by Greg Iles
She shuddered, a physical echo of her year locked inside the Borgen Institute.
“Tell me, Randall,” she said in a voice she barely recognized. “Please. Why am I still here?”
He stepped closer, staring down like a hunter about to finish a wounded animal. Her brain told her to run, but she remained on her stool. If he killed her … what did it matter?
“You really want to know?” he asked, and she shivered at the coldness in his voice. “I’ll tell you. You know that river land you own?”
“What about it?”
Randall smiled. “Eleven miles of pristine riverfront farmland. Eleven miles. That came down to you from your mother’s family, and it’s legally encumbered so that it can never leave her blood family. Well … since you can’t have kids, that means once you die, it goes to your cousin up in Savannah.”
Katy shook her head, lost in confusion. “I don’t understand. If you can’t get that land, or sell it, what good is it to you?”
Her husband laughed with such harshness that she felt sick. “It ain’t me, honey. It’s your daddy. Brody might never be able to get hold of that land, but as long as you’re alive, he can lease it to farmers, cut timber off it, and suck the oil out from under it. And that’s what he’s been doing since the day I married you.” Randall tapped the side of his head and laughed. “You get it now? You’re worth more to him alive than you are dead. It’s really that simple. Jesus. I thought for sure you’d have figured that out by now. I guess your brain is more scrambled than I thought.”
He turned to his closet and pulled a shirt over his still-wet back. “So here I stand, your babysitter. Highest paid babysitter in the world, probably. But it still ain’t enough.”
She sat in stunned silence, staring at her shattered reflection, finally understanding the riddle of her existence. In her mind, she watched a blurry movie of herself signing various papers in an alcoholic haze.
“I’ve got a busy day,” Randall said. “Brody’s in New Orleans, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Go play with your dogs, or whatever you’re going to do. But do me one favor, please. Take a fucking bath.”
He walked out of the room.
Katy sat motionless until she heard the carport door slam. Then she picked up the newspaper, walked to the bathtub, and turned the hot tap wide open. Opening a drawer beside her husband’s lavatory, she took out a pair of sharp scissors, which she laid in the edge of the tub. You get it now? Randall had said, as though talking to a moron. You’re worth more to him alive than you are dead. Katy’s leg muscles quivered as though barely able to support her weight. How was that possible, since she felt as though she might float away from the earth’s surface at any moment? While she waited for the tub to fill, she looked down at the newspaper and read the name beneath the top story.
Caitlin Masters.
CHAPTER 63
DESPITE BREAKING THE speed limit most of the way to Mercy Hospital, I find Caitlin already talking to Drew Elliott in the north wing. She hardly glances over as I approach, since she’s giving her full attention to Drew, who looks up and waves at me but keeps talking. At forty-two, Drew remains the television ideal of a doctor: handsome, athletic, super-competent. But like all mortals, he’s had his share of personal troubles, and I’ve done my part to help him out of them.
“We probably should have flown him to Baton Rouge,” Drew says, nodding down the hall to where a parish deputy sits glumly on guard in a high school desk. “But between the orthopedist, the surgeon, and myself, we managed to patch Henry back together. Reduced the fractures, took care of the abdomen. Besides, he didn’t want to leave. He insisted that we keep him in this hospital. Something to do with Albert Norris being treated here, apparently.”
A single-story structure on Highway 15, Mercy Hospital serves the citizens of three surrounding parishes, but it’s no level-one trauma center.
“I appreciate you driving back over to check on him,” I say. “Has Henry gotten clearheaded enough to say anything more about his attackers?”
Drew nods. “Last night he dreamed that one of his assailants was the son of a guy he played church softball with about ten years ago. Casey Whelan was the kid’s name. I don’t know how seriously Sheriff Dennis will take that, but Henry sounded sure.”
“The FBI will take it seriously. They’re in town now.” I cut my eyes at Caitlin. “Special Agent Kaiser is supervising an FBI team down at the Jericho Hole. My guess is they’re planning to dive on the car Kirk Boisseau found yesterday.”
“Has Henry really been asking for me this morning?” Caitlin asks Drew.
