by Greg Iles
“Doc, if anybody’s out there, we’re done for already. I guess I’ll be the back-door lookout.”
Melba collected her wineglass and walked toward some double doors behind a broad curtain. Then she slipped through the crack and went outside.
Fighting the temptation to look away from Tom, Caitlin said, “Exactly how close are you and Melba?”
He looked so genuinely shocked by the implication of her question that Caitlin instantly realized her error. “You asked Melba to leave the room for that?”
“No. Tom, last night Penn and I were nearly murdered. Brody Royal almost killed us. Henry Sexton saved us.”
“I know.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Melba brought me a copy of this morning’s paper.”
“Before he died, Brody told us two things about you. He said that you saved Viola’s life back in 1968. And he said you killed her four days ago.”
Tom’s lips parted slightly.
“Brody had no reason to lie, Tom. He thought we were going to die. And he thought the irony was hilarious.”
Tom turned away and shook his head. “Brody Royal . . . that psychotic bastard.”
“I agree. But why would he say that to us, Tom?”
Tom looked down at his hands for some time, then raised his head and looked into Caitlin’s eyes. “He told you the truth, Cait. But don’t ask me any more about it.”
Caitlin suddenly felt cold. “You . . . you killed her, Tom?”
“As I said before, I’m not going to speak about what happened in her sister’s house that night. If I couldn’t tell Penn, I certainly can’t tell you. No offense.”
“Then what the hell are you going to do? Just sit here until they come for you?”
“That’s my concern, not yours.”
Caitlin felt a hot rush of anger. She walked away from the counter, then turned and spoke with more hostility than she’d intended. “Penn met Lincoln Turner yesterday. And then again today. Did you know that?”
Tom turned and squinted as though a bright light had been shined in his face. “Penn and Lincoln, together?”
She nodded. “For close to an hour in a nightclub out in Anna’s Bottom. Lincoln told Penn that he’s your son. By Viola, obviously.”
Tom answered in a low voice. “I wish I could refute that, but I can’t.”
“You believe Lincoln Turner is your son?”
“You don’t?”
“No. How long have you known about his existence?”
“Since the night Viola died.”
Caitlin nodded with satisfaction. “Did Viola show you any proof of paternity?”
“What kind of proof could she offer, other than the timing?”
“Tom . . . in some ways, I respect you more than any man I’ve ever known, but you have always been a soft touch. Sharp customers have always taken advantage of you, and you’ve always let them. Peggy told me that years ago, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes many times.”
“Viola wasn’t a con artist, Caitlin.”
“No. But she was a woman. And if she truly had a son by you, do you really believe she’d have kept it secret from you for forty years?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I disagree. She knew what kind of father you are. Sooner or later, she would have told you about the boy. And if not you, she would have told the boy himself. And he would have sought you out. I don’t buy this, Tom. Not any of it.”
The kettle began to whistle. Caitlin had to tear her gaze away from Tom’s face, and she sensed that he was grateful for the break. She poured the water into the mugs Melba had set out, then dunked two bags of Earl Grey. Tom took a pink packet of sweetener from a rack on the counter, poured the contents into his tea, and gently shook the mug.
“So Viola suddenly made it up. That’s what you’re saying,” said Tom. “Why would she lie to me about that?”
“Oh, dear Lord. She was dying, and she had a son she was worried about! She knew that one word in your ear would ensure that Lincoln would never want for anything for the rest of his life. By telling you what she did, Viola provided for her son in perpetuity.”
“That’s pretty cynical.”
“I’m a woman, Tom. Just like Viola.”
“You think all women are the same?”
“No. But about the fundamental things, we’re pretty similar. I’m sure Viola was noble and selfless, but all women are selfish when it comes to providing for their children.”
“Lincoln is my son, Cait. Have you spoken to him yourself?”
“No. But I want to. One of my reporters is trying to find him right now. I hope she doesn’t, to be frank.”
Tom sipped from his mug but said nothing more.
