All the Dead Lie Down Read online

  She looked around her to see if anyone else had noticed the interplay. But everyone, including Wanda and Rose, seemed utterly caught up in Senator Rauther’s story, which ended with twenty-nine dead. Thirty, counting Randall Carpenter himself; before he could leave the Pizza Parlor, he was shot dead by an off-duty policeman who’d heard the shots from the bowling alley next door. Only two people survived the massacre: a twelve-year-old soccer player and Elizabeth Shoemaker, who spent two months in the hospital recovering from her wound.

  “Now, folks, here’s a fact I don’t like any better than y’all do—we live in a violent world and we need to protect ourselves because nobody else is gonna do it. This bill will allow our aunts, our daughters, and our wives to protect themselves when they must be out in this violent world alone. Let’s do our duty and get this bill passed.” Senator Rauther sat down, finally, and a break for lunch was declared.

  Wanda stood up immediately. “Can’t argue with that.” She fished in her bag and pulled out a hand-drawn map. “I’ve got to run, Molly, but this’ll get you out to Clem’s. Tomorrow, four o’clock. We’ll start with safety basics, then we’ll go out on the range and shoot the living bejesus out of a target. It’ll be fun. You’ll be surprised.” She disappeared into the stream of people leaving the gallery.

  Molly made plans with Rose to meet in ten minutes down in the lobby. She felt uneasy about letting the old woman, who was nearly crippled with arthritis, navigate the stairs on her own, but she couldn’t wait to find out what she could about Olin Crocker. She made a beeline against the traffic, to the west end of the gallery where she’d seen Cullen Shoemaker sitting with his mother. Young Cullen, who served as Senator Rauther’s aide for the handgun bill, had his fingers glued to the pulse of the legislature. A leader in the university chapter of the Texas Rifle Association, Cullen had started as a student intern for the senator right after his mother and his sister and her three children had been shot in the Liberty Pizza Parlor. He’d shown such energy and zeal, the senator had hired him to help shepherd the handgun bill. If Olin Crocker was lobbying for Bill 98, then Cullen Shoemaker would know all about him.

  Mother and son were deep in what looked like an argument, but when they caught sight of Molly approaching they fell silent. Molly had interviewed Elizabeth Shoemaker for a piece she did a year before on victims’ rights. She was a large, somber, gray-haired woman whom Molly had found to be a sensible and effective advocate for her causes, even though Molly disagreed with her zealous advocacy of the right of citizens to carry guns.

  But the son was a different kettle of fish—intense and officious, with a forced hearty voice and swaggering macho bearing. His blue eyes were magnified behind round wire-rimmed glasses and his pale hair was cut so short you could see the pink of his scalp. Molly couldn’t shake her uncomfortable feeling that Cullen was a young man who derived a great deal of self-importance from the tragedy his family had suffered, that he was using it, capitalizing on it for his own purposes.

  “Miz Cates,” he said, “I bet you’re checking up on me, to see if I remembered to put you on the senator’s calendar for your little chat.”

  “Oh.” Molly had forgotten she’d requested an interview. “No. I wanted to ask you something else, Cullen. Hello, Elizabeth.” She shook hands with the mother, who was then swept away by a group of lobbyists.

  “The problem is the senator’s so busy this week,” Cullen said, “he may not be able to squeeze you in.”

  “That’s all right. That’s not what I wanted to ask.” She took a step closer to him so the people standing around them would not hear. “Cullen, is Olin Crocker working for TEXRA?”

  “Crocker?” He pursed his lips, pretending to think about it. “Yes, ma’am. He surely is.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Coordinating things with law enforcement groups around the state, I believe. Why do you ask?”

  “What do you know about him?” Molly asked.

  “Crocker? He was Travis County sheriff back in the late sixties, wasn’t he? In the farming business up in Williamson County now, I believe. Supporter of the Second Amendment. Wanted to help the cause. That’s about it.”

  “You know he left office under a real cloud,” Molly said. “Corruption in the jails. Sexual harassment charges out the kazoo.”