“He’s spoken both your names, but I think it’s you he really wants to see.”
“I’d better get in there then. How lucid is he?”
“In and out. He looks bad, but I’m confident his head injury’s not life-threatening.”
“So he’s out of danger?” I ask.
“I’m not sure that’s a medical question.” Drew nods down the hall at the armed deputy.
I shake Drew’s hand. After he gives Caitlin a farewell hug and departs, she and I walk toward the deputy’s desk. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask her.
“I’m fine.”
Sure you are.
We identify ourselves to the deputy, but he asks to see our driver’s licenses anyway, which gives me some measure of confidence in Sheriff Dennis’s precautions.
As soon as we pass through the door, I see a woman who must be Henry’s girlfriend sitting near the foot of his hospital bed in one of those ugly chairs that fold out into a torturous bed. She’s a nurse, I remember now. Sherry something. Sherry wears pink scrubs and looks to be a few years older than Henry. Dark bags hang beneath her bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t get up when she sees us, nor does she offer any welcome.
As I pass the corner of Henry’s bathroom, I see him at last, and the sight takes my breath away. His neck and face are a swollen collection of contusions, ecchymosis, and hematomas, with only the occasional patch of undamaged flesh showing. A plaster cast encases his left forearm, and his right wrist is purplish-black. Henry’s eyes are only half open, yet he acknowledges our arrival by slightly lifting his right hand from the coverlet.
“Sherry?” I venture.
The woman on the chair nods as though against her will.
“Is it all right if we come in?”
“Come on. He been waiting for you long enough.”
Her eyes stay mostly on Caitlin, giving an examination worthy of a romantic rival. This might be irrational, but I see it all the time during initial meetings between women.
When I’m far enough into the room, I see a catheter bag and another bag for fluids strapped to Henry’s bed. There’s probably a drain tube sewn into the stab wound in his belly. A wave of nausea goes through me.
“How’s he feeling?” I ask.
Sherry rolls her eyes at the absurdity of this question. “How do you think? You know, I knew this would happen. Sooner or later, it had to, with all those stories he was writing.”
Caitlin starts to speak, then wisely thinks better of it.
“I’ve tried to get him to tone them down,” Sherry goes on. “The articles. Things have changed around here, but not that much. Most people have moved on, and the races get along pretty good. But some folks can’t let go of the past. And that’s who put him in here.”
“I’m afraid you’re right.” I move closer to Henry and touch his foot under the covers. “Hey, buddy. It’s Penn. Can you hear me?”
Henry’s eyes blink open and stare at the ceiling, then track slowly over to me. When he tries to speak, what emerges is a sort of guttural ululation, and I wonder if pain meds are contributing to his difficulty.
“What have they got him on, Sherry?”
“Zosyn for infection. Dilaudid for the pain.”
“Wiss I could nalk benner,” Henry groans suddenly. “Lossa ell you. But … I not gon be able work … on stery foh while.” A strained laugh comes through hi
s clenched teeth.
“Is his jaw wired shut?” I whisper to Sherry.
“No. But he bit his tongue during the beating, and some teeth are smashed. They had to stitch the tongue up.”
“Christ.”
Henry moves his eyes until they settle on Caitlin, who has moved up beside me. “You gon haf pick up where I lef off.”
This statement probably sent a blast of endorphins through Caitlin’s body, but she hides her excitement well. Demurring with a shake of her head, she says, “Henry, I’m sure you’ll be able to dictate stories from here. I’ll put one of my reporters at your disposal.”
He closes his eyes, squeezing tears from their inside corners.
“Has anybody read you this morning’s Examiner?” I ask. “Caitlin did a big story on you. You’re a hero, man. The online edition has racked up praise from all over the world. You’ve got comments from India to South Africa.”
Sherry steps up to the bed and wipes Henry’s tears with a tissue.
“This is still your story,” Caitlin says firmly.
His lips move again, but his jaw barely moves. “No. Uppa you now. But thass not why I call you here. I got … sumpin for you.” He motions weakly to Sherry with his right hand. “Give it her.”
“Are you sure?” Sherry asks, her resentment clear.
