Natchez Burning

by Greg Iles

  “We didn’t even want to kill Jerry,” Morehouse went on. “We growed up with him, and Frank liked him feeding the Bureau stuff on the regular Klan. But Jerry overheard something about the Metcalfe operation, just a couple of days before we was scheduled to go, so that was that. We had to act quick.”

  Henry’s heart thudded. The Metcalfe operation? “Are you talking about George Metcalfe? The president of the Natchez NAACP?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You guys planted the bomb in Metcalfe’s Chevrolet?”

  Morehouse nodded as though confirming some trivial fact.

  Henry swallowed and tried to figure the best way forward. “But Metcalfe didn’t die. Did the bomb malfunction or something?”

  Morehouse shook his head. “We never meant to kill him. If we had, we’d have placed the bomb right under the dashboard instead of under the hood.”

  “Well … what was your motive in that case? To scare Metcalfe? To scare the black population? Or the national NAACP leadership?”

  The old man gave Henry a coy smile. “Never you mind, right now. Maybe we’ll cover that in our next meeting.”

  Again Henry hesitated. His usual tactic with hostile sources was to get them into a rhythm of answering questions. The questions themselves weren’t critical; it was the give-and-take that counted. Because sources were quick to identify what you most wanted to know, and often held back that information, attempting to use it as currency (or sometimes just out of spite), Henry usually buried his critical queries in a litany of less important ones. But given Morehouse’s almost casual confessions, he felt tempted to go straight to the case that meant the most to him. And yet … if he somehow let Morehouse see how deeply he cared about Albert Norris, he’d be giving the Double Eagle control over the interview, and that chance he would not take.

  “On Valentine’s Day in 1964,” he said, “a man named Albert Whitley was abducted from the Armstrong Tire and Rubber Company and horsewhipped.”

  “Shit, Henry. A whippin’s small potatoes. Too small for us.”

  Henry noted this in his Moleskine. “Two weeks later, a black employee of the International Paper Company was shot to death in his car with a machine gun. Were future Double Eagle men involved in that?”

  Morehouse made a face as though he’d eaten something bitter. “You’re talkin’ about Clifton Walker, out on Poor House Road. Flashy nigger. A coupla them shooters eventually wound up in the group, yeah.”

  A fillip of excitement went up Henry’s spine, but he patiently noted the answer in his book. Then, without the slightest change in tone, he said, “Five months later, on July eighteenth, Albert Norris’s music store was burned to the ground with Norris inside during the attack. He died four days later from his burns. Was that a Double Eagle operation?”

  The old man sucked his teeth and studied Henry in silence.

  Henry wondered whether his voice had given him away. He did not fidget. He did not breathe. He gave up nothing.

  At length, the former Klansman nodded thoughtfully. “That was a damn shame, there. Albert was a good nigger. A mighty good nigger.”

  Henry waited, hoping Morehouse would elaborate. But the old man held his silence.

  “No mainstream Klan group ever claimed responsibility for Norris,” Henry went on. “The FBI thinks the killers used a flamethrower that night. A flamethrower is a pretty exotic weapon, but I’m guessing some World War Two vets might have been able to get hold of one.”

  The sickly eye regarded Henry with an expression akin to disappointment. “Shit, man. With all the Cuban exiles training in Louisiana back then, my mama could have bought a flamethrower at a garage sale.”

  Henry wondered why the old man was reluctant to claim responsibility for the Norris attack after he’d been so forthcoming about the other killings. He decided to try a different tack. “The day after the store was burned, an employee of Norris’s—a young black man named Pooky Wilson—disappeared.”

  Morehouse shrugged. “I always thought Wilson robbed his boss’s store, then set it on fire and hightailed it out of town. Standard procedure for jungle bunnies. Especially hophead musicians. He’s prob’ly livin’ on welfare in L.A. right now, with ten kids suckin’ on the government tit.”

  Henry squeezed his left hand into a fist. He’d played a lot of music with Pooky in the summer of 1964, and he’d never known a gentler soul, except Jimmy Revels.

