by Greg Iles
Looking back at the luxurious seating area, I catch Brody appraising Caitlin’s lithe body while Regan extracts the SIM card from my cell phone and slips it into a USB device connected to his computer. With the smoldering cigarette dangling from his lower lip, he taps the keys with surprising speed and dexterity. I’ve always thought of Randall Regan as a killer, but I suppose he learned some other skills during decades of running an insurance company.
“I apologize for the circumstances of your transport, Ms. Masters,” Brody says in a congenial voice. “I hope you can forgive the—abruptness of the journey. Randall, cut her wrists loose.”
Regan obviously doesn’t agree with this gesture, but he sets aside his laptop long enough to get up and cut the duct tape binding Caitlin’s wrists. From the expression on her face, I sense that Caitlin is thinking about the dead cop. I only pray she doesn’t say anything. If Brody wants to pretend he’s civilized, I’m perfectly willing to let him do it all night.
“You’re here, my dear,” he goes on, “because your fiancé and I made a business arrangement earlier this evening. And before I fulfill my half of the bargain, I need to be sure he’s going to do the same.”
“I can understand that,” Caitlin says carefully, glancing at me to check my reaction.
“Excellent.” Brody gives her an expansive smile. “Well, it so happens, you’re part of that arrangement. The mayor here has promised that my name will never appear in your newspaper—or any of your father’s papers—in connection with any crimes. Are you aware of those terms?”
Again I feel the sting of her gaze. “I am.”
“And do you intend to abide by them?”
She hesitates, then nods. “I do.”
“Why?” Brody asks, taking her off guard. “Why would you do that?”
She takes some time with this question. “Because Tom Cage means more to me than any newspaper story.”
“Does he indeed?” Royal picks up two sheets of printer paper off the sofa. “Then perhaps you can explain something to me. I have here a story titled ‘Local Journalist Survives Sniper Attack.’”
Caitlin blanches, her eyes wide.
“The smaller headline,” Brody goes on, tilting his head back to better focus on the page, “reads, ‘Vidalia Nurse Perishes.’ I figure quite prominently in this story, Ms. Masters. And not in a flattering light.”
Caitlin cannot hide her astonishment, and Brody savors it like a wolf licking blood. “I wrote that before I knew about the deal,” she says.
Brody nods slowly. “I’ve calculated the timing, and I have to admit that’s possible. But you can imagine this doesn’t do much for my confidence in our arrangement holding very long.”
“I’ll delete the story.”
Another smile, this one a little cooler. “It’s already been deleted. Your editor in chief never even saw it.”
While Caitlin tries to fathom whether this could be true, he says, “I bought myself a source at the Examiner. Took a page from Forrest Knox’s book. Remarkable how cheaply you can buy a journalist. I should have remembered. Carlos always kept a few scribblers on the payroll in New Orleans.”
In my mind, I see Caitlin’s purse being flung outside the building and the door being yanked shut behind her. She’s doing a workmanlike job of hiding her fear, but I sense how deeply Royal’s seeming omnipotence has shocked her.
Royal starts to go on, but his cell phone rings. He presses a button and holds it to his ear. “Yes? … How many? … Bring them here immediately, and deal with the car afterward … Right.”
He pockets the phone and studies Caitlin’s face for several seconds.
“Let me be frank, Ms. Masters. I have both copies of the recording of my daughter. Henry Sexton will likely be dead by morning. If he’s not, the Knoxes will surely finish him off. I’m confident that Dr. Cage won’t try to attack me, if I secure his freedom. He’s done me a similar service for the past forty years, so why change now? But what I don’t have—and what I absolutely require before I will order Colonel Knox to cancel that APB and arrest warrant—is the name of the witness who can place me at Albert Norris’s store the night he died. Without that, I’m afraid we have no deal. And without a deal … the mayor here will never see his father alive again.”
Just as in the hospital, Brody presents himself as a pragmatic negotiator rather than a ruthless predator. Could this show of civility mean Caitlin is right? Might he actually consider making a deal? Maybe killing us would cause too much of an uproar. Maybe he only wanted to scare us sufficiently before making his demands. But then I remember … his men just killed a cop.
