The Bone Tree

by Greg Iles

  “Could you have missed Dad?”

  “No. Tom could’ve been in the boathouse, I suppose, but I just don’t think Forrest would keep a hostage that close to him. Much more likely Tom would be out at Valhalla.”

  “But you were there, too.”

  Walt shrugs. “They could have moved him back to either place since I left. If we can’t talk to Snake, then Forrest is our best chance. But we’ll have to fight our way in there, unless either Sheriff Dennis can get us a warrant—”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “—or you set up some kind of negotiation with Forrest.”

  “The way I did with Brody Royal? That didn’t end too well.”

  “I didn’t say it was a good plan. But it might be the only one.”

  “No matter what happens, Forrest could order Dad killed, then say he died while resisting arrest. Not only that, he could arrest you as a fugitive, and me for interfering on your behalf.”

  “Can you get a warrant for Valhalla?” Walt asks.

  “Lusahatcha County is in our court district, and I know the circuit judge in Natchez. I can probably get a warrant, but I don’t know that Sheriff Ellis would serve it. From what I’ve heard, he’s pretty cozy with the local hunting camp owners, including the Knoxes. Plus, Valhalla is known to be connected with the Knoxes. I don’t think they’d stash him in a place we could find using common knowledge, paperwork, or computers.”

  “Shit,” says Walt, spitting on the floor.

  “You just left your DNA here,” I observe.

  “Fuck some DNA. We’re way past that now.”

  We sit in silence for several seconds, and in the strange vacuum, a profound fear begins to flow through me. “Walt,” I say in a flat voice. “What does your gut tell you? Do you think they’ve killed him?”

  “I’ve worried from the start they meant to kill him so he’d go down as Viola’s killer, and that investigation would stop. And with the trooper hanging around our necks . . . we just made it too easy for them.”

  Walt’s tone of despair leaves me feeling hollowed out. Short of getting Snake Knox in that CPSO broom closet with Walt and a wet towel, I don’t see that we have an option.

  “Hey,” Walt says, shoving the old footlocker with his foot.

  “What?”

  “You see this? This is a marine footlocker, World War Two vintage. It’s made of wood. I saw a few of ’em in Korea.”

  “So?”

  “So it’s got a brand-new padlock on it. A Chubb. Take a look.”

  Looking down, I see a pitted, flimsy-looking latch with a heavy, shining padlock on it. Above the circular latch is a metal nameplate with the letters CPL. SONNY THORNFIELD stamped on it. The same letters are stenciled on top of the oblong box, but they’ve faded to near invisibility.

  Walt taps his thighs, his eyes on the padlock. “Why does an old gomer like Sonny lock up his piece-of-shit footlocker like it’s holding the crown jewels?”

  “Maybe it’s all he’s got in the world.”

  Walt slides up to the edge of the sofa and leans forward. “Let’s find out.”

  Reversing his pistol in his hand, he hammers at the latch and lock, but they refuse to yield.

  I get up and go through the drawers beside the plastic sink against the wall, hunting for a screwdriver. I don’t find one, but in the back of the drawer I find an old rat-tail file, as rusty as some tool left behind by the slaves who built the pyramids. Taking it in my hand, I go to the footlocker, wedge it into the latch, and with one savage twist snap the latch free from the lid of the case.

  “Good man,” says Walt. “Let’s see what that old fool thinks is worth protecting. Probably ten years’ worth of Hustler.”

  My stomach feels strangely hollow as I lift the lid, just the way it did when as a boy I secretly unpacked my Christmas presents after finding them hidden in a closet. In the dim light of the cabin, I see mementos of Sonny Thornfield’s younger life stacked carefully in layers. A woman must have packed this locker. Digging patiently through it, I find war ribbons and medals; a pistol and bayonet; an ancient tube of Barbasol shaving lotion; a marine forage cap; a Ku Klux Klan hood and several Klan pins—one a fiery cross wrought in gold—lying on what appears to be a folded white robe; a stack of baseball cards from the early 1940s, bound by a dry-rotted rubber band; a cup of multicolored marbles; a Playboy magazine from 1953; a snapshot of a Ku Klux Klan rally in Natchez, probably the big one held in the summer of 1965; two hand grenades that have been emptied of explosive; Thornfield’s birth certificate, along with several other yellowed legal papers, including his honorable discharge from the Marine Corps. But at the bottom of the footlocker, pressed between two ancient hymnals, lies a memento of a different sort—the sort that Kaiser dealt with in his previous life.

