The Devil's Punchbowl

by Greg Iles

  Dr. Jessup snorts. “You want to start going through the closets and computers and cell phones of everyone in this congregation and see how many pictures like that you find?”

  Father Mullen blanches at the prospect. “From an ecclesiastical point of view, the issues are several, and I suspect Mrs. McQueen researched them thoroughly before she came to me. Canons 1184 and 1185, to be precise. First, Tim hadn’t been a practicing Catholic for many years. Second, he never had his child baptized into the faith nor showed any intent to do so. Third, he’s known to have made statements to members of the congregation that he stopped believing in God decades ago. With all respect, Dr. Jessup, Tim appears to have led a life of dissolution from the time of the drinking incident in which Patrick McQueen died up to the night of his own death, when police say he was selling drugs for a living. But most important, if Tim was indeed murdered, it’s unlikely he got a chance to repent these actions. Any or all of these issues could technically make Tim ineligible to receive the liturgy at his funeral.”

  Behind all the Churchspeak, I sense a man being tested in a way he never foresaw until tonight. “What do you think, Father?”

  “The padre thinks it’s time to punt,” Dr. Jessup says bitterly. “He wants to call the bishop.”

  “Dr. Jessup,” Father Mullen says in the soothing voice he must use at hospital bedsides, “almost no one is denied a funeral, or at least a Catholic burial, nowadays. With our modern understanding of psychology, the Church frequently gives even those who take their own lives a mass and burial. I think that in this case, it’s simply a matter of showing Mrs. McQueen that I’ve taken her request seriously by passing it on to the bishop, who I am sure will make the appropriate decision.”

  “Translation,” says Dr. Jessup, “they don’t want to upset any big contributors. Or the women who keep the Church going. I guess I didn’t put enough of the Almighty Dollar in the plate over the years.”

  “Doctor,” the priest says with an edge of indignation, “I don’t think that’s fair.”

  “I thought you asked me here to talk about Tim’s wake,” I say, still not quite believing the situation.

  Dr. Jessup brings a quivering fist to his mouth, and I realize I’m seeing something I’ve never witnessed before. Jack Jessup, a surgeon who, for as long as I can remember, appeared to be as stony and remote as a Victorian banker, is crying.

  Father Mullen starts toward him as though to commiserate, but I warn the priest off with a glance. When a man like Jack Jessup breaks down, he’s capable of anything.

  “Mr. Mayor,” Father Mullen says softly, “Dr. Jessup felt that before I called the bishop, you might be able to give me some details unknown to the public—things that might mitigate the present appearance of things.”

  Despite my desire to help, I’m hesitant to reveal anything about what Tim was doing. It’s not that I don’t trust the priest. My fear is that Dr. Jessup, in his desire to amend people’s opinions of Tim, might reveal more than he should. In truth I never liked the surgeon, but he’s suffering terribly now, and if I can ameliorate that, I should. The risk of Tim not getting a Catholic funeral must be remote, but one never knows what bureaucrats will do to keep from offending those who subsidize their existence.

  “Gentlemen,” I say reluctantly, “I want both of you to give me your word that what I’m about to say doesn’t go beyond these four walls.”

  Dr. Jessup’s eyes narrow. “I’ll never repeat anything you say here. As God is my witness.”

  Father Mullen frowns at the doctor, but it’s hard to chide a man who has just lost his son. “You have my word, of course,” says the priest.

  “I want the seal of the confessional.”

  Mullen looks offended. “I’m not sure what you mean by that. You’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “You know exactly what I mean, Father. I’m sorry to insist, but I’ve known priests and pastors who betrayed confidences, both in private conversation and in court.”

  Father Mullen shakes his head with a weary sigh. “The seal of the confessional. What we say here goes no further.”

  Dr. Jessup is watching me like the parents of defendants I prosecuted for rape or murder watched the faces of their sons’ accusers; he’s waiting for some hint that his child wasn’t the terrible man people believe he was—some scrap of hope to cling to as time wears him down and leaves nothing but memory.

