ammo at the store. I can take a fair shot from the water tower.”
Quinn nodded.
“You loan me a gun?” Mr. Jim asked Lillie. “All I got is a peashooter I keep by my cash register.”
“Yes, sir,” Lillie said. “Two more of my deputies just quit. I’m down to Quinn, Boom, and two others. Four boys just got in from Choctaw. Two from Eupora. Troopers got the highways out of town.”
“What about you?” Quinn asked Judge Blanton.
Blanton hadn’t moved since Quinn and Lillie had walked in, sitting still with a hand around the heat of the coffee mug. He looked hungover, with half a cigar going in the saucer. “You sure about that?”
Quinn nodded.
“I got a shotgun and an old M1 in my trunk,” Blanton said. “Just got it out last week to show the boys. Works as good as ever.”
“Gowrie’s bottled up in the Square,” Quinn said. “We need to hold him there, make sure they don’t move.”
“Wesley really threw in with that sack of shit?’ Varner asked.
Quinn nodded.
“Who’s driving with me?” Varner asked. “My finger’s startin’ to itch.”
Gowrie strolled down the rows of the Dixie Gas convenience mart, throwing chips, beef jerky, and liter bottles of Mountain Dew to his boys. They’d made it all the way out of