Henry nods with obvious difficulty.
Reaching into the pocket of her scrub pants, Sherry produces two small keys, which she hands to Caitlin. Caitlin looks at Henry and raises her eyebrows.
“They shole my case files,” he says. “Or bun ’em. Everysing. ’Ose my keys … safe apposit box … woy—urr-ROY-al Cotton Bank.”
Excitement is crackling off Caitlin like static electricity. These are the keys Henry mentioned to Lou Ann Whittington while he lay bleeding on the pavement. “What’s in the safe-deposit boxes?” Caitlin asks.
“Copies,” Henry croaks. “Sranscrip. FBI files … disk. Insern did mos of ih foh me … lass summuh. Took mohhr … moh suff yes’day.”
“My God,” Caitlin breathes. “Henry, are you saying I can use your files?”
The reporter nods again, his forehead covered in sweat. He probably couldn’t verbalize the trauma of giving away the fruits of a decade’s work, even if he wanted to. “You haff oo,” he says at length.
Sherry leans over and wipes his purple skin with a washcloth.
“Be cah-ful,” Henry warns. “Nah lige me. Don bee supid lige me.”
Caitlin walks around the bed, lays her hand lightly on his shoulder, and bends to speak close to his ear. Her words are faint but filled with conviction. “I’m going to do everything in my power to live up to the example you’ve set. You concentrate on getting better. Any time you want to file a story, have Sherry call my cell, and I’ll come myself to take dictation.”
Caitlin continues speaking, but I’m distracted by Sherry, who comes to my side and begins whispering with great passion.
“Who said my man had to be the one to bring the whole damn Klan to justice? Huh? He’s done more than anybody else already. Hasn’t he done enough?”
“More than enough,” I assure her.
Sherry shakes her head. “I can’t live like this anymore. I want a life, you know? A normal life. I’m too old to have more kids, but I can sit on the porch and listen to Henry play the guitar. I can work in my garden, and do a lot of other things that don’t make people want to kill you.”
Unsure of how to comfort her, I take her arm and whisper, “I think Henry’s dangerous work is done. A lot of good people are going to take over from here, including the FBI. But without Henry’s work, those Klansmen would almost certainly go free forever.”
She laughs bitterly. “Do you think that makes it worth it? Look at him. What if that was your girlfriend lying there?”
Henry looks like somebody dragged from a basement after an aerial bombardment. But then I think of the bones Kirk pulled up from the bottom of the Jericho Hole, bones with rusted barbed wire and a bullet embedded in them. “Only Henry can answer that.”
She gazes angrily at the man she loves. “He won’t quit. Not even after this. I know him too well.”
“Maybe he will,” I murmur, but I know it’s a lie. No man who’s come as far as Henry Sexton would stop his quest now. I want to ask him so many things, first and foremost about Brody Royal. But all that will have to wait. “Let’s go, Caitlin. Let’s let them get some rest.”
Caitlin kisses Henry on the forehead. Then she comes over and touches Sherry’s hand, whispers something in her ear, and follows me to the door.
“What did you say to her?” I ask when we’re outside.
“Girl stuff.”
This tells me I will learn no more.
Our cars are parked side by side in the hospital lot. As we walk down the steps at the exit, Caitlin takes my hand and squeezes it, then lets go. I feel her shaking, but it’s only when we reach the car that she turns, and I see tears on her face, and her black mascara running down to make a raccoon mask.
“What is it?” I ask. “Henry?”
She shrugs and wipes her cheeks. “I didn’t think things like that happened anymore. Even in my job, I just—I don’t know. I mean drug murders, sex crimes, sure. But that in there … that’s something else. This is America, isn’t it? He’s a journalist.”
“Henry was a threat to the Double Eagles, so they tried to eliminate him. They want to stay out of jail. They don’t think beyond that.”
Caitlin wipes her face on her sleeve, then looks up at me with an almost accusing expression. “Are you so sure it was the Double Eagles? Why not Brody Royal?”
“Is that what you’re angry about? Something to do with Brody Royal?”