Caitlin decided to try a different tack. “Does Peggy know about Lincoln?”
Tom’s eyes went flat, opaque. “No. Not yet.”
“I advise you to keep it that way, at least until you have a DNA test performed.”
“I’ve already initiated one.”
This shocked her. “How did you do that? Have you had personal contact with Lincoln?”
“No. And I didn’t doubt Viola, but I knew Peggy would demand proof. And Penn too—as they should, of course.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“Viola had some keepsakes from Lincoln’s childhood. One of them was a little pewter box that held a few baby teeth. I took that the night she died.”
Caitlin had a feeling Tom had said more than he intended. “Did Viola know you were going to do the test?”
“No.”
“When will it be completed?”
“Soon, I hope. I use a Baton Rouge lab for my clinical tests. I have a friend who’s a part owner. He said he’d rush it for me. Three or four days from now is possible.”
She was glad to know Tom hadn’t completely abandoned reason. “I know you said you won’t talk about Sunday night. But do you know what Penn thinks about Viola’s death?”
Tom’s silver eyebrows went up.
“He thinks Lincoln tried to euthanize his mother, but somehow screwed it up and killed her painfully. Maybe he had second thoughts and tried to revive her. Penn thinks you figured that out, and you’re protecting Lincoln out of guilt over forty years of neglect.”
The flatness in Tom’s eyes gave way to an unreadable depth, as though a crust of ice had melted away to reveal bottomless ocean. Caitlin’s first thought was that Penn’s theory had struck home, but then something in Tom’s face changed her mind.
“That’s not what happened, is it?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because when I said it, you looked like that idea had never entered your head before.”
“You read minds now?”
“What would you think if I told you Lincoln saved Penn’s life today?”
“What?”
“One of the men who tried to kill you last night pulled a gun on Penn at Drew’s lake house. Penn went out there after Drew told him you’d been there. Two guys were staking it out, in case you came back.”
Tom looked stricken. “Oh, no.”
“They got the drop on Penn, but Lincoln pulled up out of nowhere with a shotgun and ran the guys off. They were off-duty cops. Apparently, Lincoln has been following Penn in the belief that Penn knows where you are.”
“With a shotgun . . .”
“Mm-hm. They told Penn that they’d tried to take you last night, and you killed one of them. A Monroe, Louisiana, cop. Is that true? Have you killed two cops now?”
Tom waved his hand angrily. “I did what I had to do.”
Caitlin took two steps toward him and spoke as gently as she could. “Remember last Sunday’s dinner at your house?”
Tom nodded like an amnesiac suddenly recalling a bit of reality.
“Now look at where we are. You’re the author of all this insanity, Tom. And you’ve got to stop it before somebody else gets killed. Like Penn.”
Tom’s breathing had grown labored. “I intended to.”
; “How?” she demanded. “I see no method whatever in the madness of your actions.”
Tom slid carefully off the bar stool, then picked up his mug and carried it into the den. Caitlin followed and watched him set the mug on a coffee table that had been pulled close to a comfortable sofa covered with quilts and pillows. With a groan he sat heavily on the upholstered sofa.
“Was that your idea of a strategic retreat?” she asked, sitting in the club chair nearest the sofa.
“The geography’s pretty limited.”
She sipped her tea, giving Tom time to process all she’d told him. Her eyes played over the prescription bottles that stood like little soldiers around a laptop computer. At length she said, “Since Griffith Mackiever is unlikely to be able to help you, what option do you have other than arranging a safe surrender?”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck for a while before answering. Then he turned to her with his startlingly clear eyes and said, “You want the truth, Cait? If Colonel Mackiever can’t help us, then there’s only one person who can.”
Caitlin tried to guess who he was talking about. When it came to her, an electric chill raced over her skin. “Not Forrest Knox.”
Tom nodded gravely.
“Why in God’s name would Forrest help you? He’s trying to kill you.”
“The same reason anybody makes a deal. I’d have to offer him something in exchange for his help.”
