The Ranger - Ace Atkins [2]
“Headed down to Tibbehah County,” he said. “Jericho.”
He didn’t realize he’d left the radio on, catching a staticky local station. A talk-radio-show host offering his views at the decline of American morals and the nearing of the End Times.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“How old are you?” she asked.
“Twenty-nine.”
“You look a lot older.”
Quinn and the girl didn’t speak for nearly fifteen miles.
“You can let me out here,” she said.
“Nothing here.”
“I can walk.”
“Where you from?” Quinn asked, keeping the same speed.
“Alabama.”
“You walked from Alabama?”
“It’s a fur piece,” she said, staring straight ahead.
“’Specially in those boots.”
“You from Jericho?”
“Grew up there.”
“You know a man named Jody?”
“Haven’t been home in some time,” Quinn said. “What’s his last name?”
The girl didn’t say anything. She just stared out at the headlights hitting the ten feet of darkness ahead of them, not much to see along the road but trailers perched on some cleared land and homemade signs offering fresh vegetables, although the season had passed months ago. The nights had turned chilly; past cotton harvesttime.
“What you’re doin’ is dangerous,” Quinn said.
“Thanks for your concern.”
“Just tryin’ to help.”
“Why are you going back?”
“It’s time.”
“How long you been gone?” she asked.
“Six years and a few months.”
“You do something bad?”
“Why would you ask that?” Quinn asked, a little edge in his voice.
“Just trying to talk.”
“You have money?”
“You can let me off in town.”
“You have people?”
“Jody,” the girl said, not sounding too excited about the prospect.
“The boy without a last name.”
She stayed silent and leaned her head against the window glass, a few stray cars passing, high beams dimming over the crests of hills, all the way till they reached the Tibbehah County line, the road sign spray-painted over with the words AIN’T NO HOPE. Quinn recognized some things, Varner’s Quick Mart, the small high school stadium where he’d played football long after they’d been state champs in ’78, JT’s Garage—but JT’s looked like it’d shut down a while back. The downtown movie theater where he’d seen Fievel Goes West with his kid sister had been turned into a church. He passed the town cemetery where he’d probably be buried alongside both sets of grandparents and a few kin beyond that, and then they were circling the town Square. A small gazebo stood in the center as a monument to all the boys who’d been killed in action since the Civil War.
“Is this all there is?” the girl asked.
“Pretty much,” Quinn said. “Can I get you a place to stay?”
“I’ll make my own way, thank you.”
“Some churches and places might could help. Hey, look, there’s a motel right across the railroad tracks over there. I’ll pay for your room tonight and then you can make your way fresh in the morning. I have to check in, too.”
“I know that song,” she said, turning to look at his face.
“I’m not shy,” he said. “But I draw the line at pregnant teens.”
She didn’t say anything. He gunned the motor and crossed over the tracks, circling down into the Traveler’s Rest, an old U—shaped motel where the units faced outward to the highway. Quinn remembered it used to be thirty bucks a night back when the couples needed to be alone at prom time. Now they advertised bass fishing in their pond and free Wi-Fi. You used to could drive past this place at midnight and know which girls had finally given in to their boyfriends or who was stepping out.
Quinn grabbed his bag, paid for the rooms, and tossed the girl her key.
“Good luck,” he said, heading to his room.
“I’ll pay you back in the morning.”
“Not necessary,” he said. “I got a funeral to be at anyway.”
“Who died?” she asked.
The funeral started at nine a.m. sharp, everyone noting that his uncle sure would have appreciated the punctuality. There were about twenty people there.