Natchez Burning

by Greg Iles

  The old Klansman let out a screech of anger. “What the hell are you up to?” he asked Tom. “You aren’t supposed to leave Mississippi.”

  Tom reached into his weekend bag and brought out his .357 Magnum. “I’m not supposed to be handling firearms, either. But I’m making an exception tonight.”

  Thornfield’s demeanor hardly changed. He didn’t seem to believe he was in lethal danger, even after they’d driven so far from town. The low chatter of the police scanner seemed to puzzle him, but he hadn’t asked about it yet.

  “You did kidnap Viola Turner in 1968,” Tom said. “You helped gang-rape her, and then you helped torture her. I know, because I’m the one who sent Ray Presley to take her back.”

  For the first time, fear flickered in Thornfield’s eyes. Even dead, Ray Presley scared most people more than a live man could.

  “I ain’t sayin’ shit to you,” Sonny said. “Either one of you. You might as well take me back home.”

  Walt punched him in the gut, driving the wind from his lungs. Drool rolled down the old man’s chin as he straightened up.

  “Are ya’ll taping this or something?” he asked, coughing violently. “The statue of limitations has run out on rape, you know. A long time ago. It’s like it never happened, far as the law’s concerned.”

  Tom spoke patiently, as though he had all day to make his points. “You also murdered Viola’s brother, and a man named Luther Davis. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Sonny.”

  “You can’t prove that. The FBI doesn’t even think those two were murdered.”

  “We’re not concerned with what the FBI thinks. Do you remember the night you got shot in the leg? The night Frank and Glenn brought you to my office? February 1968?”

  Thornfield glanced down at his left leg. “What about it?”

  “Viola was there that night. Her brother and Luther Davis, too. You’d gotten into a brawl with them, and I was patching them up when you got there. I know you were looking to get revenge on them. But they hid out in Freewoods, so you raped Viola to smoke them out.”

  A little more of Thornfield’s defiance evaporated.

  Walt squatted before him with surprising flexibility. “If you think we snatched you and drove you down here because we give a flying fuck about the law, you’re dumber than I figured.”

  This time Sonny held his silence. Like Ray Presley, Walt gave off an aura of impending violence, and Sonny recognized it.

  “We know you tortured them boys,” Walt said. “Presley told Tom all about it. You sliced off their service tattoos, which I take personally, you no-’count son of a bitch.”

  Sonny swallowed and drew back a couple of inches.

  “I’m no fan of torture,” Walt went on, as though discussing his preference in fishing lures. “Ain’t productive, as a rule. But I’ve seen it produce results. Tom and I were medics during the Korean War. We saw a lot of pain. You know what I’m talking about. You saw what the Japanese did on the islands.”

  Sonny made a sour face. “I’m not scared of you, you Texas shitkicker.”

  Walt sighed and glanced back at Tom. Then he patted one of the Roadtrek’s seats. “Sonny, I’ve got a toolbox under here. And Tom’s got his black bag with him. I feel pretty confident that between us, we can make whatever you and Snake Knox did to them colored boys back in sixty-eight look like a Girl Scout picnic.”

  Sonny glowered at them in silence.

  Walt chuckled patiently. “Yeah, a dull pocketknife dragged over one tooth for ten minutes will turn a bad outlaw into jelly. An old Ranger showed me that trick. When the blade cuts down into the dentin, the pain kicks in something fierce. Most men start talking right then. But if you go all the way down to the nerve … hell, you can’t shut ’em up after that, not even if you try. You gotta knock ’em out with a two-by-four just to stop the screamin’.”

  “I’ve got some local anesthetic,” Tom said, playing the good cop as instructed. “Once you tell us what we need to know, I’ll make the pain stop.”

  Sonny’s eyes tracked from Tom to Walt, then back again. “All this goddamn gummin’,” he muttered. “You haven’t said what it is you want.”

  “Who killed Viola?” Tom asked.

  Thornfield looked blank. “You did. Didn’t you?”

  Walt straightened up and kicked him in the gut. Sonny doubled over, gasping for air. After half a minute, he croaked, “That’s what everybody says, ain’t it?”

