Natchez Burning

by Greg Iles

  Too frustrated to shower, she wrapped the testing stick in toilet tissue, dropped it into the trash can, then turned off the water and went back into the bedroom, where she called Jamie at the Examiner and began giving orders for the morning. While she was talking, a new call broke in—an unfamiliar number—and she clicked over to it.

  “Caitlin Masters.”

  “Ms. Masters, this is Sherry Harden. Henry’s girlfriend.”

  This announcement did more to wake her than the NoDoz had. “How’s he doing?” she asked anxiously. “Better, I hope?”

  “A little better. I called because he’s been asking for you.”

  Oh my God, Caitlin thought. A rush of adrenaline started her pacing the bedroom. “What can I do to help? Should I come over?”

  “If you have time, I think it would calm him down a little.”

  “I’m on my way, Sherry. Fifteen minutes, max.”

  “Thank you.”

  Caitlin pulled on the jeans she’d been wearing last night, grabbed a fresh blouse from her closet, then put on her tennis shoes. Hair and makeup would have to wait until she got to the Examiner. Stuffing Henry’s Moleskine and the photos into her purse, she grabbed her keys and her pepper spray off the night table and ran for the front door. The policeman outside looked startled, but she shouted that everything was okay and sprinted to her car.

  CHAPTER 60

  A DISTANT BELL is ringing in the fog, but no matter how hard I peer into the veil of white, I can’t locate the source of the sound. Is it a buoy, or another ship? Suddenly panicked, I jerk upright and realize I’m lying in an unfamiliar bed, my cell phone ringing on the floor beside it. After draining two beers and a shot of vodka in quick succession last night, I slept like the dead, despite the shocks I’d endured during the day. God only knows how many times my phone must have rung to bring me out of my alcohol-induced coma.

  Leaning off the edge of the bed, I dig my phone out of my pants pocket and look at the LCD. The caller is Sheriff Walker Dennis.

  “Tell me you have good news,” I say groggily.

  “Not exactly. The judge wouldn’t go for it. I couldn’t get the wiretap warrant on Brody Royal.”

  “Goddamn it,” I curse, pressing my fist against my forehead. Without a wiretap, shaking Brody’s tree won’t accomplish a damned thing. “I thought this judge hated Royal.”

  “He does. But he also wants to get reelected for another term.”

  “Shit.”

  “The news isn’t all bad, though. He’s writing up the warrants for me to go after the meth cookers and mules, even though he knows that means going to war with the Knoxes.”

  “What about tapping Royal’s lines on your own? Do you have the capability?”

  “Come on, Penn. If I try that, I might as well write a formal request to be fired and then sued.”

  I sit up on the edge of the bed. “I know. I was out of line to ask you.”

  “Look, man, I’m ready to go all-out on these drug busts, if you’re still with me. We can put some serious heat on the Knoxes, maybe enough to rattle Brody.”

  “I doubt it. He probably keeps well clear of the drug stuff.”

  “Well, what do you want to do? This ain’t something to take on lightly. Ask my cousin’s widow.”

  “I hear you. How long would it take you to set up the busts?”

  “Twenty-four hours to set it up right—by which I mean keep it quiet.”

  Though my mind is still on Brody Royal (and my father, always on my father), I give the drug plan ten seconds of hard analysis. “All right, do it.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry about the phone taps. I know you had your heart set on that.”

  “Can’t be helped. I’ll try to think of another way.”

  “Hey, I went by Henry Sexton’s hospital room this morning. He’s a little more coherent. He’s been asking for your girlfriend, but he also asked me about you. He wants to talk to you.”

  “I’d like to talk to him. Any leads yet on who attacked him?”

  “Nothing. But I’ll tell you one thing: the FBI moved into the parish this morning like the damned Third Army. They’re out at the Jericho Hole with all kinds of equipment. If you go see Henry, you ought to drive out there and take a look. You won’t believe it.”

  “Thanks, Walker. Stay in touch today.”

  After he hangs up, I call Caitlin, who sounds breathless when she answers.