“I asked for more than the APB to be canceled,” I remind him. “What about the dead state trooper?”
Brody shrugs as if this is of no consequence. “Trooper Dunn was murdered by a Mexican drug gang operating out of South Louisiana. Two witnesses will testify to that, and Sonny Thornfield will repudiate his earlier accusations about Dr. Cage. They were the result of hallucinations brought on by a reaction to prescription drugs. In actuality, Dr. Cage saved Thornfield’s life.”
Caitlin shakes her head in wonder. “Black is white, and white is black.”
A glint of pride shines in the cold gray eyes. “In the right hands, my dear, that’s true.”
“And Viola’s death?” I ask.
“Viola Turner was murdered by either Glenn Morehouse or Sonny Thornfield. Frankly, I’m not sure that’s been decided yet. Perhaps both. But does it really matter?”
“Thornfield would confess?” I ask.
Royal smiles. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to. I think last night’s heart attack may prove fatal after all.”
“My God,” Caitlin breathes. “Why would they kill their own man?”
Brody steeples his fingers and speaks with disinterested precision. “After Sonny’s meeting with Dr. Cage and Ranger Garrity, I’m not sure Forrest is fully convinced of Thornfield’s—reliability.”
“I’m not seeing anything like what we want,” Randall Regan interjects, still scanning his computer screen. “I’ve checked his SIM card and phone. I just killed the backup power source on Cage’s phone—the Bureau can track that, even with the main battery removed. Moving on to hers now.”
Brody waves his hand as though dealing with a manservant. “Clearly a lot of people are going to great lengths to accommodate you, Mayor. And to spare Dr. Cage a trial, or even his life. So … I’ll have the name of the witness now.”
I glance at Caitlin, who’s giving a good impression of calm self-possession. “One question, Brody, before we give you that name. For my own knowledge. Who really killed Viola Turner? You? Did you order it?”
The sleek head tilts, and once again I see the eyes of a falcon sighting down on prey a thousand feet below it. “Are you stalling, Mayor? It’s really not worth it. The cavalry’s not coming. You already received a text from Sheriff Dennis, during the drive over. Read it, Randall.”
Regan taps some keys, then says: “‘Good luck with whatever your play is, brother. I’m praying for your daddy. Get some rest tonight, and I’ll get the other thing going.’”
“I wonder what the ‘other thing’ is,” Brody says, almost whimsically, as my last hope dies. “Care to tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pity.”
Regan holds up Caitlin’s silver Treo. “And her editor thinks she and the mayor got into a fight and left to argue it out. Good thing we moved your Audi. I texted him back that she’s fine.”
Caitlin groans softly.
With surprising flexibility, Brody Royal crosses his legs on the sofa. “Well, then. As you see, for you two, there’s only one way out of here alive. The witness’s name. Colonel Knox is waiting for my call, and every minute your father stays on the run is a minute he could be shot as a cop killer.”
Cornered at last, I run through possible names that might buy us an hour. If I make up a name out of whole cloth, they’ll soon discover my ruse, but at least that wil
l eat a little time. A real name would buy us more but would also put someone’s life at risk. The best course might be to tell Brody that I won’t give him the name until he cancels the APB, but given the circumstances of our abduction, I’m unlikely to get far with that.
“There is no witness,” Caitlin says, as though tired of keeping up a charade.
Brody’s eyes narrow. “What?”
“Nobody ever saw you at Albert Norris’s store that night. Nobody but Albert himself. Penn made up another witness to try to force you to help Tom. That’s all we want—Tom back safe. We don’t care about the cases anymore.”
The boldness of her gambit takes me aback, but there’s genius in it. We don’t know the witness’s name because there isn’t one. No threat exists, at least from that quarter, ergo you don’t need to kill us.
Brody draws back his head, looking smug. “Nice try, Princess. But I already saw a reference to that witness in your personal computer file. I believe Henry Sexton calls him ‘Huggy Bear’? Randall tells me that was the name of a colored pimp on an old cop show.”