  What I first think is just a chamois cloth is actually a soft swatch of leather with the letters USN needled into it with dark blue ink. Above these letters are an anchor and a rope. About five inches long, and brown as stained walnut, the skin has rolled a little at the edges. Fighting the urge to gag, I lift the thing from the bottom of the footlocker. The obscene trophy is soft and buttery, like the finest grain leather. It is leather, I remind myself. Tanned to perfection by someone with a deep knowledge of such things.

  “Son of a bitch,” Walt intones.

  I try to speak, but my throat has sealed shut. The ragged edges of the thing in my hand make it plain that it was cut from Jimmy Revels’s arm. I only hope he was dead when it happened.

  “This is my ticket back into the sheriff’s office,” I finally whisper. “To talk to Snake Knox.”

  “Is that where we’re going?”

  After hastily repacking the footlocker, I fasten it shut, then look up at the old Ranger. “No. Not yet. Kaiser won’t let us do what we’d need to do to Snake.”

  Walt nods gravely. “Where then?”

  “It’s time to talk to Forrest Knox.”

  His eyes narrow. “You gonna call him on that cell phone Dennis gave you? Try to cut a deal with him?”

  “There’s no deal to be had. We’re going to find out where Dad is, no matter what that takes.”

  An unspoken question rises in Walt’s eyes. I lay the tattoo in his callused hand, then get to my feet and check my pistol. The old Ranger looks down at the tanned skin for several seconds without speaking, feeling it between his fingers. Then he brings it closer to his face so that his aging eyes can focus on the inked letters.

  “Jesus wept,” he says finally. “I had a brother who served in the navy. No matter what happens at Knox’s place, I’m gonna kill the motherfucker who done this.”

  CHAPTER 59

  THE BOUCHARD LAKE house sits on the side of Lake Concordia farthest from the Mississippi River. A modernist, metal-skinned anomaly, it stands out among the older ranch houses and contemporary McMansions. At my request, Walker Dennis waited for us four miles up the road in the parking lot of a small grocery store that serves the lake residents. There I parked my Audi and climbed into Drew’s truck, while Walker followed us in his marked Tahoe.

  During the drive here, Walt told me two things I could scarcely believe: first, that he’d planted the derringer that killed Trooper Deke Dunn inside Forrest Knox’s Baton Rouge home; and second, that while exploring Forrest’s computer, he’d discovered a video of a state police SWAT unit murdering what appeared to be black drug dealers during Hurricane Katrina. Walt rather unwisely turned this video over to Colonel Griffith Mackiever, but so far as he knows, the derringer still remains in Knox’s house. The implications of this information are too explosive for me to predict, yet I will be facing Forrest himself in less than five minutes.

  When we reach the driveway of the Bouchard house, Walker Dennis pulls in after me and blocks the drive with his Tahoe, then climbs out with an AR-15 mounting an ACOG sight on its top rail.

  “What’s the fire signal?” he asks.

  “If I raise my right forefinger, blow him away.”

 
; “Forrest first?”

  “Whoever’s the most immediate threat.”

  Dennis nods, then walks behind the Tahoe and rests his rifle on the hood, making a bench rest of his vehicle.

  Walt drives slowly up the driveway: thirty meters, forty . . . I lay my hand on his arm and wait for him to turn to me. When he does, I say, “Tell me one thing, Walt. Did Dad kill Viola? I don’t care either way at this point. I just need to know.”

  The old Ranger’s eyes don’t waver. “I honestly don’t know. I just came to help the man, because he’s my friend.”

  I actually believe this. Walt and my father are from a different era, almost a different nation. The code by which they live probably precluded Walt from even asking the question.

  “What if they just open up on us from the house?” he asks.

  “They won’t. If they’re watching, they’ll have seen Walker’s bubble lights already.”

  Walt doesn’t look reassured. “You sure you don’t want to try to call Knox on that cell phone?”

  “Nope. I’ve got other plans for that phone.”