  “What’s going on?” I ask. “You sound like you’re running.”

  “No. I’m on my way to Ferriday. Henry’s been asking for me.”

  “How far have you gotten? Walker Dennis says Henry wants to see me, too.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Caitlin? Are you there?”

  “Yeah,” she says awkwardly. “I’m already over the bridge. Why don’t you meet me there? I’m sure we’re going to be on very different paths today.”

  Her voice sounds unnaturally cold, but I know I won’t get an explanation from her on the phone. Getting to my feet, I head for the bathroom. I want to be present when she sees Henry. I don’t want her badgering him if it turns out he’s decided not to work for her after all.

  “All right,” I say, trying not to show my irritation. “I’ll see you there.”

  She hangs up without a word.

  CHAPTER 61

  FORREST KNOX WAS eating brunch in a temporary shelter erected on the front lawn of the recently destroyed Southern Yacht Club when his secure cell phone buzzed in his pocket. With the lieutenant governor sitting at the end of his table, he figured he’d better ignore it for as long as he could.

  Situated on the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain, the Southern Yacht Club was the second oldest in the United States—older than even Newport—the kind of place to which Forrest’s father would only have been admitted to repair something. Tall cotton for a country boy. Forrest had been invited by three men who stood to make millions of dollars out of the reconstruction of the Crescent City.

  One of those men sat to Forrest’s immediate right. To Forrest’s left, two seats away, sat Brody Royal. Royal had become a member only twelve years ago, when his steadily expanding fortune and political power made it impossible for the old-line members to keep him out, despite his plebeian origins. Today’s event was part of the campaign to rebuild the clubhouse, which had burned in the hours after the storm, its flames towering above priceless racing vessels that Katrina’s surge had tossed into chaotic piles like bathtub toys thrown by a two-year-old.

  The lieutenant governor wasn’t here for show. While the governor’s office might not fully understand the goals of Forrest’s benefactors—or agree with their tactics—the politicians in Baton Rouge had to concede that New Orleans was taking a terrible public relations beating, thanks to the media-created impression of a city that might not deserve billions of taxpayer dollars for rebuilding. New Orleans’s notorious history of crime and corruption weighed heavily on its national reputation, and something had to be done to address that problem going forward. Since Colonel Mackiever had argued against state police intervention in his official report, Forrest had been asked here today to give his “informal” opinion on the matter.

  A black waiter in a white coat set a bowl of garlic cheese grits before him. Forrest’s mouth watered at the sight of the pale orange mixture. He was about to tuck into it when his secure cell vibrated again. Down the table, Brody Royal gave him a subtle glare. Forrest reached into his back pocket, took out the phone, and checked its LCD below the level of the table.

  PAN-PAN, it read.

  He jammed the phone back in his pocket. “Pan-Pan” was a radio code signifying a state of urgency one level below “Mayday,” which signaled imminent danger to life or a vessel, requiring all potential rescuers within hearing to cease all activities and begin a rescue attempt. In Forrest’s secret world, the “Pan-Pan” code signified a breach of security that could reach all the way up the chain of command.

  He glanced to his left, at the main
door of the dining room. Alphonse Ozan stood there in uniform, his face tight with concern. A slight inclination of the head told Forrest he needed to leave the dining room immediately.

  “Is everything all right, Colonel Knox?” asked the lieutenant governor.

  Forrest smiled at the politician, then gave him the old standby cover. “I’m afraid not, sir. We’ve got a serious situation with the High Density Narcotics Trafficking Unit. I’m afraid I’m going to have to excuse myself early.”

  One of Forrest’s patrons kicked him under the table, but he ignored the blow. Brody tried to catch his eye as he rose, but Forrest pointedly ignored him. No one in his organization had ever transmitted the “Pan-Pan” code, and he wasn’t about to waste time finding out what the problem was.

