by Greg Iles
I must not be doing a very good job of concealing my worries, because before Annie can serve the pasta, Caitlin pulls me into the hallway.
“Where are ya’ll going?” Annie asks, obviously annoyed.
“We need to talk upstairs for a few minutes,” Caitlin explains. “Grown-up stuff.”
“And when exactly do I become a grown-up? Every grown-up I meet tells me how grown-up I am already.”
“When you’re thirteen!” Caitlin calls from the foot of the stairs.
“Twelve!” Annie retorts.
“How about twenty-one?” I shout.
“How about now? This sucks!”
“We’ll hurry!” Caitlin promises.
“Ya’ll better!”
UPSTAIRS, CAITLIN CROSSES HER legs Indian-style on my bed and fixes her luminous eyes upon me with the disturbing concentration I’ve come to know like a third person in our relationship.
“What’s the deal?” she asks.
“What deal? You haven’t told me anything about your day.”
“FEMA trailers suck, end of story. What’s eating you?”
Knowing it would be useless to try to withhold the main story, I give a heavy sigh and prop my ass on the top of my dresser. “Dad’s in trouble.”
Caitlin draws back her head to brace for bad news. “Not another heart attack.”
“No.”
“Thank God. What, then?”
“Legal trouble.”
“Malpractice?”
“I wish.”
She brushes a strand of black hair from her eyes. “Penn, you’re scaring me. What is it?”
I summarize the day’s action with the precision of a legal brief, and Caitlin doesn’t interrupt. This is the upside of living with a brilliant woman. She may not be much of a cook, but she can digest information in a fraction of the time it takes most people. I begin with Shad’s call to my office this morning and edit myself on the fly. I tell her there’s a video recording of Viola’s death, and that Henry Sexton made it, but not that he kept a copy for himself. I explain that Viola died brutally and that a botched mercy killing seems possible, but Shad Johnson is contemplating murder charges against Dad. After quickly outlining the crime scene evidence, I tell her that, according to Henry, the Double Eagle group had a standing hit order on Viola if she ever returned to Natchez, probably because Viola knew things that could send surviving Double Eagles to prison—things related to the kidnapping and murder of her brother, a local civil rights activist. I also explain that the murder charge is being driven by Viola’s son, who only appeared in Natchez this morning. Caitlin pays particularly close attention here, but I distract her by moving quickly past the subject.
I sketch Henry’s theory about Double Eagle involvement in the local meth trade but elide Henry’s belief that my father had suspicious ties to Brody Royal or individual Double Eagles. I also leave out the murder of Glenn Morehouse, the fact that Morehouse was one of Henry’s sources, and everything about the murders of Albert Norris, Pooky Wilson, and Dr. Leland Robb. (No Brody Royal avenging his daughter’s “honor,” no “Huggy Bear” who could put Brody Royal in jail, and most of all, no plot to assassinate RFK. Those items are the heroin that Caitlin could not bear to resist.) Most damning (should Caitlin discover the truth), I say nothing about Henry and me working together to nail the Eagles, or Kirk Boisseau covertly diving the Jericho Hole tomorrow. I’ve become adept at the self-editing process over the past few years with Caitlin, and the only reactions I see are an occasional raised eyebrow and some added color in her cheeks.
As soon as I finish my summary, though, she says, “You’re not telling me everything about Henry Sexton. Not by a damn sight.”
“I promised him I’d keep some things confidential. Henry’s pretty sensitive about the work he’s done on those old cases.”
She smiles with more than a hint of envy. “Rightfully so. He’s done good work, and he doesn’t want me to steal it.”
“So, now you’re up to speed. Back downstairs?”
“Not quite yet. Your father’s silence worries me. Why the hell won’t Tom talk to you about his nurse’s death?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you have a theory.”
After several seconds of hesitation, I outline the possibility that Lincoln might believe that Dad is his father, and that this—more than forensic evidence—may be what pushed Shad toward a murder charge.
“Did Tom have an affair with Viola?” she asks bluntly.
“I don’t know.”
“You haven’t asked him?”
“No. I’m going to see him again later. But he already told me he’s willing to take a DNA test to establish paternity. He sounded confident.”
Thankfully, Annie calls up the stairs to tell us supper is getting cold.
Caitlin closes her eyes, inhales deeply, then exhales slowly. Then she opens her eyes and says, “We’re going to have to postpone the wedding.”
I walk to the bed and take her hand. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. We have to make sure Tom is safe. We’re not getting married with that cloud hanging over our heads. The wedding’s going to be everything we planned, and your father sitting in jail is not part of that picture.”
“Annie won’t like it.”
“Let me handle Annie. That’s a girl thing.” Suddenly Caitlin’s hand goes to her mouth. “Does your mother know any of this?”
“I think Dad’s telling her about it now.”
“Ahh. I talked to her just a few minutes ago, and she didn’t say a word about it. She must not have known.”
“Not necessarily. Mom could put on a perfect bridge party with a riot going on in her backyard.”