  Cullen shrugged. “I believe the senator heard that talk, but we feel it’s just talk. Crocker was never indicted for anything. As the senator always says, find me a politician who doesn’t have any dirt talked about him and I’ll show you a corpse.” He smiled his humorless smile. “And those charges came from inmates, didn’t they? Trailer trash, all of them. Some folks’ll say anything to get themselves some attention.”

  “In Crocker’s case there may be some truth in it,” Molly said, unable to stop herself. “Maybe you folks at TEXRA should be more careful about the company you keep.”

  “Funny you should say that, Miz Cates, when I was just noticing that you’re none too fussy about the company you keep.”

  “Huh?”

  “Consorting with outlaws.”

  “Outlaws?”

  “I saw you sitting with Wanda Lavoy.”

  “Wanda!”

  “Yes, ma’am. You liberal media folks—always writing about the NRA and TEXRA as gun nuts and extremists, but then you look right past the real nuts out there.”

  “You’re saying Wanda is a real nut?”

  “The scuttlebutt is that she’s turning those angry harridans of hers into feminist vigilantes.”

  “WIC? Oh, c’mon. They’re not angry harridans, they’re victims of violent crimes.”

  “If you say so, ma’am. But that’s where you ought to be looking, not at a good ol’ boy like Olin Crocker. And if you want to talk to a real gun nut …” His eyes panned the gallery until he spotted what he was looking for. “Over there. See that tall man in camouflage fatigues and yellow beret? He’s part of a militia group up in the panhandle. Keeps a copy of The Turner Diaries in his pocket and a .22 strapped to his ankle.” He tapped his temple with his index finger. “If there are any plans for violence around here, he’s the guy to look at.”

  “Violence!” Molly looked at him in surprise. “Are there plans for violence?”

  “Well, the Feds must think so ’cause they’re out in force. I know you don’t—” The phone in his jacket pocket buzzed. “Excuse me a minute,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and sitting down to talk. The interruption was a relief; Molly had had more than enough of Cullen Shoemaker. She waved at him and mouthed a good-bye.

  As she walked away he was tapping his toe nervously and saying into the phone, “You heard right. He says the vote’s set for Monday, and he ought to know. Know what I’m saying, pardner?” He laughed. “You got it, pardner. An armed state is a polite state.”

  IF AN ARMED NATION WERE A POLITE NATION,

  AMERICA WOULD BE PARADISE. WE HAVE MORE

  THAN 200 MILLION GUNS IN PRIVATE OWNERSHIP

  HERE, BUT OUR MANNERS ARE NOT GETTING

  BETTER.

  —MOLLY IVINS

  Molly Cates stood on the edge of the boisterous crowd of legislators, aides, lobbyists, and reporters. She was looking for Parnell and Rose, to keep her lunch date, but she was also keeping an anxious eye peeled for Olin Crocker, as if he were an evil spirit she needed to keep tabs on. She searched the lobby crowd, mostly men milling around, laughing and slapping one another on the back. This, Molly had learned over the past four weeks, was where the real legislative business got done; what happened out on the floor was just for the record, and for the local papers back home.

  After a minute of surveying the crowd, she didn’t see Crocker, but she spotted Parnell’s bald head. He was standing near the stairs talking with several aides. Rose held her husband’s arm, looking so frail and shaky a sneeze could knock her over.

  Molly started working her way through the crowd. Parnell, always alert in a crowd, caught sight of her immediately. His eyes lighte
d up and he waved her over. Then he bent down and said something to Rose. Rose looked toward Molly and smiled, but it seemed to Molly a feeble replica of what had once been Rose Harwood Morrisey’s world-class, thousand-watt, Texas beauty queen smile.

  Molly could barely wait to talk to the Morriseys about Olin Crocker, but Parnell was involved in giving instructions to his aides. She waited, barely able to contain her impatience, until he finished and sent the aides off to do his bidding. But before she could ask, Cullen Shoemaker called to her. “Miz Cates, good.” He arrived a little breathless. “I just talked with Senator Rauther and he’s agreed to the interview. His schedule is real complicated. But don’t worry,” he intoned. “I’ll arrange a good time and let you know.”