My heart thumps against my breastbone. Royal is two steps ahead of us, and maybe more. “I think Huggy ran a bar,” I say uselessly.
“Huggy was a nigger pimp,” Regan declares, looking up from his computer. “A jive-talking pimp who dressed like Superfly.”
Brody sighs, for the first time showing his irritation. “I think we’re drifting from the main point. I’ve tried to be reasonable, but clearly neither of you is acting in good faith. Your plan was to push me to get Dr. Cage to some safe place, then throw me to the dogs. Obviously, I can’t let that happen.”
“Here’s a name,” Regan says, lifting his fingers from the keyboard. “It’s a Lusahatcha County number, nothing but a name with it. Toby Rambin. That sounds familiar to me.”
I cut my eyes at Caitlin, who’s lost a shade of color. “You can read my personal computer files?” she asks Royal.
“We’re inside your intranet,” Regan brags.
“Is Rambin the witness?” Royal asks evenly.
Caitlin shakes her head. “No. He’s lived in Mississippi his whole life.”
Brody watches her in silence for an uncomfortable period, then gives an enigmatic smile. How this man loves his games. I can’t see much point in maintaining a pretense of a negotiation. “You’re not going to let us out of here no matter what we tell you,” I say. “Your men already killed a cop right in front of me.”
Royal looks genuinely surprised. “That man’s not dead. They Tased him when he wasn’t looking, then injected him with a sedative. I’m a businessman, Cage. Killing Natchez cops wouldn’t be good for business. In five hours, he’ll wake up behind the Duck’s Nest bar with no idea how he got there.”
Could this be true? “I felt his neck with my foot. No pulse.”
“Why don’t you leave the medicine to your father?” Rising from the sofa, Brody looks deeper into Caitlin’s eyes. “Before things deteriorate any further, let me say this: For thirty seconds, my offer remains open. I’ll stand by the deal I made at the hospital. But you must give me the witness’s real name. Otherwise, I’m going to have you both taken into the next room.” He nods toward the door to the firing range. “Take my word for it … you don’t want to go in there.”
Randall Regan’s dark eyes move from Caitlin’s face to mine, then back again. “They don’t know the name,” he says, utter certainty in his voice. “Cage doesn’t, anyway. Maybe the girl does. But I don’t think so.”
Clearly Regan has more gifts than I’ve given him credit for.
“Is Randall correct?” Brody asks us both.
“I know the name,” I lie, trying to pull him away from Caitlin. “But we’re not giving it to you until you take care of the APB. Have Forrest Knox put a press release out to the wire services. I can check it on Regan’s computer.”
Royal is already shaking his head. “We’re past that point, I’m afraid. You’re going to have to prove your good faith, Mayor.”
“Why are we wasting time with this?” Regan asks irritably. “Let’s take them into the range. Introduce her to the Flammenwerfer. If she knows the witness’s name, we’ll have it in thirty seconds.”
Brody gives his son-in-law a chiding look. “Patience, Randall. We’ve got a few minutes before the packages arrive. The problem is that Ms. Masters doesn’t really understand the stakes. And I know why.” He walks very close to Caitlin, then circles slowly around her, missing nothing. “You have my congratulations, Cage. I’d plow this filly all day long just to watch her walk.”
His crude words are all the more startling for the civility that preceded them. “What do you think, Randall?”
Regan looks up from his screen and tilts his head to one side. “A little skinny, but still prime.”
Caitlin’s face goes red, and she looks away from both men.
“You can’t fake that haughtiness,” Royal says with an appreciative smile. “Raised with a silver spoon, this one. Thinks the world has rules, and that her job is to make people abide by them. Except herself, of course. And what she most wants … is to be a star. But she wouldn’t even have the chance, if Daddy didn’t own the company.”
“And you?” she flashes back. “You’re richer than my father ever was.”
Brody barks a laugh. “You really don’t know anything, do you? I met your father once. At the Kentucky Derby. The second I heard him speak, I knew he came from money. And you’re his pride and joy, aren’t you.”