Caitlin nods thoughtfully. “Whatever Tom’s hiding, he’s more afraid of it than of being arrested for murder. That can’t be good.”
She slips off of the bed, takes my hand, and pulls me toward the stairs. “Come on. You tell Annie about the legal trouble, and I’ll explain the wedding.”
At the top of the stairs, she stops suddenly, her jaw set tight.
“What is it?”
“Shad Johnson,” she almost spits. “What’s his fucking problem? Doesn’t he realize what you could do to him with that dogfighting photo?”
I give her a sheepish look. “Actually, I gave him back the original. In exchange, he promised he wouldn’t run for reelection.”
Caitlin lowers her chin and raises her eyebrows, peering into my eyes with irresistible intensity. “Bullshit. If you did, you kept a copy.”
I try to play out the bluff, but she sees through me.
“Where are you guys?” Annie calls from downstairs.
“Coming!” Caitlin yells down the stairwell.
“Getting Shad disbarred could be counterproductive,” I tell her. “Better the devil you know, you know? There’s no telling who might be appointed to take his place.”
“I don’t care. Shad hates you. And given what he knows you could do to him with that photo, I’m stunned that he’s gone as far as he has with this. There’s something going on that we’re not seeing.”
A fleeting image of Lincoln Turner’s burning eyes flashes through my mind. I’m glad I didn’t tell Caitlin about his impromptu visit outside.
“Da-ad!” Annie yells.
“We’ll talk about it later,” Caitlin says, trotting down the stairs and leaving me feeling like a fool standing at the head of them.
SUPPER IS IN OUR bellies, the dishes are in the sink, and the three of us were sitting comfortably around the oak table by the large kitchen window until I gave Annie a PG-13 summary of Dad’s problems and Caitlin broke the news about postponing the wedding. My daughter is far from the “fine” state that Caitlin predicted, but it’s her grandfather she’s worried about.
“So did Papa do something wrong, or not?” she asks, her chin quivering. “What do you mean by laws on the books?”
In the matter of assisted suicide, she seems to be having trouble w
ith the idea that written laws don’t always ideally reflect right and wrong.
“Well,” I temporize, thinking how the simplest things can sometimes be the most difficult to explain, “laws are legislated by men and then recorded in books. But—”
“By men and women,” Caitlin interjects.
“That’s right. But those laws don’t always stay the same. We’ve talked before about how the Supreme Court changes laws from time to time, on things like capital punishment. Remember?”
Annie nods.
“Well, Congress sometimes changes the laws, as well. Back in the 1920s, they made it illegal for anyone to drink alcohol. Then they repealed that law in 1933. So, written laws aren’t always permanent. And they’re not perfect expressions of what’s right and wrong.”
“That’s where I’m confused.”
“At one time it was illegal for women to vote,” Caitlin says. “Does that seem right to you?”
“No way. But what does that have to do with Papa?”
“Have you heard the word euthanasia?”
“Sure. Mrs. Bryant talked about it in school. She talked about when people want to be taken off life support and stuff. And she talked about Dr. Kevorkian.”
Jesus. “Annie,” I say as gently as I can, “Papa is probably going to be accused of something similar to that.”
Her face goes white, and Caitlin strokes her shoulder. “Of murdering somebody?”
“Some people may say that. They might say that he helped somebody to die, and others might say he committed murder.”
“But Papa wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“No, he wouldn’t. The person who died was a nurse who used to work for Papa a long time ago. She moved away from here when I was only eight years old. Then she came back because she was dying of cancer, and she was in a lot of pain. Terrible pain.”
“So she wanted to die?”
“I believe she did. Before the pain got too bad, and before she couldn’t do anything to take care of herself. Sometimes people in that situation want a shot that will put them to sleep, so they won’t have to hurt anymore. That’s where the term mercy killing comes from.”
Annie’s cheeks and brow are scrunched tight. “Well, they do it for dogs and cats. They did it to Margaret’s dog, because he was too old and had cancer.”
“You’re right. But humans and animals are different, and some people believe that nobody has a right to shorten a person’s life, no matter how much pain they’re in.”
“What do you think?”
I glance at Caitlin, who gives me the slightest of nods. “Boo, I think that a very sick person, as long as they’re in their right mind, ought to have the right to decide for themselves how much suffering they should have to endure.”
Annie transfers her gaze to Caitlin. “What do you think?”
“I believe the same thing your father does. The law is wrong. And in some states, like Oregon, they have a special law that allows sick people to decide for themselves about dying.”
One tear streaks Annie’s face. “But we’re not in Oregon. We’re in Mississippi. What will they do to Papa? They won’t put him in jail, will they?”
I hug her to my chest. “If they do, it’ll probably only be for a few minutes. But there’s a small chance there might be a trial.”
“That’s why we need to postpone the wedding,” Caitlin says. “Just in case.”
Annie’s crying full-on now. “Dad, you can’t let them do that! Papa wouldn’t ever hurt anybody. He wouldn’t ever do anything wrong!”
The faith of children is an awesome thing to behold. If only we could all be worthy of it. “I think you’re right, baby. And I’m going to do everything I can to keep Papa safe at home.”