  The brakes squeak as Walt rolls to a stop twenty meters from the house. I can just see the corner of the rear deck jutting out from the second floor. As I stare, a head appears, silhouetted against the sky. After several seconds, it withdraws.

  “We just lost the element of surprise,” Walt deadpans, glancing into the backseat, where the veritable arsenal of firearms he brought from Texas lies in a padded duffel bag.

  “I don’t think we ever had it. I’ll get out and wait for them. You stay in here until I clarify the situation. We don’t want them shooting you before they understand the price.”

  Climbing out of the truck, I stand with my .357 hanging in plain view against my leg. In less than a minute, the side door of the house opens and two men emerge, one of average height, but well built and with the grace of an athlete; the other shorter and built like a small refrigerator. As they approach, the second man’s brick-colored skin becomes obvious. Alphonse Ozan.

  “Hello, Mayor,” says the taller man, whose dark face has now resolved into recognizable features. Forrest Knox looks like the actor Kenneth Tobey, but with a dark suntan, pocked skin, and black hair. He’s square jawed and almost handsome, but a badly disfigured ear and his disturbingly direct eyes make me uneasy. “What can I do for you?”

  “Tell me where my father is.”

  Forrest gives me a bemused smile. “How would I know that?”

  “You kidnapped him last night, and then your uncle snatched him from you. Now something tells me you’ve taken him back. In any case, I don’t have time for a long explanation. Just tell me where he is now.”

  Forrest drums the fingers of his right hand against the knuckles of his left. “Who’s that in the truck, Mayor? Looks like he might be a wanted cop killer.”

  “He is. And he’s going to get out. But before he does, I want you to note the sniper at the end of your driveway. He’s got you zeroed right now.”

  Forrest chuckles softly. “Can that clown hit me from there?”

  “The deer heads on his office wall tell me he probably can.” I turn to Drew’s truck and motion for Walt to get out. As he does, I give Alphonse Ozan a warning glance. “I don’t want either of you touching a cell phone. If you do, Sheriff Dennis will fire and I’ll swear you went for your guns.”

  Forrest laughs softly. “You’ve got some balls for a lawyer, don’t you?”

  “You called this play. I’m only doing what I have to do for my family.”

  Knox gives me a measuring look. “What do you really know about me, Mayor?”

  “I know you used to leave JFK half-dollars in the mouths of men you killed in Vietnam.”

  “That Kaiser does his homework, doesn’t he?”

  “It wasn’t all book work. He was at FSB Ripcord when you were there.”

  “No shit?” The intelligent eyes narrow with curiosity. “Well, now. If we’re going to speak any further, I need you wanded.”

  Without further prompting, Ozan takes a black wand from his pocket and runs it the length of my body. I can imagine Walker Dennis tensing for a shot, thinking Ozan is making a move on me. The wand beeps when it passes the cell phone in my back pocket, but I show Ozan that it’s switched off.

  When the Redbone wands Walt, the instrument begins beeping loudly near his ankles.

  “My throwdown,” Walt informs him. “Try to take that, and I’ll beat you to death with it.”

  Ozan chuckles like Walt’s a funny old codger.

  As he straightens up, Forrest says, “Who planted the meth on my relatives?”

  “This conversation’s drifting off point, Colonel. I’m only concerned about my father.”

  “Your daddy murdered a state trooper, Mayor. That makes this a problematic conversation.”

  “Bullshit,” says Walt. “I killed that asshole Dunn, and he was no cop. He was a disgrace to his badge. I stopped him from committing murder.”

  Forrest gives Walt a hard look, then motions for me to follow him away from the other men. “Let’s move downwind and keep this civil,” he says. “Otherwise there may be casualties.”

  When we’re out of earshot, Forrest turns to me. “You tried to cut a deal with Brody Royal, didn’t you? That was your mistake right there. Brody was a megalomaniac. I’m a pragmatist.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You can find out right now. Let’s hear your offer.”

  “I’m not here to make an offer.”

  “That’s too bad. Because I did speak to your father last night, and his main hope was that we can all come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement. His idea is to blame the casualties up to this point on dead people—Brody, Regan, and Morehouse, say—and you and your fiancée back the fuck away from this stupid Double Eagle story, and everything you think goes with it.”

