The Bone Tree

by Greg Iles

  Kaiser manages to rein in his anger slightly. “I’m sorry for what happened to your men, Sheriff. But I have to ask: what did you really hope to accomplish with these raids?”

  Dennis squares his shoulders like a man preparing for a fight. “Aside from upholding the law and protecting the people of this parish?”

  “You’ve confiscated some precursor chemicals, and you’ve got a truckload of low-level perps locked up. Do you really think they’re going to give up the Double Eagles? Do you think they even know anything worth giving up?”

  Walker gives a surprisingly calm shrug. “Since they’re facing mandatory minimums, I’d say there’s a good chance that one or more will talk.”

  Kaiser shakes his head. “You have no idea what you’re up against, Sheriff. The punks you arrested this morning don’t know enough to jail one Double Eagle, and they don’t know jack shit about Forrest Knox.”

  “I reckon we’ll see,” Dennis drawls. “But I’m betting at least one of them knows more than you think.”

  “Bad bet, Sheriff.”

  “John,” I cut in, hoping to prevent further escalation, “I don’t think we’re going to find much common ground this morning. You ought to think about vacating the premises. Some of these deputies are . . . in a highly irritable state of mind.”

  “I’ll go you one better,” Dennis says aggressively. “I’m gonna call in the Double Eagles for questioning today.”

  The FBI agent clearly can’t believe his ears. “You mean get warrants for their arrest?”

  “No, no,” Walker says. “Just ask ’em nicely to come in for a chat.”

  Kaiser actually laughs. “How are you going to contact them?”

  Dennis shrugs again. “It’s a small parish. I’ll figure a way. If they’ve got nothing to hide, they shouldn’t mind coming in.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble, Sheriff. Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield are in Texas, at Billy Knox’s fishing camp. It’s on the Toledo Bend Reservoir. And they won’t come back here to talk to you, no matter how nicely you ask them. Especially after this morning. Because they do have plenty to hide.”

  Sheriff Dennis works his lower lip around his dip of snuff. “Well . . . I reckon I’ll ask anyway. Can’t hurt none.”

  “You’re wrong,” Kaiser says in a grave voice. “If all you guys were doing was jumping the gun on a drug case, I’d shut up and go back to New Orleans. But you’re throwing a wrench into one of the biggest conspiracy cases the Bureau’s ever been involved with, and I can’t stand by while you do it.”

  Dennis cuts his eyes at me, but I offer nothing. “You wanna explain that statement?”

  When Kaiser doesn’t answer, I say, “Our junior G-man thinks he’s working the JFK assassination.”

  Dennis’s eyes narrow. After squinting at Kaiser for fifteen seconds, he says, “Why not the Lindbergh baby?”

  Kaiser angrily shakes his head. “What you guys don’t know . . . Jesus.”

  “Do you see what’s going on in this parish?” Walker asks, waving his hand to take in his casualties and their families. “I’ve got good men down, and one dead. Bastards who murdered people forty years ago still killing people today. And they’ve got their kids helping them. When I saw you draining the Jericho Hole yesterday, I figured we were on the same side. But it’s starting to look to me like you’re just in the way.”

  “That’s because you’ve got blinders on,” Kaiser says, not the slightest bit intimidated. “Penn, could I speak to you alone?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re in Sheriff Dennis’s jurisdiction. I’m just the mayor of Natchez, as you reminded me last night. And I’m not really interested in the Kennedy assassination right now.”

  “No?” Kaiser lowers his voice again. “What if I told you that one of the rifles we took out of the ruins of Brody Royal’s house was a 6.58-millimeter Mannlicher-Carcano, just like the rifle Oswald fired from the Texas Book Depository? It’s the exact variant, 40.5 inches long.”

  I think about this for a few seconds. “I’d say you found yourself a replica that Brody bought to add to his little collection. Like a model of the starship Enterprise.”

  “That Carcano’s no replica. It’s a genuine Italian surplus war rifle that was probably made within a few months of the one Oswald bought through the mail in 1962.”

  “Does it have a serial number?”

  “It does. It also has fingerprints on it.”

