by Greg Iles
He was starting to identify with Glenn Morehouse, who had complained so bitterly during the last weeks of his life about all the sins he’d been dragging behind him like lead weights chained to his dying body. For Sonny, the prospect of starting over with his estranged family in some new town was like an unexpected gift. He couldn’t afford to let himself believe too much in it, in case his daughter screwed it up for everyone—which, if the past was any guide, was a real possibility.
He tensed up as he heard Snake sidle up to the bars of the adjacent cell. He could feel suspicion radiating like heat from that direction. Then Snake’s voice floated to him, coarse but insinuating.
“I hear you were gone an awful long time, Sonny. You makin’ new friends out there?”
“Fuck, no. I got no control over how long they keep me. They’re acting like I’m the weak link or something, probably because of my heart attack. But fuck them.”
Snake nodded, seeming to buy Sonny’s brazen act. “How’d they pitch you?”
“They asked me a lot about Dr. Cage, actually. They want to know where he is.”
Snake laughed softly. “You didn’t tell ’em, did you?”
For a couple of seconds Sonny considered saying that the FBI had already raided his cabin and found it empty, but his sanity stopped him. “Right. When the cabin’s in my name? That’d be a genius move.”
Snake didn’t comment on this.
“They also kept telling me I was gonna die in Angola. That fed Kaiser asked me if I thought I’d last a week in a jail full of niggers, once they found out who I was.”
Snake chuckled. “He’s got a point there. It’s a good thing none of us will spend a day on that farm.”
“You really think we should be talking like this? They could be taping everything we say in here.”
“No, they can’t,” said Snake. “That’s against the law.”
“You heard Isbell,” Skillet said from the cell to Sonny’s right. “We’re talking feds here. They don’t give a shit about the law on this thing. Not with that Patriot Act. Hell, they planted that meth, didn’t they? And you can see the cameras right up there in the corner.”
“Those cameras are there to keep morons from killing themselves,” Snake said. “Keeps the state from gettin’ sued. But they don’t record sound. What, you think Kaiser has a platoon of lip-readers out there, watching us?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said a reticent man named Gene Christian, a retired electrician’s helper. “Sonny’s right. Let’s keep our mouths shut. Remember what Frank used to say. A man’s worst enemy in this world is his mouth.”
“That’s what Frank used to say, all right,” Snake said. “Didn’t he, Sonny?”
“Sure,” Sonny mumbled, closing his eyes and wishing he’d thrown out that goddamn navy tattoo thirty years ago. Kaiser had promised to make no mention of the eight-inch swatch of human skin when talking to his family about the Witness Protection Program. If Sonny’s daughter heard about that, she might tell Kaiser to put her son back on the plane to California, even if he had to pull another tour in Iraq.
Sonny thought back to the awful day they’d taken the tattoos from Revels and Davis. Snake had been the instigator, of course, as always. Only that day it was worse, since he’d been consumed with grief for his older brother. Frank had just died, and Snake had assumed the role of leader. The rest of the men had egged Sonny on like he was a virgin at a whorehouse, waiting to lose his cherry. What could you do in the face of that?
Even though it had been almost forty years since that day, Sonny could hardly own up to what he’d done to that boy. He could still remember Revels’s anguished screams as Morehouse held his skinny arm against the workbench so that Sonny could cut the blue-black anchor from his bloody skin.
“Sonny?” came a faint whisper.
Snake again.
“You’re awful quiet in there, brother.”
“Get me out of this cell and I’ll talk a blue streak for you. But till then, leave me the fuck alone.”
But Snake couldn’t do that. “I’m worried about Will,” he said. “They’ve had him out as long as they had you. And Will ain’t got your sand. He’s a couple of years older than you, isn’t he?”
“That’s right. What are you saying?”
“I’m worried he might do what Glenn did, that’s what. He’s the oldest Eagle left, and the idea of jail—or even the possibility of it—might just be enough to break him.”