“Good Lord. You don’t understand. I just went through this with Penn. He tried the same thing with Brody Royal, and that’s what nearly got us killed. It did kill Henry and the others. You’re talking about the very same idea—offering to bury information in exchange for protection.”
This time Tom said nothing, but she saw the truth of it in his face.
“A promise like that is worthless unless you can guarantee that I won’t do anything to hurt Forrest. That I’ll stop the newspaper’s investigation.”
Still Tom remained silent, and the longer he did, the more horrified she became. “I won’t do it!” she cried.
Tom’s gaze was like a hot lamp, making her ever more uncomfortable.
She shifted in her chair. “Like father, like son, huh? Unbelievable.”
“How much evidence do you really have against Forrest?” Tom asked. “Not the Double Eagles. Just Forrest Knox?”
“Some. Not as much as I’m going to have. Because I’m going to get it all. And if I can prove that Forrest—and by extension Trooper Dunn—are crooked, then Quentin can get you and Walt acquitted for shooting Dunn.”
Tom seemed to be exercising great forbearance. “Do you really believe Forrest Knox will let you do that? And even if you survived to see your story printed, do you think you’d bring Forrest down before his men killed Walt and me?”
A wave of heat flashed over her neck and face. “If you’d let us arrange a safe surrender, yes!”
“I see. And where would this safe surrender take place?”
“If you’d call Penn, I think he can get the FBI to set it up for you.”
“Not after the death of that state trooper.”
“You don’t understand. There’s an agent named John Kaiser who could set it up for you. Penn is with him right now. And not only Kaiser, but Dwight Stone. Do you remember him?”
Tom’s mouth had fallen open. “Dwight Stone? But you—you said Penn was with Peggy and Annie.”
“I lied. He’s meeting with Kaiser and Stone right now, trying to arrange a safe surrender for you. And to be honest, I don’t think they give a damn about Viola Turner or that state trooper. They’re obsessed with the Kennedy assassination.”
Tom had gone pale. “The Kennedy assassination!”
She nodded. “Yes, and Carlos Marcello and the Knox family. Kaiser and Stone seem to think all that is tied together.”
Tom was shaking his head. “Jesus Christ . . . after all these years?”
Caitlin heard something strange in Tom’s voice. “What do you mean? Do you know something about all that? Because Penn said they might well offer you protective custody in exchange for information about the assassination.”
“Caitlin . . . you have no idea what you’re dealing with. Neither do Kaiser and Stone. If they get too close to the Knoxes, Forrest or Snake will kill them, too.”
“You think Forrest Knox would murder FBI agents?”
“Without hesitation.”
She was starting to think Tom had entered the realm of paranoid delusion. “I’m sorry, I just don’t believe that. You kill an FBI agent, you’re asking for a life on the run.”
“Not if you can blame someone else for the crime. And the Knoxes are very good at that sort of thing.”
“Are you saying that’s what happened to you?”
Tom lifted one of the quilts and pulled it over his lap, as if he’d gotten cold. Then he murmured, “The Knoxes have been killers for generations.”
At last they had come to the heart of things. In his desire to persuade her to break faith with herself, Tom had unwittingly taken their conversation into the territory he’d been avoiding for years.
“How long have you known that?” she asked softly.
“Longer than I’d care to admit. Even to myself.”
“Tom . . . Henry Sexton told me that he tried to interview you several times, and you always refused to see him.”
“I couldn’t,” he said simply. “I had enormous admiration for what Henry was doing. He was the bravest reporter ever to come out of this area. But look what happened in the end. He met the same fate you’re courting now. I blame myself, of course. Partly, anyway. But that doesn’t alter the equation as it pertains to you. If you go after Forrest Knox, you’ll die.”
Tom leaned forward, opened two prescription bottles, and swallowed two pills with his tea—one green and yellow, the other large, oblong, and white.
“Are you having chest pain?”
He smiled sadly. “Fact of life, my dear. But that was a pain pill and an antibiotic.”
“Tom, you can’t go on like this.”