  “How is that possible? The fire would have—”

  “This rifle wasn’t in Royal’s basement.” Kaiser’s eyes shine with triumph. “We found it in a gun safe in the old man’s study, on the main floor of the house. Everything in that safe was in pristine condition. Agents from our Legat in Rome have contacted the Italian government to trace the records. The odds are that Royal’s rifle was shipped to the U.S. for retail sale, like most of the other Carcano surplus in the fifties.”

  “Great. But I’m not interested.”

  “Penn, how sure are you about the type of rifles you saw in that special display case?”

  To my surprise, Sheriff Dennis seems to be listening closely.

  “I know neither was a Mannlicher-Carcano,” I tell Kaiser. “Any Texas prosecutor has talked to enough JFK conspiracy nuts to know what Oswald’s rifle looked like. The Carcano has an extended trigger housing and a forestock that nearly reaches the end of the barrel. It’s basically a crappy weapon. The rifles I saw in that display case were expensive hunting rifles with quality scopes. Surely you’ve identified them by now?”

  “We think so. But let’s double-check.” Kaiser pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and shoves it at me. “Have a look and see if you can ID the two rifles you saw in that case.”

  While Dennis stares with knitted brows, I take the inkjet-printed sheet. It shows a column of eight rifles in full color and good resolution. At first they look very similar, but the closer I study them, the more differences I see.

  “I’m pretty sure this is the one that had the MLK date under it,” I say, pointing to a lever-action hunting rifle. “What is it?”

  “Winchester Model 70,” says Kaiser. “Classic sniper rifle. What about the one dated November twenty-second?”

  After narrowing the remaining weapons down to two, I point at the one that looks most like the image from my memory. “This one.”

  Kaiser gives a half smile. “Right both times. That’s a Remington Model 700. A hot load in that rifle drives a bullet close to four thousand feet per second, depending on the caliber. Perfect for the Kennedy head shot. And that’s one of the rifles we found. Minus the incinerated wooden parts, of course.”

  “Then why the hell are you making such a fuss about the Mannlicher-Carcano from Royal’s study?”

  “Because it raises so many questions. And if I’m right, it’s going to connect the Royal-Knox-Marcello group directly to Oswald and Dallas. I’ll bet you any amount of money that the final shipping destination of that rifle was Louisiana, Mississippi, or Texas.”

  “I told you, John. Not interested.”

  “Hold up a second,” says Sheriff Dennis, his eyes on Kaiser. “Are you saying Brody Royal had something to do with the assassination of President Kennedy?”

  “I am. But that’s confidential case information, Sheriff. And not just Brody Royal.”

  “Who else? The Knoxes?”

  Kaiser shakes his head. “I shouldn’t say more at this time.”

  “He thinks the Knoxes and Carlos Marcello had a hand in it,” I say. “Crime of the century.”

  Kaiser glares at me, but Sheriff Dennis is studying the FBI agent intently. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Do I look like a joker to you, Sheriff?”

  “No, sir, you don’t. And I know a little bit about the Marcello clan. If you really believe you can solve the Kennedy case, I can respect that. But you’ve got to grant me the same courtesy. You probably don’t know it, but I lost a cousin to these bastards in a drug buy gone bad a cou
ple of years back. A dirty cop killed him. And Forrest Knox covered for that bastard. I mean to make those Knoxes pay, you hear? We’ve put up with their crap for too long in this parish. I drew the line this morning, and there’s no going back. So, I wish you well with your work. If there’s any way I can help you with your case, I will. But I won’t stop my own work on the Double Eagles. And you’d do well not to try to interfere. Okay?”

  Sheriff Dennis doesn’t wait for an answer. He turns and walks back through the door to the treatment room, where one of the deputy’s sons is crying.

  “Small-town sheriffs,” Kaiser mutters.

  “Didn’t I hear you started out as one?”

  He gives another exasperated sigh.

  “We’re moving forward, John. You can either get in the game with us or sit on the sidelines and watch. Either way, Forrest Knox is going to feel the heat.”