“Bullshit,” Sonny said, thinking how easy it had ultimately been for him to tell Kaiser what he’d wanted to know. “Will was the seventh man sworn into the group. Frank gave him his Double Eagle. He won’t say anything.”
“Maybe,” Snake conceded. “But what if he did?”
“Then we’ll worry about it then.”
“That could be too late. We learned our lesson with Glenn, didn’t we? You wait too long, and they start talkin’ before you can stop ’em. Right?”
Sonny nodded.
“We might have to try some preventive medicine. In here. You up for that?”
Sonny’s stomach rolled. “Any son of a bitch tries to cut a deal by naming names, he needs to die. We all took the oath.”
“That’s right, brother. You stay ready.”
JORDAN PULLED INTO A diagonal parking space beside the Crossroads Service Station, which stood at the intersection of Highway 24 and the main drag of Athens Point, Mississippi. The town proper lay a mile closer to the river, but this intersection saw most of the commercial action. Three corners were occupied by service stations, the fourth by a large grocery store. The Crossroads Station was the largest of the three; it held a full-service bait shop, an ice cream counter, and a café with booths and tables. The fueling bays did a brisk business with everything from semi trucks to pickups hauling bass boats and ATVs on trailers.
Caitlin had told Terry Foreman to meet them here, and the girl was waiting outside with two red-faced FBI agents standing like bookends at her shoulders, drawing stares from the mostly black clientele of the station.
“Ms. Glass, you scared the crap out of us,” said one of them.
“You also got us in deep shit,” said the other, who obviously knew Jordan better.
Jordan smiled her mischievous smile again. “Look at the bright side. You got the pleasure of hanging out with Terry here.”
Terry blushed. With her blond hair, blue eyes, and trim figure, she still looked like a high-school cheerleader.
“We’d better get moving if you’re going to make your plane,” said the second agent. “We’re cutting it really close.”
“Give me thirty seconds.”
“We’re in the black Suburban.”
“I never would have guessed.”
Jordan took Caitlin’s arm and led her around the corner of the station. Once there, she took Caitlin’s hand and gave her a wholly unguarded smile.
“I had a blast today. I’m sorry we didn’t hit pay dirt, but that’s the way it usually goes. The big coups take a lot of prep work.”
“Thanks for all you did to help me,” Caitlin said. “And thank you for inspiring me when I was a kid. And—”
“Stop it,” Jordan said. “We’re colleagues now, right? Get that through your head. I hope I’m back to shoot the photo spread of the Bone Tree when you find it.”
Caitlin nodded, a strange elation flowing through her.
“Oh, shit,” Jordan said, mock-slapping the side of her head as though she were an idiot. She reached into her camera bag and pulled out the multi-tool she’d lent Caitlin to cut her life jacket loose in the swamp.
“This is for you. I’ve carried it through at least two dozen countries, and it’s never let me down. Time to pass it on to somebody who needs it more than I do.”
Caitlin reached out to take the scarred metal tool. When Jordan dropped it into her hand, she realized that no gift had ever meant more to her. “Can I ask you something cheesy?”
“Sure.”
“
Will you be one of my bridesmaids?”
Jordan laughed so loudly that one of the FBI agents walked out to the gas pump island to peer around the corner at them.
“Christ, I’m more like matron-of-honor age now.”
“You’re same age as Penn. Anyway . . . just think about it. And come back soon—and safe.”
“Safe?” Jordan rolled her eyes. “Cuba’s like Miami circa 1955. You’re the one who needs to be careful.”
“I will.”
“Bullshit. You’re just like I used to be. You’d walk into a minefield for a story. And you have the map now. Promise me you won’t try to find the Bone Tree without Carl or some equivalent with you.” She jabbed Caitlin’s chest with her forefinger, only half playfully. “Promise.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
The photographer smiled and then hugged her. “Have babies and be happy,” she whispered fiercely in Caitlin’s ear. “There’s plenty of time for work.”