  “You were there that night,” Tom said. “At her sister’s house. I saw the pickup truck with the Darlington Academy sticker on the back windshield, parked a quarter mile up the road. Not long before dawn.” Darlington had been founded by the White Citizens’ Council in 1969, the year of forced integration in Natchez. “Nobody in that part of town ever went to Darlington Academy.”

  Sonny was obviously working something out in his head. “Unless you got a picture, nobody’s gonna believe you about that.”

  Walt lifted the seat that concealed his toolbox, then brought out a green metal case and set it in the narrow walkway between the RV’s toilet and cooktop counter. Thornfield’s eyes locked on to the box. Walt opened it and brought out a small propane torch and a friction striker. With two quick compressions of his forefinger, he lit the torch, which filled the van with a chilling hiss as he adjusted the flame to a blue needle with a white-hot core.

  “Hey, hey,” Thornfield said, breathing fast while his eyes tracked the blue-white flame. “Wait a minute. Doc … I don’t feel right. Something’s wrong.”

  “Was Snake with you that night at Viola’s?” Tom asked.

  Sonny nodded, looking nauseated.

  “I’m not kidding,” Sonny said, his breaths coming shallow. “Something’s wrong.”

  “You bet your ass something’s wrong,” Walt said. “But in about thirty seconds, it ain’t gonna matter. Your whole brain’s gonna feel like it’s on fire.”

  “What the hell do you guys want? Jesus, man!”

  Walt cut his eyes at Tom and nodded. Tom took one of his Ziploc bags from a nearby drawer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed two adrenaline vials and a large syringe like the one that had been used to inject Viola.

  “Hey!” Sonny cried. “What’s that? You’re not gonna kill me, are you? Doc!”

  “That depends,” Tom said. “On how cooperative you are in the next thirty seconds. Give me your hand, Sonny.”

  He reached for Thornfield’s hand, but the old Klansman jerked it back. Walt held the blowtorch near his leg and clucked his tongue. The prospect of actually torturing a man sickened Tom, but if Thornfield refused to cooperate, he might have to let Walt proceed. A gun to the head was no good unless you were prepared to use it, and that would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise.

  Tom held out his open hand, and this time Sonny lowered his fingers to within reach. With the deft motions that had sutured thousands of wounds, Tom rolled Sonny’s thumb and finger over the adrenaline vials several times. With the syringe he took care to place Sonny’s prints right where they would have gone had Thornfield injected Viola with adrenaline. As he dropped the vials and syringe back into the Ziploc bag, Sonny stared at him like a puzzled dog.

  “Like I told you earlier,” Tom said, “I have a proposition for you. I want to talk to you about turning state’s evidence.”

  Sonny’s eyes bugged. “You aren’t cops. You can’t offer me any deal.”

  “Nevertheless,” Walt said, “there’s a deal to be had. And it’s the only one you’re going to get. We’ve got enough evidence right now to throw you to the wolves on Viola’s murder.”

  “All we’ve got to do,” Walt said, “is put a bullet in your ear, and dump you back at your camp house with that syringe and those vials.”

  “Then why don’t you do it? Why’d you even take the trouble to drive out here?”

  “There’s a more elegant solution,” Tom said. “One more likely to satisfy all parties concerned.”

  Thornfi
eld shook his head violently. “You’re crazy, Doc. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. I wouldn’t live twenty-four hours if I tried something like that.” Thornfield was panting for air. “Besides, Snake could just turn around and say I killed her! It’d be my word against his.”

  Walt grabbed Thornfield’s chin and jerked his head straight.

  “You’ve got the wrong idea,” Tom said. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Lay the sins of the living at the feet of the dead’?”

  Sonny blinked in confusion. Tom was about to explain further when Thornfield doubled over and vomited. “Doc, my chest feels like it’s locking up. My heart’s skipping something terrible.”

  “Your heart’s smarter than you are,” Walt said.

  Thornfield hugged himself and sought out Tom’s eyes, speaking like a fawning sycophant. “Come on, Doc. Ain’t no jury round here gonna convict you. Every nigger round here thinks you walk on water. Just tell ’em you put the old lady out of her misery!”