“I hope so.” Pink blotches have come up on her throat.
The old man glances at his watch, then looks at her with startling intensity. “My story’s a little different, princess. My mother died when I was just a tot. We were living on the levee after the Great Flood. The only dry land for fifty miles around. My father was out in a boat, helping rescue trapper families from the marshes. Everybody on the levee was starving, black and white both. One morning, a huge hog swam by. It was eating a bloated old nigra woman. I’ll never forget that sight, so long as I live. Most of the bodies floating past were nigras. They never learned to swim, see? Lots of them still don’t. Anyway, a National Guardsman shot the hog, and two men jumped into the water to get it. They shoved the woman’s corpse away with a pole and dragged the hog back. They gutted it right quick, then strung it up and built a fire under it. But the people were so hungry … they couldn’t wait.”
Royal lowers his voice, and his eyes grow remote. “We were ripping meat off that hog long before it was cooked. I wasn’t much more than a baby, so I was grabbing from down low, where I could reach. The meat I got was cooked, I guess. But Mama pulled hers from higher up, where it was almost raw. I got sick, but I lived. Mama died in agony, five weeks later. Worms in her brain.”
Brody shakes his head, looking lost for a moment. “Rich folks don’t die like that, do they, Ms. Masters? I’ll bet all your people died on clean white sheets, surrounded by nurses.”
I’m stunned to see sympathy in Caitlin’s face. Reflexive guilt over her privileged background? How can she possibly feel guilt when facing a monster?
“But I don’t think you’re going to die that way,” Brody says, his voice suddenly brittle. “Not unless you start talking right now. No clean white sheets for you. No painless passing. Just everlasting fire, like Albert Norris got.”
“I know you’re upset,” Caitlin says carefully. “I’m sure you blame me for what your daughter did. I can understand that. But she needs you now. When I talked to her …” Caitlin trails off when she sees the glacial coldness in Royal’s eyes.
“Tell her, Randall.”
“Katy’s dead, you stupid bitch.”
Caitlin whips her head back toward Royal.
“She died twenty minutes after your fiancé left the hospital,” says the old man.
Even as Caitlin says, “I’m sorry,” the timing of Royal’s daughter’s demise strikes me as highly improbable.
“You killed her,” I say softly, my eyes boring
into his.
“You left me no choice. It was a mercy, in a way. Especially for Randall.”
Regan looks at me like a man who has had a crippling burden lifted from his shoulders. Undoubtedly he did the deed himself.
Brody looks hard at Caitlin, who appears horrified by the ultimate consequences of her interview with Katy Royal. “I don’t need your apologies, Ms. Masters. All I need from you is a name.”
Caitlin’s eyes flick back and forth like those of a trapped animal. She’s where I was a few minutes ago. Make up a name and pay the price for lying? Or give Royal a real name and possibly trigger someone’s death? Is there even any point to stalling? John Kaiser seems our only possible deliverance, but without Walker Dennis leading him to Royal … why would he show up?
“Randall, I think it’s time you show Ms. Masters that we’re not playing games here.”
“About time,” Regan says, setting his computer aside and getting to his feet with his cigarette clamped between his teeth.
I start toward Caitlin to protect her, but instead of moving toward her, Regan walks straight to me, spreads his hands wide, and claps them over my ears with stunning force. Though I see the blow coming, my taped hands give me no chance to block it. The simultaneous concussions stun me like nails driven through my eardrums, scrambling all thought.
I hit the floor even before I realize I’m falling.
As I lie on my back, heaving for breath, Regan drops a crushing knee onto my chest and leans over me, the orange eye of his cigarette burning white as he sucks air through it. Grabbing the butt from his mouth, he jams the burning tobacco into my left cheek.
Searing agony whites out his laughing face. For a wild rush of heartbeats there’s only fire in my skin and a hammer pounding in my skull. The next thing to register is a high-pitched scream. Turning my head toward the sound, I see Caitlin’s mouth wide, her eyes red and pouring tears. Royal gives an order that registers faintly in my brain, and then Regan gets off my chest and pulls me to my feet.