Jordan’s urgency sent a shock through her, but before she could analyze the feeling, Jordan hiked her camera bag higher on her shoulder and walked toward her car the way Caitlin had dreamed of walking since she was a girl. Like she’d been everywhere in the world at least twice and was on her way to one of the few places she hadn’t seen yet. But the truth was, Jordan had already been to Cuba. She’d flirted with Castro, for God’s sake. And what she wanted more than anything now was what Caitlin already had.
So why can’t I be content? Caitlin wondered.
Jordan didn’t look back as she drove out of the parking lot and turned onto 24, headed back toward Highway 61 South, the black Suburban on her tail.
Terry Foreman walked up to Caitlin and shook her head. “Those guys were pretty cool. Are we heading back now?”
Caitlin looked down at the multi-tool in her hand, wondering what kind of crazy jams it had gotten Jordan out of over the years.
“Caitlin?”
Caitlin looked up at Terry. Actually, she saw no reason to go home just yet. Natchez was filled with reporters, all working the same story, and all hunting for a lead like the one she had folded in her back pocket. Penn and John were still interrogating the jailed Double Eagles, trying to force a confession out of one of them, like stonecutters looking for a crack in the face of a rock. And worst of all, Tom was still missing.
But I still have the map, she thought.
Mose Tyler might have fled the area, but somewhere in Athens Point or Woodville had to be someone who knew the location of the Bone Tree. There were probably quite a few. Most would be white—ex-Klansmen or Double Eagles who’d been there for god-knows-what rituals that made widows out of wives. Those men would never show Caitlin where that tree was. But there must also be black men who knew the tree’s location, as Toby Rambin had claimed he had.
She just needed to find one of them.
“What’s that?” Terry asked, pointing at the multi-tool.
“Just something Jordan gave me to remember her.”
“Huh. Wow.”
Caitlin shoved the tool into the pocket of her jeans.
“Hey,” Terry said, sounding worried. “Don’t look now, but there’s a black guy staring at us. He’s creeping me out.”
“Where?”
“Behind you, at the gas pumps, gassing up a truck.”
“Let’s go in the café, then.”
“Shouldn’t we just head back to Natchez?”
“Not yet,” Caitlin said. “He might follow us down the road.”
Terry’s eyes widened. “God, you’re right.”
Caitlin wasn’t worried about any black guy following them to Natchez. She just wanted to buy some time to think. It would be abnormal if men gassing up their vehicles didn’t stare at two reasonably attractive young women standing outside a combination bait shop/café. She simply wasn’t ready to leave Athens Point yet. In fact, if she had an extra vehicle, she would send Terry back without her, then search for a reliable guide to take her back into the swamp.
“Order me a cheeseburger,” Caitlin said, nodding at the quick-service counter. “And get yourself something. I need to run to the bathroom.”
“Okay.”
Caitlin walked toward the restroom but didn’t go in. The dining area was a collection of booths with bright orange plastic seats and wood-topped tables. The smell of hot grease and onions permeated the air. Most people probably bought food from the counter, but there was a waitress who would come to your booth and take your order if you wanted to sit for a while. Three booths were occupied, all by groups of men. Two groups were black, one white. The black men were older and drank coffee as they pored over racing forms. The white men looked like truckers. She wondered what would happen if she approached one of the black men and struck up a conversation.
Jordan wouldn’t think twice about doing that, she thought, trying to work up her nerve.
CHAPTER 65
PEGGY HAD LAID out a platter of roast beef, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes in the kitchen. She and Annie were making sandwiches for themselves and for Officer Ervin. The iron skillet crackled and popped with melted butter as Ervin’s grilled cheese crisped up. (He’d seen Kirk Boisseau’s earlier and decided he wanted to try one himself.) Annie had the den television tuned to the Baton Rouge station and turned up loud, so that she could hear any relevant news that might break in on regular programming. Earlier she’d heard on the Jackson, Mississippi, station that an interview with Caitlin would be broadcast on WJTV during tonight’s six o’clock report.
Peggy scooped the heavy grilled cheese out of the skillet with a spatula, then cut it in half and poured some potato chips onto the plate from a bag.