  Tom lowered his head, trying to think of a way to break through Thornfield’s fear and stupidity. “Sonny, I’m trying to give you a way out of this that keeps us all out of jail. Will you listen to what I’m saying?”

  “He’s not listening,” Walt said. “He’s putting on a show. I say put one in his head and let him take the fall. That’s the quickest solution, and I want you clear of this mess before anybody figures out you’ve jumped bail.”

  Tom shook his head, wondering if Walt was just trying to scare Thornfield, or if he really meant what he’d said.

  Thornfield leaned against a cabinet and moaned in what sounded like real pain. Tom had a wealth of experience with malingering, and this didn’t look like it. “Walt—”

  “Quiet,” Garrity said with sudden urgency.

  The old Ranger had gone so still that both Tom and Sonny stared at him in alarm. Walt shut off the torch and scrambled to the front window of the van, which he’d earlier blocked with a sun shield.

  “State police!” he hissed, peering out through a crack.

  Tom felt his heart lurch, and then the cold sweat of imminent combat covered his skin.

  Thornfield started laughing, a hysterical undercurrent in his voice. “I never thought I’d be glad to see the goddamn cops!”

  “Shut him up!” Walt snapped. “I’ll deal with this, but he can’t make a sound.”

  “How do I do that?” Tom asked.

  “Either drug him senseless, or I’ll sap him.”

  A lead-weighted sap could easily kill the old Eagle. As Tom grabbed for the drugs in his bag, he heard an engine outside the van. Then came the slow screech of brake pads. A car had stopped outside. With shaking hands, Tom filled a syringe with Valium.

  “Hold his arm, Walt!”

  As Walt darted back up the aisle, Sonny tried to rise, but Walt punched him in the solar plexus. Two seconds later, Walt had exposed the antecubital vein.

  Tom jabbed in the needle and injected 5 mg of the sedative.

  “ATTENTION IN THE VAN!” said a metallic voice.

  “PA speaker,” Walt said, still holding Sonny. “I’ve got to go out there.”

  When Walt let go of Sonny’s arm, the old man fell back onto the cushions of the bed and lay still.

  “I’d better come with you,” Tom said.

  “Hide your gun and the drugs first.”

  Tom nodded, though he couldn’t see what good that would do if he couldn’t hide Thornfield as well.

  “Throw a blanket over him like he’s sleeping,” Walt ordered. Then he opened the side door of the van and climbed down the step.

  “STOP WHERE YOU ARE!” ordered the PA voice.

  Tom’s heart began to thump against his sternum. He wanted to slide the gun into his rear waistband, but he fought the urge and did as Walt had instructed, concealing his black bag and the pistol in a drawer beneath the RV’s bed. Red lights began flashing outside, sending sizzling arcs of scarlet light through the van’s interior.

  A car door slammed outside.

  Tom took a deep breath, then went out through the same door Walt had used. A Louisiana state trooper wearing a flat-brim cowboy hat stood beside a white patrol car with its driver’s door standing open. The flashing red light bar backlit him like an actor walking into the climactic scene of a film. Tom could hear radio chatter inside the car. Even as he hoped that the trooper hadn’t called in Walt’s license plate, he realized that the way the van was parked—nose out from the borrow pits—meant the trooper couldn’t have seen the plate number yet. Walt had probably parked that way on purpose, just in case.

  “What’s the problem, Sar’nt?” Walt asked as Tom closed the door.

  The trooper walked toward the van, his hand on the butt of his pistol. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Captain Walt Garrity, Texas Rangers.”

  “Texas Rangers?”

  “That’s right. Retired. But I still work as an investigator for the DA in Houston.”

  “Where’s your ID?”

  “In my wallet. Can I take it out?”

  “Not just yet. What about you?” asked the trooper, gesturing at Tom.

  Tom silently cursed his stupidity. “It’s in the van.”

  “I see. Captain, we’ve had reports of a van like this one being used to move crystal methamphetamine around the state.”

  Walt laughed. “You think a couple of old farts like us are pushing meth?”

  “You’d be surprised. Why don’t we get your friend there to open up the van, so I can take a look inside?”

  “Happy to. Our buddy’s sleeping inside, though. Hate to wake him. He drank a little too much during Happy Hour tonight.”