  “Thanks.” She had asked for the interview two weeks ago; she’d lost interest since then. She couldn’t imagine the senator had anything new to say. “Cullen, do you know Parnell and Rose Morrisey?”

  Cullen shook Parnell’s hand. “Cullen Shoemaker, sir, legislative aide to Senator Rauther.”

  “I know who you are, young man,” Parnell replied.

  “It’s a real privilege to meet you.” Cullen nodded his head to Rose. “And you, ma’am.”

  “Congratulations to you and your senator on your victory in the House,” Parnell said, “and your inevitable victory to come in the Senate. I believe Texas is poorly served by this bad piece of public policy, very poorly served, but as one politician to another, I salute your skills.” He put a hand to his forehead in a smart military salute. “And your resources, Mr. Shoemaker. I envy your resources something fierce.”

  A small smile of satisfaction pulled at Cullen’s lips. “It’s true the groups who support us are blessed by members who believe so strongly in protecting our Second Amendment rights that they give generously to our cause. But this bill is being passed because the public supports it, sir, not because the Texas Rifle Association has a bank account.”

  “So you folks don’t buy votes?” Parnell said pleasantly.

  “No, sir. We don’t have to.”

  “How about the nine uncommitted representatives your senator took on that hunting trip?”

  “Hunting trip?”

  “Ashburn Hill, Georgia—best quail hunting in the world. You remember. The trip where you sent all nine of them back home with brand-new Holland & Holland side-by-side double-barrel shotguns as party favors. That trip.”

  “Oh, Senator, that was just a bunch of ol’ boys getting together to walk in the woods and discuss public policy.”

  “Must’ve been a good talk, Cullen,” Molly threw in, “since all nine of the representatives who went on the trip ended up voting in favor of the bill.”

  “They voted for it because their constituents want it.”

  Parnell nodded. “You’re close, Mr. Shoemaker. The bill is being passed because most of the members of this legislature believe the public wants it. But I think, if we had a referendum, the public would vote it down—by a slim margin, but down it would go.”

  Molly had always loved listening to Parnell’s full-blown, Texas-flavored prose. It reminded her of the way her daddy used to talk.

  “Well, sir, it would depend on how the referendum was worded.”

  Parnell smiled, clearly surprised by the agreement. “And here I thought you and I would never agree on so much as the color of shit.”

  Rose Morrisey, never comfortable with discord, in spite of having been a politician’s wife for fifty years, changed the subject. “How is your dear mother, Mr. Shoemaker? I grieve for your family’s losses.” She spoke with such warmth and sincerity it made Molly feel guilty for disliking a young man who had suffered so much. Rose had always had in great abundance what Aunt Harriet called “Southern charm.” It was a trait that, in other women, Molly often found gushy and shrill, but in Rose she found it comforting and irresistible. When Rose Morrisey focused her attention on you, it felt like soaking in a warm bath.

  “She’s as well as can be expected, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”

  “A fine lady, your mother,” Parnell said. “A fine lady and a brave one.”

  Garland Rauther appeared from the crowd with an entourage in tow and called out to his aide. “Cully, you coming, boy?”

  “Yessir,” he called. “I’ve got to run,” he said to Molly and the Morriseys. “Good seeing y’all.” He turned to leave, then paused and turned back to them. “Oh, Miz Cates.” He pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I’ve got a favor to ask, ma’am. I’ve written a little something.” His face colored slightly. “I’d be real obliged if you’d read this and let me know if you think I might could get it published somewhere. Your magazine might like a different point of view.”

  Molly didn’t reach for it. She was all too accustomed to this occupational hazard of being a writer: everyone in the world had something they’d written and would like to publish. In self-defense, she had developed a policy of not reading manuscripts.

  “Cullen, I’m not a good one to—”

  “Well,” he interrupted, “I wish you’d take this anyway.” He reached out and tucked it into her big bag, which was hanging open on her shoulder. She vowed next time to remember to zip it.

  He hurried off in his senator’s wake.