  Kaiser steps close to me. “If you keep pushing Forrest—and Snake and the others—this morning’s casualties won’t be anything but a warm-up for the main event. Take a word of advice, Penn. Hide your family in a deep hole. Because there’s nothing Forrest won’t do to stop you.”

  In my mind I see Annie and my mother looking worriedly after me as I left Edelweiss and headed out to my car. “I’ll do that.”

  Kaiser turns without another word and walks toward the exit. Before he passes through, he turns back and says, “Let me know if Dennis gets an answer from the Double Eagles on that voluntary questioning.”

  “I thought you said there was no chance.”

  “Yeah, well . . . this is Louisiana. Crazier things have happened.” He shakes his head miserably, then walks out.

  I follow Walker into the treatment room and find him sitting with the two young boys. Their wounded father is wearing an oxygen mask over his mouth. Walker is holding the hand of one of the boys. His face is wet, and his big neck is bright red. With embarrassment I realize that the wife is saying a prayer beside the bed. I bow my head.

  After she finishes, Walker rises and leads me back to the main ER area.

  “How are you going to contact the Eagles?” I ask him.

  “I’m gonna call Claude Devereux, their lawyer. That Cajun bastard has always been too slick for his own good. If he doesn’t cooperate, I’m gonna find a way to lock him in the trap with the rest of them.”

  This is actually a good idea. “Kaiser’s probably right about Snake and Sonny being in Texas. Surely Devereux will tell them to stay put?”

  “If they stay in Texas, that tells us something, doesn’t it? Meanwhile, I’ll be grinding away at the punks we brought in this morning. Sooner or later, one of them’s gonna want to trade something.”

  “Do you want me to help you with the questioning?”

  “Not after what happened at the warehouse. Too many people will be watching me. You steer clear for today. If somebody decides to flip on a Double Eagle, I’ll call you. Fair enough?”

  “Yeah. I need to tighten up my family’s security anyway, and I’ve got a huge backlog of work at City Hall. I’m sorry again about your men.”

  I start to leave, but Walker takes hold of my arm, then steps even closer, his eyes hard on mine. “How come you didn’t tell me about that JFK angle?”

  “Because it’s just a pig trail. Even if Kaiser is onto something with that rifle, it’s ancient history.”

  Dennis clucks his tongue twice. “Murder’s never ancient history, Penn. You know that. And that one caused more harm than most. A lot more. If there’s a chance of finding out who really killed the president that day in Dallas—or why—I’m all for it. I’ll do anything I can to help.”

  “I hear you, Walker.”

  The sheriff lowers his big head another inch. “Don’t keep anything else from me. Okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  After a long moment, he nods, then walks back to his injured deputy’s cubicle.

  Small-town sheriffs, I say silently. Jesus.

  CHAPTER 21

  WALT GARRITY HAD been staking out Forrest Knox’s house since before dawn, and he was tired of waiting. Knox’s wife was asleep inside, which prevented an immediate search, and there was also a large pit bull penned in the backyard. Forrest himself had driven from Valhalla to Baton Rouge at about 5 A.M., and Walt had followed the whole journey on the GPS tracking scope Mackiever had given him. The new toy was nice, but Walt was worried that his target intended to sleep the morning away. That might seem improbable to some people, given the present situation, but in Walt’s experience career criminals often possessed the ability to sleep through anything.

  As Walt cruised past Knox’s well-tended ranch house, his burn phone pinged. Picking up the TracFone, he saw a text message from Tom. The message contained only a sequence of numbers, as Walt had instructed him to use, but the mere sight of those numbers relieved some of the strain Walt been suffering since he’d heard Tom had a hit man tied up in his backseat.

  Pulling out of the affluent neighborhood, which stood less than a mile from the university, Walt turned into a service station and parked near the car wash. He felt reasonably secure in the truck, since he’d stolen a new plate from a similar model in a Lowe’s parking lot. Satisfied that no one was watching, he took a notepad from his bag and began decoding Tom’s message. A minute later, he read the words: Safe. Loc to follow aft new fon. He wished Tom had gone ahead and given him his location, but his old friend was wisely waiting until he had a 100 percent secure telephone. Taking one of Tom’s cigars from his shirt pocket, Walt lit the expensive beast, then settled back in his seat and watched the entrance to the quaint little haven that sheltered the most dangerous cop in the state.