  “Father Mullen,” I say softly, “I’m ashamed to admit this, but I was Tim’s childhood friend, yet for the past few years I shared the low opinion people have of him. If we’re all honest here, I think even Dr. Jessup shared that opinion.”

  A strangled croak comes from my right, but I cannot bear to look.

  “In the next few days, people are going to say a lot of things about Tim. The newspaper may say he was using drugs the night he died. The police or the district attorney might even say Tim was planning to commit terrible crimes. I’m telling you now that those charges will be lies.”

  Dr. Jessup’s shoes creak as he steps forward and leans closer. “What do you mean? Tell us.”

  I keep my eyes on those of the priest, which are blue and clear and bright with skepticism. “Tim Jessup was a hero,” I tell him quietly. “I don’t say that lightly. Tim died trying to save innocent people from suffering, and to protect this town from evil. That may sound archaic, Father, but I’ve dealt with evil firsthand. I know what I’m talking about. Tim suffered terrible torment before he died. The tragedy is that his death was unnecessary. Had the rest of us been doing the work we pay lip service to doing, Tim would still be with us. I know Mrs. McQueen has suffered over her son, but Tim paid for that a long time ago. What matters most is this: Even if the truth of what Tim was trying to do never comes out, every citizen of this town is in his debt. Of that you can be sure.”

  Dr. Jessup clutches my upper arm like a drowning man clutches a life preserver.

  Father Mullen’s eyes are wide, his mouth half open. “Well I think I expected a plea for the sake of the man’s wife. Can you give me any details?”

  “I’m afraid not. There are lives at stake.”

  The surgeon’s hand is shivering on my arm. “Please, Penn. Anything.”

  I shake my head. “Father, Jacqueline Kennedy once said that the Catholic Church is at its best when dealing with death. To me, this is one of those opportunities to live up to the promise of your creed. I personally don’t know what Tim believed about God, but I do know he believed in God. He made religious references to me the night before he died, and I know he believed he was doing God’s work when he was killed. Now, you can call the bishop if you like. But I think it’s best if Dr. Jessup and I just leave you alone with your conscience.”

  Before the priest can respond, I turn and pull the old surgeon with me to the door. Dr. Jessup is wheezing like an asthmatic, but this sound isn’t respiratory distress; it’s the throttled crying of a man who sealed himself off from emotion for most of his life and now finds himself unable to contain the hurt and stunted love within him.

  “Can you get home all right?” I ask.

  Dr. Jessup won’t let me off so easy. When we reach the steps, he seizes my arm and turns me until I’m looking into his watery gray eyes, eyes that for forty years seemed to look down from an Olympian height to the mortals who came to him to cut out their tumors and inflamed gallbladders, and that now hold only pain and pleading. How the mighty are fallen.

  “Was that true? What you said about Tim? That he was trying to do something good?”

  “Yes. But don’t ask me what it was. And please don’t tell your wife yet. I’ll tell you the rest of it someday, Doctor. When it’s safe. But that’s the best I can do tonight.”

  Dr. Jessup shakes his head slowly. “You said he—he suffered.”

  I look down the street, toward the corner of Washington Street. “You’re going to see that for yourself when Tim’s body comes back from Jackson. You’re a doctor, so you’ll know what you’re looking at. I wanted you to be prepared. Don’t let your wife see him.”

  “Who killed my boy?” Dr. Jessup asks in a cracked whisper. “
You tell me. Tell me!”

  “I can’t.”

  “But you know, don’t you?”

  “No, sir. And I’m afraid the police aren’t even calling it murder yet. Not officially. The next few days are going to be hard on you and Mrs. Jessup. I hope you can take some comfort in what I told Father Mullen. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble about the funeral. Mullen’s just young, and I’m sure Mrs. McQueen was pretty formidable. She feels about Patrick the way you do about Tim.”

  Dr. Jessup nods. “I know that. I see it now.”

  I try to turn and walk to my car, but he clings to me, his hand like a claw on my wrist. “What are you doing? I know you’re your father’s son. Are you trying to finish what Tim started?”

  A car with blue headlights approaches on the street. After it hisses past, I say, “All I can tell you is this: If I have anything to do with it, Tim will not have died in vain. Now, I need to go.”