  “In 1966,” he said in a neutral voice, “a Klan informant told the FBI an interesting story. He was a member of the Brookhaven White Knights. The day after Norris’s store burned, his klavern got a call telling them to watch for a black boy who might be trying to make it to the train station over there, to catch the train to Chicago. They found the kid, snatched him right out of the station. A tall kid with one drooping shoulder. That was Pooky Wilson. I know, because Wilson had severe scoliosis. That drooping shoulder made him a natural bass player.”

  Morehouse stared back at Henry with bovine indifference.

  “The Brookhaven Klansmen handed Pooky over to three men they believed were Klansmen from Natchez. But I think those men were future Double Eagles.” Henry looked the old man straight in the eyes. “Were you one of those men, Mr. Morehouse?”

  Henry saw a flicker of emotion in the man’s eyes.

  “Klan informants worked for money,” Morehouse growled. “They made up whatever their FBI handlers wanted to hear, whatever kept the cash coming. You can’t trust a story like that.”

  “I’ve heard two reliable stories about Pooky’s death,” Henry went on. “One says he was flayed alive. The other says he was crucified.”

  “Oh, bullshit. There were a dozen rumors about that kid. I’ve heard he was driven out in a field and shot thirty times with a rifle.”

  Something in the old man’s gaze belied his tone of voice. Henry was certain Morehouse knew something about Pooky Wilson’s death. As he stared into the rheumy eyes, a blast of intuition told him that Morehouse had seen Pooky die. Henry cleared his throat. “I have an FBI report that details a meeting with a different Klan informant. When this man was blind drunk, he told an FBI agent that Pooky Wilson had been crucified at a big cypress tree out in the Lusahatcha Swamp, called the Bone Tree.”

  The old man’s eyes flashed, then went dull again.

  “This informant mentioned the names of two men who were there,” Henry went on, “but the names were redacted in my copy—blacked out with a Magic Marker. Were you at the Bone Tree that night, Mr. Morehouse?”

  Morehouse laughed with derision. “Bone Tree? If you believe that old nigger tale, they ought to put you in a rubber room down in Mandeville.”

  To mask his anger and disappointment Henry looked down at his notebook. “Albert Norris took four days to die from his burns.” Four days of unrelenting agony, you son of a bitch. “Leland Robb, the doctor who treated him, told the FBI that Norris stated more than once that he’d known his attackers, but he refused to reveal their identities. Even his best friend couldn’t get the names out of him.”

  “Albert wasn’t no fool,” Morehouse said softly. “Did you talk to Dr. Robb?”

  “Dr. Robb died in a midair collision in 1969, when I was in college, along with three other people.”

  Morehouse smiled strangely, almost coyly again. “Kinda convenient, huh? Doc Robb dying like that? You know who was flying the plane that hit him, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Snake Knox.” Henry had long harbored suspicions about this air crash, but he wasn’t going to waste this interview on them. “Let’s stick with the burning of the store for now. Albert told Dr. Robb that there were four men involved: three inside and one out, beyond the porch. My understanding is that when Frank Knox formed the Double Eagles, there were four charter members: Frank himself, his brother Snake, Sonny Thornfield, and you. And this was less than a month after the attack on Norris’s store. Was it you four who burned Albert out?”

  Morehouse returned Henry’s accusing stare with surprising calm. �
��I told you, Henry, I liked Albert.”

  “You probably liked Jerry Dugan, too. You grew up with him. But that didn’t stop you guys from killing him.”

  Fury flashed from the hazy eyes like lightning from a cloudy sky. “Watch yourself, boy.”

  Henry didn’t let his gaze waver. “Why was Albert Norris targeted?”

  The old man looked as though he meant to keep stonewalling, but then in a weary voice he said, “You can’t be that dumb, Henry. Take your pick. Albert was bootlegging, running numbers on the side … he even used that gospel radio show of his to set up adultery and miscegenation. What the hell did he think was gonna happen to him?”

  “So the Eagles were behind his murder.”

  Morehouse looked over at the dying fire and said, “Why don’t you go outside and get another log for the fire?”

  “Why don’t you answer my question?”