“You take that to Mr. Ervin,” she said.
As Annie disappeared through the back door, Kirk Boisseau entered the kitchen from the den and asked if there was any coffee.
“I can make you some,” Peggy offered. “Or I can offer you iced tea. I just made a pitcher.”
Kirk looked suspiciously at the pitcher by the kitchen window, then walked over to it and tapped its glass rim. “It’s not that syrupy sweet stuff like we drank when I was a kid, is it?”
Peggy laughed. “The kind you can pour over pancakes? No, these days even my tea has Sweet’N Low in it.”
Kirk laughed and said he’d try a glass after he made one more round of the house.
Peggy fixed two roast beef sandwiches and set them on the counter for herself and Annie, then poured the tea and walked to the front door to find Boisseau. Her former student was just walking up the steps, and he accepted the glass with a grateful smile. Over his shoulder Peggy watched a blue pickup truck roll up Duncan Avenue, then slow as though its driver was watching the foursome playing on the eighteenth fairway. Seeing her sight line change, Kirk turned toward the street. As she looked past him, the face in the driver’s window caught her attention. Oddly, it didn’t look human, but almost like a cartoon. Then she recognized the character: Spider-Man . . .
As she registered a flicker of flame in the truck, Kirk shoved her back through the door. Falling backward, she saw an arm hook over the truck’s roof and throw something toward the house, the way one of her newspaper deliverymen used to heave the Examiner at her old house. A gun appeared in Kirk’s hand, but before he could fire, a whirling object smashed against the steps and the air burst into flame.
Peggy smelled kerosene, and then the truck tires screamed.
Kirk Boisseau fired a fusillade of shots at the departing truck, then grabbed his leg and started to yell for Officer Ervin. With the unreality of a nightmare, Peggy saw fire run up Kirk’s pant leg and gather around his waist. The floor vibrated like a drum beneath her, and then James Ervin ran past her, dragged Kirk down the steps, and rolled him onto the ground. Then he wrapped his jacket around Kirk’s leg and smothered the fire. Peggy scrambled to her feet, her mind on one thing: Annie—
“Gram, what happened?” the girl yelled from behind Peggy. “Something’s burning!”
Her frightened
voice filled Peggy with relief, but instead of wasting time with conversation, Peggy pulled Annie into the kitchen, opened her purse, and took out the .38 that Tom had bought her long ago. Then she led Annie into the den and made her crouch behind a big club chair.
Heavy footsteps hammered on the hardwood, and then Officer Ervin came pounding back into the den, his beagle-like face animated with anxiety.
“You all right, Miz Cage?”
“We’re fine, James. Was that a Molotov cocktail?”
Ervin nodded. “I b’lieve it was. Call 911 and tell them we need the fire department. I’m going back outside.”
Peggy’s phone was stored in her purse and powered down, as Penn had insisted. She started to get to her feet, but Annie already had her cell phone in hand and was entering the numbers while it searched for a signal.
As Officer Ervin went back out the front door, two explosions sounded behind the house. Then Peggy heard a roar and crackle that could only be fire. She leaped to her feet and pulled Annie up with her.
“We’ve got to get out!”
Annie was speaking into her cell phone, but she let Peggy lead her toward the front door. Halfway there, Peggy stopped. What if the fire was meant to drive her and Annie into the open, where they could be shot or taken? She thought frantically. The best solution she could come up with was to hunker down just inside the front door, protected from gunfire but near an escape route.
“We need a fire truck!” Annie cried into her phone. “Two hundred Duncan Avenue! A bomb just blew up at our house. . . . Yes, a bomb!”
Through the open door Peggy heard a man roar in anger and pain. She knew it was Kirk Boisseau. Pulling Annie down to the floor, she took the phone from her granddaughter and tried to remember the last number Penn had given her.
I’M PARKED IN THE drive-through lane of the Vidalia Burger King when my BlackBerry rings. It’s Kaiser.