  “One last thing,” Dr. Jessup says. “I know your father never thought much of me. All my life I chased after things that don’t mean a damned thing. My son needed me, and all I could do was hate him for not being what I wanted. Well, this is my punishment, I guess.” Dr. Jessup’s gaze slides off my face and climbs the but tresses and spires of the cathedral. “Your father was the best of us. Our crop, I mean.” The wet eyes come back to me. “And Tim thought the world of you. I wish you would say something at his wake, if you will. Even if you can’t say what you told us in there.”

  “Of course I will.”

  Just as I think I’m free, the gray eyes peer into mine with a darkness like blood behind them. “If you find out who killed my boy, Penn, you pick up the telephone. You hear me? Tell me where to find him, that’s all. I don’t care if I spend the rest of my life behind bars and eternity in flames.”

  Dr. Jessup’s clenched hand finally loosens as the force of his passion drains from him. For a moment I fear he’s going to collapse on the steps, but then he pulls his coat around him and gets himself under control. I saw this too many times when I was a prosecutor, most often in victims’ families: fathers and brothers who would readily kill to avenge those they should have loved far better when the person was alive.

  “Tim will get justice. The best thing you can do for him now is take care of your grandson. Your wife and your daughter-in-law too. They need you.”

  With a last grimace of confusion, he shuffles past me toward the big Mercedes by the curb. As he wrestles with his key, I trot to my car on unsteady legs, hoping that Caitlin has waited for me.

  Caitlin is watching from one of her front windows as I pull up. She opens the front door with only her face showing, as though she’s just gotten out of the shower, then motions for me to come in, but I wave her out to the car. She extends a bare foot and calf, points to the foot, then disappears inside. I get out and walk halfway to her door. A moment later she comes out wearing shorts, sandals, and a white linen top, a puzzled look on her face.

  “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “We need to talk,” I whisper, “and it can’t be in our houses or cars. Is there a car at the newspaper office we can use?”

  She’s looking at me strangely, but she answers quietly. “Yes. Are you going to drive us over there?”

  When I nod, she walks back and locks her door, then comes out to my car.

  Caitlin never needs to be told anything twice, unless it’s to keep her nose out of something. She doesn’t speak as we drive across town; she’s content to study me from the passenger seat. I look toward her a few times, but it’s difficult to do that without making eye contact, and there’s too much unsaid between us to endure that for long. It’s easier to study her legs, which are long and toned and surprisingly tawny, given her pale skin. She must have spent some time in the lower latitudes recently.

  “Antigua,” she says, reading my mind.

  “Alone?”

  “No.” After letting me suffer for a few moments, she says, “A corporate retreat.”

  “I’ve never really understood what happens at those.”

  “Depends on the company. Some put you through a week of New Age sermons on the gospel of wealth. Others encourage you to kill large mammals and screw beautiful ethnic prostitutes.”

  After the awful tension at the rectory, this makes me laugh. “I spent a lot of my career dealing with men who’d rather screw large mammals and kill beautiful ethnic prostitutes.”

  This brings a real laugh from Caitlin. In the closed car the sound rings bright and true. “Or writing about them,” she says.

  I nod but don’t continue our old conversational rhythm, and the sparkle dies in her eyes. As I start to pull into the newspaper parking lot, she points to the side of the building, which I assume means I should park behind it. When I get to the back, I see six cars parked in a row beside a glass door.

  As soon as we’re inside, she says, “Are you sure you don’t just want to talk here?”

  “Can you get us total privacy? I don’t want everyone in the building knowing I’m here.”

  “If you don’t mind sitting on the floor of a supply room.”

  “Fine. Perfect.”

  A little way up the hall, she leads me into a room lined with metal shelves and boxes, then locks the door behind us. After a quick survey of the shelves, she pulls down two boxes of legal-size copy paper and makes a seat. I pull down two more, and soon we’re facing each other, separated by three feet of harshly lit space.

  “You look bad,” she says bluntly. “How long has it been since you slept?”

  “That doesn’t matter right now.”

  She considers this for a few seconds. “You know, you acted like a total shit to me today.”