  Trying not to read anything into his verb tenses, I say, “Where did you speak to my father?”

  “That doesn’t matter. But we had a good visit last night. Talked about the old days—and my old man, of course. Daddy thought a hell of a lot of Dr. Cage.”

  “I don’t imagine the feeling was mutual.”

  Forrest barks a laugh. “Are you kidding? Your dad and mine got along great. They’d both been through the same meat grinder in Korea. They had different politics, sure, but they respected each other. Hell, Daddy even knew Dr. Cage used to patch up the black agitators when they got hurt, but he didn’t care.”

  I try to imagine my father respecting Frank Knox, but I can’t see it.

  “Doc got into some trouble over in Korea,” Forrest says in a confiding tone. “He ever tell you about that? Bad trouble. He nearly went to prison, I believe. Daddy said he got fucked over by the army for doing the right thing, whatever that means. But I guess old Tom didn’t want you worrying he might not be the hero you thought he was.” Forrest smiles with what appears to be genuine nostalgia. “You know, Dr. Cage had to stitch me up five or six times when I was a kid.”

  “Do you remember Viola assisting him?” I ask quietly.

  The nostalgia goes out of Knox’s face, but his eyes still gleam as though from an inner heat. “I sure do. She wasn’t the kind of woman you forget.”

  Could he possibly be Lincoln’s father? I wonder, noting the dark color of his skin, which looks like the result of Creole blood and not a suntan in December. He’s actually darker than Sonny Thornfield, but I won’t accomplish anything here by going down that road.

  “I made a mistake with Brody,” I tell him. “I thought he was the man behind all this. But I was wrong. It’s been you all along.” I step closer to Forrest, and as I do, I get the feeling not many people invade this man’s personal space. “I’m not here to cut a deal. I don’t know whether you’ve got Dad right now or not. But if you don’t, you’ve got the best chance of finding out where he is. So I’m giving you until six this evening to put him safely in my care. After that, if he’s not back in the bosom of his f
amily—”

  “Are you seriously about to threaten me, Mayor?”

  “Not physically. But let me finish. If you don’t get my father back safe in the bosom of his family, I’m going to do what I do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “There’s an old saying, Colonel. The mills of the gods grind slow, but they grind to powder. You know that one?”

  Forrest cocks his head, which gives me a better look at the scarred nub of his ear. “I suppose you’re God in this hypothetical?”

  “No, I’m the grinding wheel. I sent sixteen killers to death row in Houston. Thirteen have been executed. I’m no longer very proud of that, but it’s a fact. So . . . you return my father, and I won’t much care what happens to you. But if you don’t, I’m going to resign the mayor’s office and turn all my attention to you. All my legal ability and experience, my law enforcement and political connections, all the resources of my future father-in-law’s media conglomerate—all that I will relentlessly focus on you. I’ll peel you open, layer by layer. I’ll dig up every enemy you ever made, every woman you betrayed, every cop you ever paid off, every lie you told, every corpse you buried, every dollar you moved offshore, every tax return you ever filed. Then I’ll grind you to powder, bone by bone. I won’t stop until there’s nothing left.”

  Forrest Knox is looking at me as though seeing me for the first time. He doesn’t speak for a while, but when he finally does, he sounds anything but rattled. “That might be tougher than you think, Counselor. You see, my enemies are dead. Their bodies no longer exist, my women know better, my brothers in uniform are brothers, my money is safe, and I’ve paid my taxes. I’m basically bulletproof.”

  “Nobody’s bulletproof.” The time has come for my bit of theater. “To illustrate my point, I’ve got a message for you.”

  “Yeah? From who?”

  Moving very slowly, so as not to trigger a shot by Sheriff Dennis, I take Deputy Hunt’s cell phone from my back pocket.

  While Forrest watches, I power up the phone and wait for it to acquire a signal. Knox is squinting at the device as though it looks familiar. When two bars show on the screen, I pull up the number last called and hit REDIAL. After a pregnant pause, during which Knox leans forward to better see the phone, a cell phone in his pocket begins to ring. At the second ring, his eyes widen like those of an ice fisherman who realizes he’s walked too far out on the lake.