  Forrest gave the lieutenant governor a deferential nod, then quickly made his way to the exit. The other diners gawked at his uniform as he passed. It wasn’t just the uniform, he knew. The scarred nub of his ear always drew stares in places like this, where he couldn’t wear his hat. Those who knew it was a battle wound considered it a badge of honor, but the average asshole usually gave him the freak treatment. He felt a wild compulsion to draw his gun and blast a few of the crystal champagne flutes off the tables.

  Ozan didn’t begin talking until they’d reached the boardwalk outside, where the fetid smell of Lake Pontchartrain’s shore permeated the air.

  “We got a major problem, boss. A while ago, Deke Dunn’s wife called in to say he hadn’t come in from his night shift. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, but then I remembered you’d sent him out to tell Snake and Sonny to head for Toledo Bend this morning.”

  “Go on.”

  “Deke stopped by Snake’s place, then headed toward Sonny’s fishing camp on Old River. Nobody heard anything from him after that. But because of your order, nobody worried about it.”

  “Where is he, Alphonse?”

  The Redbone shrugged his big shoulders. “I’m not sure yet. A few minutes ago, Sonny came stumbling up to Snake’s house looking like death warmed over. Last night, Dr. Cage and some crazy old Texas Ranger snatched him from his camp at gunpoint.”

  “What?”

  “They took him down by the borrow pits, held a gun to his head, and rolled his fingerprints onto some vials and a syringe. Trying to frame him for that old nigger woman’s murder!”

  Forrest’s pulse began to race. “And?”

  “Sonny had a goddamn heart attack, right there. He hardly knew a thing after that, but he’s pretty sure he heard gunshots. The next thing he remembers is waking up on the concrete outside the Mercy Hospital ER, nurses lifting him onto a gurney. He walked out this morning without the doctor releasing him.”

  “And Deke?”

  Ozan waited for a man in a blue blazer with brass anchor buttons to walk past. “On a hunch, I called Technical Services, and sure enough, somebody using our ‘Harlan Black’ alias requested a location on Sonny Thornfield’s cell number about the time Sonny says all this happened. That had to be Deke. When he saw Sonny was gone from his camp but his truck still there, Deke got his cell phone triangulated and went after him. He must have walked up on Dr. Cage and that Ranger questioning Sonny and shot it out with ’em. The problem is, Deke’s phone is dead now. And nobody’s seen him, Dr. Cage, or the Ranger since.”

  “You have the trace coordinates on Deke’s phone?”

  “Damn straight. I already called Air Support and requested a chopper in your name. It’s picking us up at Lakefront Airport in fifteen minutes.”

  Lakefront Airport was only five miles away. “Let’s move.”

  Forrest’s secure phone buzzed again. He looked down at the LCD and cursed. “It’s Brody.”

  Ozan shook his head. “Should we tell the old man what’s going on?”

  Forrest stuck up his middle finger. “Screw him. From now on, he gets the mushroom treatment. Get the car, Alphonse. I got a bad feeling.”

  CHAPTER 62

  A HALF MILE down the shore of Lake Concordia from Brody Royal’s palatial home, his daughter, Katy, sat gazing blankly into her Hollywood-style vanity mirror, which was surrounded by lightbulbs. Her husband stood in the shower a few feet away. Staring into the mirror, Katy saw nothing but fear. In the days since her interview with Henry Sexton, her entire being had been taken over by a steadily encroaching terror, a force that was slowly devouring her, like a lethal infection. She was helpless against this attack, for there was precious little of her left to fight anything external. Katy had lived with fear for as long as she could remember, though she’d never understood its source. Trying to recall her childhood was like dipping her bucket into a well and coming up with India ink. Whenever she’d summoned the courage to dip her hands into that bucket, she’d felt slimy, shapeless things under the surface, things she couldn’t catch hold of long enough to lift into the light and identify. At the frayed end of depression, she’d learned, the mind began to lose its grasp on even the most familiar things. Of course, she hadn’t done her brain any favors over the years, what with the booze and the drugs. But without those anesthetics, she’d have killed herself long before now.