  The old man gave him the stink-eye again, but Henry wasn’t going to be deflected. He’d lost too many friends to this man and his kind. “How about we cut the bullshit, Glenn? I know what really happened to Albert Norris, and I know why. In the summer of sixty-four, Pooky Wilson was screwing a white girl named Katy Royal. Her father was Brody Royal, one of the richest men in the parish. Royal killed Pooky to stop the affair and make a point, and he used the Double Eagles to do it. Pooky Wilson was the intended victim all along. Albert just got in the way. He was killed for trying to protect that boy.”

  Morehouse’s eyes had gone wide.

  “I told you I knew the truth,” Henry said with a rush of triumph. “All I need is confirmation.”

  Morehouse slowly recovered himself, but he looked a lot less smug than he had before. “Listen to me, Henry. I’m going to tell you this because my mama always liked yours. The stories you’ve written up to now have irritated some people, but most people can tolerate a little irritation. But—if you start messin’ with Brody Royal, you won’t live long. In fact, you might just beat me to the grave, and that’s saying something.”

  This threat didn’t surprise Henry. He’d long known that Brody Royal—the president of Royal Oil and the Royal Cotton Bank, and the owner of massive farm and timber operations—was little better than a gangster. “Let’s say I’m willing to take that risk.”

  Morehouse reached out and gripped Henry’s wrist with frightful strength. “If I tell you what happened that night, will you really keep it secret till I’m feedin’ worms? Will you, boy?”

  Henry tried to jerk his hand free, but he couldn’t. “I know Brody and Frank visited Albert’s store that afternoon,” he said. “I can prove it.”

  The old man’s eyes narrowed. Then his hand went limp, and Henry jerked back his own. “How?” asked Morehouse.

  “I’ve got a witness.”

  Morehouse looked genuinely surprised. “If that’s true, what do you need me for?”

  “Because you know everything, and from the inside. You know exactly who did what, and when. And most important, you know why.”

  After a long series of wheezing breaths, Morehouse shook his head in apparent surrender. Then he mumbled, “Frank was there, all right. He ran that whole operation.”

  Henry’s pulse quickened. “For Brody Royal?”

  Morehouse waved this question away. “Leave it, Henry.”

  But Henry couldn’t. “You’re never going to be tried for this stuff, Glenn. Royal won’t know you implicated him until you’re … beyond his reach. Please confirm that Royal was there that night. And tell me which others were. Without the names, all this is meaningless.”

  “Names, names!” Morehouse mocked in a high voice. “You think it’s easy betraying men I fought with through unshirted hell? You don’t know nothin’ about it! Those men are my brothers, man. The shit we done and seen, the horrors …” He trailed off, breathless again.

  Henry wanted to point out that murdering defenseless Americans had nothing to do with war, but instead he said, “Is Brody Royal your brother?”

  “Fuck Brody Royal!” the old man bellowed. “Brody’s so far above the likes of you and me, the devil himself will have to deal with him. And I’m fine with that.”

  Henry looked down at his watch. Wilma Deen was due back in forty-five minutes. If he overstayed his allotted time, she would see him, and that would quash any chance of further access to Morehouse. Henry owed it to Jimmy Revels to learn what he could about his fate. And after what had happened to Jimmy’s sister this morning, Henry couldn’t in good conscience leave this room without probing Morehouse about that. Yet even a cursory discussion of those cases would eat up the remaining time.

  “What’s the matter?” Morehouse asked. “You look like you swallowed a bad oyster.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand, Glenn. You called me here, okay? You told me you needed to unburden your soul. Well, here I am. We’re alone. But the only people you’ve implicated are yourself and Frank Knox, who’s been dead for thirty-seven years. I don’t see how you’re going to feel any better after this. In fact … it’s almost like you’re just reminiscing about these crimes. Bragging, like.”

  The old man’s face drained of blood, and his chin quivered with anger. “I ain’t braggin’, damn you!”

  “No?” Henry felt his own anger rising. “You could end a whole world of misery just by letting me turn on my tape recorder. You could bring peace and closure to a dozen families, justice to this town, and salvation to your soul. Can’t you find the courage for that, Glenn? With death so close?”