“Penn, you held back so much about him yesterday. I told you last night that Henry was going to work for me. There was so much you could have told me. I’ve lost so much time.”
“Not so much. And we didn’t know—”
She holds up her hand, then stares out at the highway with cold resolve. “I’m going to that bank to get Henry’s files.”
“Yes, and I’m taking you. We’ll pick your car up on the way back. Or maybe send a reporter back over here to get it.”
“No, I want my car. You can follow me if you want.”
“Caitlin, wait. We really need to ride together. You’re right, I have held some things back from you. But the biggest thing of all is that Dad has jumped bail.”
She drops her hand from her face. “What?”
“I found out late last night, but I couldn’t risk telling you on a phone. His life is on the line now. I’ve moved Mom and Annie to a safe house, and—”
“Excuse me,” says an unfamiliar male voice. “Are you Mayor Cage?”
A muscular man wearing a suit and an earpiece has appeared between two cars, and he walks toward us with one hand near the gap in his sport coat.
“Who are you?” I ask warily, wishing I hadn’t left my gun in my car.
“Special Agent Loomis.” He reaches into his coat, then flips open a wallet, revealing blue and white FBI credentials. “Special Agent John Kaiser would like you to meet him at the Jericho Hole.”
Caitlin touches my arm and shakes her head. “I don’t have time for that.”
“What does Agent Kaiser want to talk to me about?” I ask, not relishing the idea of being interrogated by an FBI agent on this particular day. “Can’t he do it by phone?”
Loomis gives me a tight smile and shakes his head. “We’ve ID’d the car at the bottom of that hole, sir. That’s not for publication, by the way,” he adds, with a look at Caitlin.
“Who did it belong to?” she asks.
“Sorry. Agent Kaiser may reveal that when you get to the Jericho Hole, but I can’t.” Agent Loomis looks at Caitlin again. “Are you Caitlin Masters?”
“Yes.”
“Agent Kaiser told me to invite you, too.”
“Why would he do that? Especially after the stories in this morning’s paper.”<
br />
Caitlin wasn’t kind to the FBI in her main story this morning. And she looks very reluctant to divert from the straightest path to Henry’s backup files.
“I never know why he does anything, ma’am,” Loomis says, “but he usually has a good reason.”
“How many people did Kaiser bring with him?” I ask.
“Four agents, plus some techs. But three more agents just left New Orleans. Oh, and his wife is with him.”
The effect of this statement on Caitlin is immediate. She looks like a musician after being told Bob Dylan is at a party she just declined an invitation to.
“Jordan Glass is here?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. Five minutes from where we stand. She’s taking pictures of everything we uncover.”
Even before Caitlin speaks, I know she’s decided she can afford a stop at the Jericho Hole. “Twenty minutes,” she says. “I don’t like playing catch-up.”
“You go on ahead,” I tell Loomis. “We know the way.”
The FBI agent looks uncertain, but after I wave him off, he heads for a parked Ford. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Caitlin says, “Penn, what the hell is Tom up to?”
“I have no idea. But if a cop spots him, and he resists arrest, they’ll kill him. I’m betting Forrest Knox has already given that order.”
Suspicion clouds her eyes. “Are you going to tell me what you know about Forrest?”
“On the way to the Jericho Hole.” Pulling her to me, I hug her tight, even though she stiffens at my touch. “You’ll have Henry’s files on your desk in under an hour.”
“A lot less than that,” she says into my chest. “I’m going to pick up right where he left off.” Drawing back her head, she reveals the wrath of a Fury behind her startlingly green eyes. “And whoever did that to him is going to suffer for it.”
CHAPTER 64
THE FASTEST WAY to the Jericho Hole is to ride the gravel road atop the Mississippi River levee—fifteen minutes if you drive seventy, and Caitlin is urging me to do just that. The great hole lies in the wooded margin between the north end of Lake St. John and the newer course of the Mississippi River. The oxbow lake is shaped like a C facing the river, about ten miles north of the Natchez-Vidalia bridge, and the Jericho Hole forms an equilateral triangle at the upper end of the C, each of its sides about a third of a mile long. The levee road should bring us directly between the lake and the hole.