  She picked up a jar of Estée Lauder foundation and unscrewed the lid, then let it sit open. A copy of the Natchez Examiner lay on the marble counter, its bottom half faceup. A photograph showed a middle-aged black man standing with his arms folded in front of a music store, several young black men standing proudly beside him. Beside this image, another photo showed the same piece of ground a week later. All that remained were two partially burned pianos standing in a mass of charred wreckage.

  Katy heard her husband turn off the water. In her peripheral vision, Randall Regan grabbed a towel from a peg, then stepped out and began drying his hair. With his vision obscured, she stole a glance at the monster who had guarded her since she was a girl. Even at fifty-eight, Randall remained a dense mass of muscle and sinew and anger, stronger than most men twenty years his junior. And when angered, he could be cruel beyond all imagining.

  “The fuck you lookin’ at?” he asked, noticing her attention. He dropped the towel from his waist. “I know you don’t want any of this.”

  Katy whipped her face forward.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you this week?” He bent to dry his hairy legs. “You walk around like you’re in a fog, which ain’t far from normal, but this week it’s like a damned Alzheimer’s ward. You don’t even wash yourself. You stink. Why don’t you take a bath?”

  How could she answer that? If she told the truth, Randall or her father would have her committed again—or worse. Neither man had any qualms about killing, and as depressed as Katy was, she didn’t want to die yet. She glanced over at the Examiner. The side that lay facedown displayed two portraits of Henry Sexton. One showed the reporter as a college intern, questioning an elderly black preacher in Gilbert, Louisiana. The other showed paramedics loading Sexton into an ambulance in front of the Concordia Beacon, which had been gutted by fire last night.

  Ever since Henry visited this house last week, sparks had been firing through the blank spaces in Katy’s brain. Images flashed out of nowhere, like the visions she’d had after alcoholic blackouts, pictures she wasn’t sure had ever been real. Henry had asked her about a colored boy, one he’d claimed she once loved. Pooky Wilson. The name had scarcely moved her when he’d first said it, like a stone dropped into a deep lake that sank endlessly into darkness. But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, that stone had finally hit bottom. And when it hit, it jarred something loose.

  Over the next few days, painful memories began bubbling to the surface, and each bubble contained its own discrete nightmare. In one of the first, she saw herself as a young girl, peering into her mother’s bathroom. Her father sat on the edge of the bathtub, talking to his wife. All Katy could see was her father’s broad back. He had never sat in there like that—in fact, Brody Royal hardly spoke to his wife at all. But on that day, he’d spoken steadily, and in such a low, cruel v
oice that Katy had quickly retreated. An hour later, her father called an ambulance and told them his drunken wife had drowned in the bathtub. Ever since remembering this, Katy been unable to get into the bathtub.

  “You want to kill me,” she said to her husband, voicing her terror for the first time. “Don’t you?”

  Randall stopped drying himself and looked at her mirror, his actor’s mask almost making him appear human. But he must have sensed her state of mind, because suddenly his mask fell away. Forty years of unalloyed hatred blazed out of his eyes like deadly radiation.

  “Go on,” she goaded, knowing she would pay for her defiance. “Admit it. You want to kill me.”

  “I ought to,” he said. “I’ve been chained to your pathetic ass for forty years, and you’ve been trying to kill yourself the whole time. You nearly drank yourself to death in the seventies. You all but blew your heart out with coke in the eighties, and you’ve been eating tranqs and happy pills ever since. You were hardly alive that whole time. What was the point?”

  “You tell me,” Katy said quietly. “Why didn’t you just put me out of my misery?” Like Daddy did Mama, she thought.

  Randall shook his head with exasperation, but he didn’t answer.

  “I know you’ve wanted to,” Katy went on, trying to push him to—to what? “I can see it in your eyes. Right now. You’d like to choke the life out of me, watch my face turn blue. You almost did it a couple of times. That night at Gulf Shores. And the time in Las Vegas, after the dog show.”

  Randall’s face darkened. “Don’t even mention your little rat dogs. Brody should have left you in the nuthouse over in Texas.”