  “You asked for it. You acted like you expected me to take you into my confidence as though we’re still together. We’re not together.”

  She looks away. “I just wanted you to have a civil conversation with me.”

  “No. You wanted a story. The inside story. And I couldn’t give you that. No one would have benefited from that.”

  “Is that for you to decide?”

  “In this case it is.”

  “You spoke in the past tense. Why are you here now?”

  “Because you’re in danger. The deeper you look into Tim Jessup’s death, the more likely it is you’ll be hurt.”

  I see disbelief in her eyes, but not because she doubts the danger. “You know I’ve worked stories like that before.”

  “This is different. I’ve worked dangerous cases. But these people will kill without hesitation.”

  “What people?”

  “We may get to that. But you need to know that you can’t trust your phones—not your cell or the landlines at home. I’m not sure about the newspaper phones.”

  Now she doubts me. “Who are you talking about? Who can tap landlines? Bad cops? The FBI again? Who?”

  “It’s complicated. You also have to realize that people like Julia Jessup tell other people you’ve questioned them. They say that on open phone lines. And the wrong thing in the wrong ear will get you dead.”

  “Where’s Annie?” Caitlin asks, ignoring my warnings.

  I shake my head.

  “Is she even in town? Your house never looked so empty.” Caitlin thinks for a moment. “You sent her away, didn’t you? Penn, what’s going on?”

  “Just wait a second. Do you remember the agreement we used to have about cases like this?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was it?”

  She rolls her eyes. “We tell each other all we can, but we don’t use anything the other says has to stay secret.”

  Right, so far. “And ?”

  She sighs in exasperation. “I don’t publish anything until you clear it. And you don’t put anything in your novels that I want to save for myself.”

  “Okay. Can we go forward with that understanding?”

  She purses her lips as though trying to judge whether I might be trapping her in some way, but at length she relents. “All right. Deal.”

  “I need your help, Caitlin. That must be obvious, since I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

>   This seems to wound her. “What kind of help? I’m here, okay?”

  “For how long?”

  “You mean how long will I be in Natchez? You know me. That’s open-ended. What exactly do you need? You don’t want to manipulate the newspaper, do you?”

  “No. I need physical cover.”

  “Translate that.”

  “I need a girlfriend.”

  “A girlfriend?” Wry amusement touches her mouth. “Didn’t you just get rid of one?”

  “I’m not kidding. The people I’m dealing with have very sophisticated surveillance equipment and enough time to watch me around the clock, if they want to. I need an excuse to disappear sometimes. Like into your house. Or to go on a drive. They already know who you are, and they know we have a past. It’s a credible cover.”

  “I see. And what do I get out of this arrangement? Are you proposing a friends-with-benefits kind of deal?”

  The look in my eyes must be all the answer she needs, because she immediately holds up both hands in apology.

  “What did you always get out of this arrangement?” I ask.

  “Stories.”

  “Big stories.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m in. I just wanted to be sure. So what’s the story? Crystal meth in the Deep South? I really hope not.”

  “What do you know about dogfighting?”

  “Dogfighting?”

  “Yes.”

  Her face goes blank. “Nothing. Less than nothing.”

  “Time to learn.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  Captain Walt Garrity crosses the Mississippi River Bridge at Vidalia, Louisiana, one callused hand on the wheel of his 2004 Anniversary Edition Roadtrek RV and the other wrapped around a thermos of hot coffee. He saw the lights of Natchez long ago, twinkling high on the bluff that towers over the flatland of Louisiana. The last time he crossed the Mississippi here there’d been only one bridge, the one built right before World War Two. He’d been on Ranger business then, coming to pick up a fugitive on a murder warrant. The guy had gotten drunk, cut somebody in Under-the-Hill, and wound up in the Natchez clink. The local cops had treated Walt well, a little hero worship for a Texas Ranger was common in cops who’d been raised on Saturday-matinee westerns as boys. Walt knew better than to expect deference now. These days he rarely mentioned he’d been a Ranger, since some people (mostly Mexicans) tended to make assumptions based on the checkered history of the troop.