  “He drinks too much every damn night,” Tom said in a griping tone, flashing back to Korea, where he and Walt had occasionally lied to MPs in similar fashion.

  “I’ll try not to disturb him,” said the cop. “But I need to see both your driver’s licenses. Proof of insurance, as well.”

  Tom guessed the trooper was about forty. He had dark hair and eyes set too close together beneath the brim of his hat.

  “Open the van door, sir,” he ordered Tom. “Then step away from the vehicle.”

  Walt nodded that Tom should comply.

  I guess we’re going to brazen this out, Tom thought. As he walked to the Roadtrek’s side door, he prayed that the intravenous Valium would keep Sonny sedated for the duration of their bluff.

  “Captain Garrity,” said the trooper, “while he’s opening that door, I want you to turn around and place your hands behind your head.”

  “Happy to,” Walt said, folding his hands behind his neck. “You’re pretty far off the beaten path for patrol, aren’t you?”

  “I work on loan to the Criminal Investigations Bureau sometimes.”

  “That right?” Tom saw Walt’s right hand flex and unflex behind his head.

  Tom’s hand was on the Roadtrek’s door handle. He sensed more than saw the trooper coming closer, preparing to scan the interior once the door opened. As Tom pressed the button in the door handle, he heard a thud from inside the van.

  “Ol’ Jimmy must be waking up.” Walt laughed. “He’ll be wanting some hair of the dog.”

  The trooper drew his pistol. “Inside the van!” he yelled. “Open the door and come out with your hands out in front of you!”

  Sonny Thornfield shouted something unintelligible from within.

  The trooper whirled to make sure Walt’s hands were still on his head.

  Tom’s throat sealed shut with fear.

  “How many of you are in there?” called the trooper.

  This time there was no response. Tom’s back began to ache between his shoulder blades. He prayed it wasn’t heart pain.

  “Open that damned door!” the trooper yelled at Tom. “Do it now, then back away!”

  “Hey, take it easy, brother. We got nothing to hide.”

  The trooper waved his gun at Tom. “You get that goddamn door open.” He glared at Walt. “
And you stay right where you are!”

  It is heart pain, Tom realized, rotating one shoulder to try to relieve the ache. I need a nitro. I guess the sooner this is over, the sooner I’ll get one. He popped the door handle and pulled it open.

  “Back away!” shouted the trooper.

  Tom took four steps back from the van.

  As the trooper edged up to the opening, Tom heard a guttural moan. The cop leaned forward, stood motionless for a few moments, then turned back to Tom with a look that froze his blood. His face was smug, his eyes filled with triumph. When he raised his pistol, Tom reeled backward in terror.

  The crack of the gunshot stunned him, but even as he fell, Tom saw the trooper jerk in a way he remembered all too well from Korea. A black circle had appeared on the man’s left cheek, just below the eye. Then came another bang, and a second hole appeared beneath the trooper’s nose. He wobbled on his feet, then collapsed behind the van and didn’t move.

  The sound of Walt’s running feet startled Tom back into himself.

  “You shot him,” Tom mumbled, getting unsteadily to his feet. “You shot him?”

  “He meant to kill you,” Walt said, kicking the semiautomatic pistol from the fallen cop’s hand. The leather string that always held Walt’s derringer around his neck hung from his right hand. While Tom stared at the dead trooper, Walt hung the derringer back around his neck.

  When Tom reached toward his friend, a searing pain shot down his left arm. Oh, no, he thought, wavering on his feet. Another heart attack. “I need a nitro, Walt. Fast.”

  “Whoa, buddy,” Walt said, his eyes showing too much white. “You need more than a nitro. That bastard winged you. Left arm.”

  Tom looked down and saw blood on his left shoulder. The unexpected sight made him sway on his feet. Walt lunged forward and caught him.

  Once Tom had regained his balance, Walt unbuttoned his shirt and checked the wound. “Christ, I thought my combat medic days were over. Straight through. Thank the Lord he was using ball ammo.”

  “It doesn’t feel like he hit an artery.”

  “No, I think we’re good. But it was damned close. Bullet might have nicked the humeral circumflex. I’d feel better if a real doctor checked it out.”