“You’re right. And I don’t plan to.”
“Oh, that’s right. You want to make a bargain with the murderer you tell me is too dangerous for me to go after with my newspaper. Tom, even if you physically survived that encounter, you’d die a different kind of death. You’d die on the inside. That son of a bitch is evil.”
“You have no idea, Cait. Snake Knox is clinically insane, and he comes by it honestly. Forrest can’t have fallen far from the tree, either. But that doesn’t change the fact that Forrest Knox is the only man short of the Louisiana governor who can make that APB go away, or blame someone else for Viola’s murder. And I won’t accept any solution that doesn’t extricate Walt from the trouble I’ve got him into.”
At last one of the main reasons for Tom’s intransigence was sinking in. “I understand how you must feel about that. But Tom . . . Forrest is corrupting the whole law enforcement system of Louisiana.”
“Louisiana has been corrupt for three hundred years, Cait. Forrest Knox is nothing new.”
His voice sounded very like her paternal grandfather’s, filled with both disillusionment and wisdom. But she would not let that sidetrack her. “You knew Forrest’s father, didn’t you?” she asked, watching him closely. “Frank Knox?”
“Yes, Frank was a patient of mine.” Tom’s voice had altered slightly, but she couldn’t read the tone.
“I read in one of Henry’s notebooks that Frank died in your office.”
Tom went still, then regarded her curiously.
She pushed on in spite of feeling anxious. “Did you know that Frank Knox murdered Jimmy Revels in the hope of luring Robert Kennedy down here to be assassinated?”
Tom blinked once, slowly. “I never heard anything like that. Is that true?”
“What if I told you that Frank Knox planned that operation at the request of Carlos Marcello, the Mafia boss?”
“Who told you that?”
“Henry Sexton figu
red it out. But I think the FBI believes the same thing.” Caitlin decided to go for broke. Maybe that would shake Tom from his delusion of coming to some détente with Forrest Knox. “You were no stranger to Marcello yourself, were you?”
Tom’s eyes had gone flat again. “Leave it alone, Caitlin. Please.”
“I wish I could. But people are dying. And your son is out there risking his life trying to save you. This morning he and Walker Dennis busted every meth cooker and mule in Concordia Parish. And tomorrow morning they’re planning to interrogate the Double Eagles at the Concordia Parish Sheriff’s Office.”
Tom’s face grew so pale that she feared he might collapse. “Why the hell is he doing that?”
“He thinks that by putting Forrest on the defensive, he’ll buy you enough time to do whatever the hell you’re trying to do. He loves you so much that he’s willing to go to war against the Knoxes to save you.”
Tom dug his fingers back through his hair like a man trying to hold his brain inside his skull.
Caitlin decided to press on. “Did you already know Brody Royal was guilty of the murders I wrote about in today’s paper?”
Tom lowered his hands into his lap and spoke without looking at her. “No. Not for sure.”
“Did Dr. Leland Robb tell you that Albert Norris implicated Brody Royal in his murder before he died? Henry believed he did.”
The stunned look in Tom’s eyes told her she was close to the truth. Caitlin kept her eyes on his, not wanting to give him enough respite to disengage. “You knew Dr. Robb well, didn’t you? Before he died in that plane crash, you traveled to gun shows together in his plane.”
“Henry obviously did his homework.”
“He wanted justice for those victims, and their families. He believed you knew that Royal had killed Albert and Dr. Robb, but you never told the police or the FBI. Henry couldn’t square that with what he knew about your character, and neither can I. But now . . . my gut tells me that it’s true.”
Tom seemed to have aged visibly during the past minute. “Maybe I’m not the man you think I am.”
“Maybe not. I’ve tried to imagine what might keep you silent about something like that, but I’ve come up empty. The only thing that seems relevant makes no sense to me. According to Henry, there are FBI records that you treated some of Carlos Marcello’s gangsters during the late sixties and seventies. The report says they would drive up from New Orleans, and you’d treat them for free. There are actually FBI surveillance reports of that.”