  FORREST KNOX SAT AT the Dell computer in his home office, working on notes for the press conference he would call at noon. Inkjet printouts of child pornography pulled from Colonel Mackiever’s work computer lay spread on the right side of his desk. Forrest should have been at headquarters by now, but something was nagging at him down deep. The obvious problems were bad enough. Henry Sexton’s death had triggered a media storm, and Caitlin Masters’s newspaper coverage had only magnified it. (Today’s online edition of the Examiner hovered just behind the Word document containing Forrest’s notes for the press conference.) Thankfully, Masters had focused primarily on Royal and the Double Eagles, and stopped short of accusing Forrest of anything. But that wouldn’t last.

  What had kept him at home were the two phones calls he’d received a half hour earlier. The first was from a contact he had in the New Orleans federal court. The woman hadn’t identified herself, but she hadn’t needed to. She simply told Forrest that the FBI had filed National Security Letters requesting the phone and e-mail records on Forrest Knox, Alphonse Ozan, and two other officers in the Criminal Investigations Bureau. Forrest had hung up without a word, but he couldn’t pretend the call hadn’t rattled him. Had he not had that contact, he would never even have known the Bureau was digging into his past. Before he could fully process this news, the second call had come, this one from one of the wealthiest developers planning the post-Katrina transformation of New Orleans. Brody Royal’s death—and the scandal brewing in its wake—had hit those multimillionaires where they lived, and their answering message to Forrest was clear: get Mackiever out of his job ASAP and tamp down the trouble in Concordia Parish by any means necessary. If he couldn’t, their support for him would evaporate like smoke.

  A loud barking from behind the house startled Forrest. Traveller, his pit bull, was letting him know he was running late. Forrest forced himself to ignore the dog and focus on the Word document. He was glad when his encrypted phone distracted him from the computer screen.

  “What is it?” he said, reading a sentence that needed to be a lot better than it was.

  “Mackiever’s back home,” Ozan informed him. “About ten minutes now.”

  “Any idea where he’s been?”

  “Nope.”

  “I should have had him followed from New Orleans.”

&
nbsp; “Spilled milk, boss. You think he’ll go in to HQ today?”

  “I wouldn’t.” Forrest glanced down at the naked little boy on his desk.

  “He’s a proud old bastard,” Ozan said. “He’s liable to go over to the governor’s office to personally hand in his resignation.”

  “She’s ready to accept it.”

  “What about your press conference?”

  Forrest suddenly knew what he was going to do. “I’ve changed my mind about that.”

  “What do you mean? You gonna wait? Give him the full forty-eight hours?”

  “No. I’m going to leak the full story.”

  “Who you gonna give it to?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just call me when you hear it’s circulating.”

  “Got it.”

  “No word on Dr. Cage?”

  “Negative. Bermuda fucking Triangle.”

  Forrest grunted. “Keep looking. Out.”

  He pressed END, then deleted the document he’d been writing. Taking his regular cell phone from his pocket, he called a former vice detective he’d partnered with long ago. The man answered after three rings.

  “Yo, Colonel. You the boss yet?”

  “Not quite. Are you still tight with that woman at the Advocate?”

  “Sure.”

  “And the TV station? WAFB?”

  “You know me. Finger on the pulse.”

  “I know the pulse that finger likes to take.”

  The detective barked a laugh. “I ain’t changed, partner. Who does? You want me to pass something on?”

  “Yeah. But not on the phone. I’ll give you an envelope.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “You won’t believe it when you see it.”

  “Who’s the target?”

  “The cowboy colonel.”

  The detective was silent for a moment. “Sounds like I’m doing you a real service.”

  “You know I’m big on gratitude.”

  “That I do, old buddy. How about one of those weekend hunting trips with diablitos and whores included?”

  “Do this and you’re comped.”

  “Oh, hell yeah. Where’s the handoff?”