“You have to,” she cries with sudden fervor. “You’re still a lawyer. You need to stop doing everything else and just take care of Papa.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean stop being mayor and writing books and everything else. None of that matters now. You’re the best lawyer and you have to take care of Papa!”
Caitlin stands and rubs Annie’s shoulders.
“I’ll be representing him tomorrow,” I assure her. “But I’m not the best lawyer to defend him in a trial. He’d need a criminal lawyer for that.”
“You were that!”
“I was a prosecutor. Papa will need an expert at keeping people out of jail.”
Annie is shaking her head. “Who could do that better than someone who knows all the ways to put people in jail?”
Caitlin gives me a look that I have no trouble translating: Out of the mouths of babes …
“I want you to trust me on this, Annie. I promise I’ll be working on it night and day.”
She studies me in silence for several seconds. “If we postpone the wedding, when are ya’ll going to get married?”
Caitlin smiles, then leans down and kisses the top of her head. “We’ll just have to see how quickly your father can make this trouble go away.”
Both of them train their eyes on me, and the resulting ache in my belly must resemble what a soldier feels when standing before a military tribunal.
How’s that for motivation?
CHAPTER 28
FORREST KNOX GOT up from the house trailer’s queen-sized bed and fastened his belt. He hadn’t even taken off his boots. The auburn-haired woman lay stomach-down across the sheets like a wrung-out dishrag, red welts rising from her naked hindquarters. Forrest didn’t know why some women liked pain, but he’d learned long ago that many of the ones who did seemed to marry cops. It wasn’t the prospect of pain that attracted them, but power—not the power of money and status, but of immediate physical domination. And women like that tended to get bored quickly. They couldn’t push the edge with the same man again and again, because the edge was always being rounded off by experience. Once that kind of woman knew a man’s limit, she lost the thrill she’d initially sought.
Cherie Delaune was a perfect example. Thirty-three years old, she had one teenage daughter and a husband with sawdust for brains who spent most of his time patrolling highways on the state dime. Forrest had no doubt that she’d prayed more than once for her husband to die in a traffic accident, which was the widowmaker in their business. Most of the men on the memorial wall at state police headquarters had died in highway accidents of various types. A shoot-out was rare; more guys had killed themselves with their own guns than had bought it in Hollywood-style gun battles.
“Why do you want to rush out of here?” Cherie drawled. “Ricky ain’t gonna be back till dawn.”
“Got business to tend to,” Forrest said.
“What kind of business?”
“My business.”
Cherie raised her middle finger, but her lips parted in a smile behind it. “Why don’t you talk to Ricky’s boss and get him some extra duty? He needs the overtime. Me and Crystal need a break from his crap, too. Not to mention, you could come around more often.”
Forrest thought briefly of Crystal Delaune, Cherie’s flirtatious sixteen-year-old, then banished the image. “Patrol isn’t my division, I told you that.”
“You could still do it if you wanted. You just don’t want to come over any more than you do now.”
Forrest buttoned his shirt and shoved the tail beneath his belt. “If I came any more often, you’d be as bored with me as you are with Ricky. Unless I marked you up good, and then he’d know about it. Which is what you want, deep down, isn’t it? To blow all this shit up?”
“You’re the one who shaved my coochie. Nothing subtle about that. Ricky’s already asked me about it like five times. Maybe you’re the one who wants to blow up my marriage.”
Forrest laughed. “Like you couldn’t lie your way out of that little dilemma with about four brain cells.”
Cherie pouted and pulled the covers over her rump. “You think you know so much. You really think I’d get bored if we was together?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Forrest said,
strapping on his gun belt. “You ain’t gonna get the chance.”
Cherie scrabbled onto her knees and grabbed his belt buckle. “One more time before you go. I know you can do it. I can tell when you’ve taken a pill.”
Forrest shook his head. Now that he’d relieved his need, the prospect of collecting cash up at Fort Knox far outweighed that of a second round with Cherie. Now, if she was willing to bring Crystal into it …
Forrest’s secure cell phone rang in his pocket. Taking it out, he saw that the caller was Billy Knox. His cousin only called in cases of extreme emergency.
“What’s up?” he answered, and Cherie gave an exaggerated pout.
“Henry Sexton met with somebody else tonight.”
“Put me out of my misery.”
“Dr. Tom Cage’s son. The mayor of Natchez.”
This took Forrest off guard. “Where did this happen?”
“Over at the Beacon offices. They were together quite a while. Then Cage called the Concordia Parish Sheriff’s Office for protection on the way back to Natchez.”
Forrest’s threat-detection instinct went on high alert. His mind raced through possible explanations for this turn of events.
“I got that from our mole in Walker Dennis’s HQ,” Billy said. “What you want to do?”
“Doing nothing is usually best, William.”
“‘Usually’ don’t cut it this time. Penn Cage hasn’t always been mayor of a one-horse town. He was a big-time prosecutor in Houston, and he knows people in Washington. I think we’ve reached the point of no return on Henry Sexton.”