  The crowd had thinned out in the few minutes they’d been talking; the legislature took lunch very seriously. Finally Molly had Parnell and Rose alone. “You know who I just saw?” she said, unable to keep the agitation out of her voice. “Olin Crocker. In the gallery just now, bold as brass. He’s lobbying for TEXRA. Did you know that, Parnell?”

  “I’ve seen him around. I reckon I knew he was lobbying.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “Sweetheart, it just never occurred to me.”

  “So you let me run into him and nearly faint from the shock? Rose, did you know this?”

  Rose looked hurt and confused, but Molly was not about to back off this one. Finally Rose said, “Franny may have mentioned it at the funeral, but I—”

  “Franny?” Molly interrupted. “Franny Lawrence?” She hadn’t heard that name in many years. Even after all this time, it made her feel as it always had—a touch queasy.

  “Yes.” Rose glanced up at Parnell. “Franny Lawrence … well, Quinlan, now, of course.”

  “Quinlan? She’s married?”

  Rose nodded, looking miserable. “She married Frank Quinlan last year, Molly.”

  “Frank Quinlan of the Lubbock Quinlans?”

  Rose nodded again.

  Molly was stunned. Now it wasn’t just Crocker, but a whole host of demons from the past swirling around her. “Let me get this straight. Franny Lawrence has married Frank Quinlan of the oil family? The Jasper Quinlan family? Quinlan Oil? She couldn’t have.”

  “Molly, calm down.” Parnell put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Sorry, but this seems so … bizarre. Tell me about it.”

  “Not much to tell,” Parnell said. “Frank’s wife was ailing for years. When she died last year, he married Franny. They’d known each other forever out at Lakeway. Franny sold him his lot on the lake when he built his house, maybe fifteen years ago.”

  “Doesn’t it seem strange to you,” Molly demanded, “that Franny would marry someone from that family?”

  Parnell shrugged.

  Molly looked at Rose. “Rose, you never mentioned this to me either.”

  Rose raised her eyes slowly to meet Molly’s. “Why, Molly, it never occurred to me you would be interested in Franny. As I recall, you were never real fond of her.”

  Fond of her? From the past zoomed an image of Franny Lawrence clinging possessively to Vernon Cates’s arm, pushing a tendril of curly red hair away from her eyes and laughing up at him. That was the day they’d announced they were going to be married. Molly had been sixteen then. She’d detested the woman and never made any bones about it. Franny Lawrence must be over sixty. That bright hair must be gray by now, the pale skin covered in liver spots, the s
lender waist thickened by menopause.

  Rose was studying her with a worried expression. “Well, it’s true,” Molly said, “I was no fan of hers, but Frank Quinlan!” Her heart was beating fast. “He was a vice-president of the company back then and—” She stopped mid-sentence when she saw that Rose’s face was screwed up with misery. She had been going to say that the Quinlans were responsible for her daddy’s death, that the Quinlans were killers. She believed it still, but it was an allegation she should not make in a public place. Especially here.

  Anyway, she needed to find out more about this. “So,” she said with an attempt at lightening up, “Franny. How is she? What funeral was this?”

  Rose said, “Well, she seems fine, but Frank is taking his son’s death awful hard. The funeral was for his son Willie—from his first marriage, you know. The saddest thing—the boy committed suicide right after graduating from the Yale Law School. First in his class. Such a smart boy.”

  “He killed himself?” Molly asked.

  “Yes. And that got Franny to talking about your daddy.”

  Molly tensed, feeling more pain on its way. “Why?”

  “Well, because—”

  “Ladies, enough!” Parnell said, interrupting his wife. “Let’s go to lunch. I’m a workingman.”

  “Wait a minute,” Molly insisted. “Let her finish.” She turned to Rose. “Why would that remind Franny of my father?”

  Rose looked up at Parnell again and sighed. “Well, it got her to speculating that maybe being too smart tended a person toward depression. Maybe it was hazardous to life and limb. Like your daddy, she said.”

  “Franny said that?” Molly tried to keep her voice level, but her face felt hot.

  Parnell put an arm around Molly’s shoulders. “Molly, sweetheart. You know there were people who thought that at the time. Give us a break here. Rose has bumbled into a hornet’s nest, all innocent.”