  Morehouse’s face darkened. “The things I know wouldn’t bring peace to anybody. Take my word for that.” He lifted a bruised hand, scratched his scaly arm, and turned bloodshot eyes on Henry. In that moment Henry felt that he was looking at a man being consumed by malignant secrets.

  “You ever see a man skinned alive?” Morehouse croaked. “You ever seen a Polaroid of it, even?”

  Struck dumb, Henry shook his head.

  “A man can live for hours afterward, believe it or not. I’d rather be burned at the stake than go that way. I hear the Mexican drug cartels are doin’ it now, as a punishment.” The old man’s eyes were wet. “You can’t imagine what some men can do for pleasure, Henry. I promise you that. They make a hobby out of that kind of sickness.”

  Henry clung to his notebook as though it were a lifeline attached to the normal world. “Was that what happened to Pooky Wilson?”

  Morehouse didn’t answer; he seemed to have slipped into a trance. “I’ve seen a man crucified, too. Nailed to a cross, just like Jesus. I’ve seen men drowned … every kind of killin’ you can imagine. Some during the war, but not all.” He squinted like a sailor trying to make out some distant shore. “How can a man get into heaven after seeing those things?”

  “By confessing his sins,” Henry said. “That’s how.”

  “To who?” The cloudy eyes found him for a moment. “You? You can’t absolve me of nothing.”

  Henry had never seen a man so filled with despair. “To God, Glenn. Why would you let scum like Brody Royal stand between you and salvation? You think he’s above you? Albert Norris was twice the man Royal is. So are you. At least you feel remorse for what you did.”

  Morehouse’s smoldering eyes fixed Henry with bone-deep hatred, but the light of animal curiosity burned there also. “Why is Albert’s case so special to you? That’s about the only operation we’ve talked about, and our time’s almost gone. Were you related to that nigger or something? Did Albert blacksnake your mama, Henry? I know he tuned up a lot of white housewives after he finished with their pianos.” The old man’s eyes glinted with wicked delight. “And your daddy spent a whole lot of time on the road, didn’t he?”

  Henry came out of his chair with both fists clenched, but Morehouse only laughed. “I know Albert had more’n a couple outside kids in Ferriday,” he said, still chuckling. “Is that why you’ve spent all these years trying to find out who killed him?” The old Klansman guffawed until his laughter became a desperate coughin
g jag.

  Henry wondered whether Morehouse had any idea how close he’d come to the truth: that Albert had indeed been his father in every sense but the biological one. Henry’s heart pounded like a kettledrum. He hadn’t been in a fight since the third grade, and most people thought he didn’t have a temper. But right now he wanted to jab his pen into Morehouse’s swollen eye socket and drive it through his brain.

  “You know what?” he said, closing his notebook and stuffing it into his back pocket. “I figure you need me a lot more than I need you. I’m going to walk out of this room and go back to work. I’m going to solve these cases one way or another, with or without you. And when spring comes, I’ll smell the flowers and hug my lady and know I’m doing the best I can. But you … you’re going to sit in this room and rot until they box you up with your sins and bury you. And from the looks of things, that won’t be very long.”

  Henry walked to the door, then turned back and looked at the old man. Morehouse was straining to rise from his chair.

  “Wait!” he yelled. “Wait, you son of a bitch!”

  Henry felt he was standing on the threshold between life and death. Despite the old man’s fury, he could not lift himself out of the chair. While Morehouse sputtered and cursed, Henry walked out into the cold winter light and shut the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 11

  FLAT ON HIS back beneath a 1998 Camaro, Sonny Thornfield cursed his cell phone, then slid his creeper from beneath the car and dug the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID read DUKE WILLIAMS. Duke Williams was dead—had been for five years—but his wife wasn’t. Sandra kept her dead husband’s name on the phone listing so that burglars wouldn’t target her. Sonny used to stop by Duke’s house on occasion to comfort his widow, back when the doctor let him take Viagra. Sonny still took the drug on special occasions, but Sandra Williams didn’t rate the risk of death. Her only real utility now was that she lived at the turn that led to Wilma Deen’s house.