by Greg Iles
“What’s happened, John? Don’t tell me I’m going back inside.”
“I wish that was it,” he says.
Now I’m truly afraid. “Don’t tell me my father died.”
“No. We just had a plane go down.”
“A plane? What plane?”
“A Bureau jet. A small Citation. It took off from Concordia Airport fifteen minutes ago, headed for Baton Rouge and then D.C. Looks like it crashed in East Feliciana Parish, not far from Zachary.”
“Who was on board?”
“Two pilots. But they weren’t the target.”
“Target? What do you mean?”
Kaiser’s face looks as grim as I’ve ever seen it. “Somebody brought that plane down on purpose. It was loaded with most of the evidence we’ve gathered over this past week.”
“You’re kidding.”
Kaiser shakes his head. “The bones, Jimmy Revels’s tattoo, even the Marina Oswald letter.”
“Jesus, John. What brought it down?”
“We don’t know yet. All I know is that it took off from the same airport that Dr. Leland Robb’s plane took off from thirty-six years ago—the same airport where Snake Knox’s crop-dusting service is based.”
Unbelievable. And yet . . . “Where’s Snake now?”
Kaiser pulls his lips back over his teeth like a man suffering bone-deep pain. “We lost him two minutes after he was released from jail this morning. And two minutes ago, I called Will Devine, the Eagle I turned last night. He gave me an emergency number. I got no answer. I think they played me, Penn.”
There’s nothing I can say to this.
“Your family’s going to need protection,” Kaiser goes on. “Around the clock, most likely. These guys aren’t going to lie down and wait for us to round them up.”
“My mother’s going over to Vidalia to see Dad. Can I have a couple of minutes with my daughter before we head home?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
I walk back to Annie, then tell Walt that he and Mom should start for the Concordia Parish jail. Walt raises his eyebrows for an update, but I shake my head. After Mom kisses Annie and they depart, my daughter leads me westward down the street, toward the bluff and the river. Our Washington Street house lies four blocks in the other direction, but Annie whispers in my ear that she wants to visit “our new house” before we go home. Taking her hand in mine, I lead her slowly down the slope to Broadway, where Edelweiss stands above the vast emptiness that stretches west from the bluff over the river.
As soon as we reach Broadway, everything changes. The wind is stronger here, racing up over the face of the bluff after its long journey across Texas and Louisiana. As we turn the corner in front of Edelweiss, I look back and see John Kaiser following at a discreet distance. He means to make sure we’re safe, even if he has to provide the protection himself.
Annie and I climb the steps side by side, then walk to the rail of the wide gallery that overlooks the river. A long string of barges is rumbling downstream toward the twin bridges, the red-and-white pushboat behind them looking almost festive against the dark water. I expect Annie to chatter as she so often does, but the loss of Caitlin has affected her as profoundly as it has me. We still have each other, of course, but the road we’ve anticipated walking for so long has disappeared, and the way forward feels far from certain.
“Is Papa going to be all right?” Annie asks without looking up. “Gram’s really scared. She won’t say so, but I can tell.”
“I know. I’m not sure yet what’s going to happen with Papa. We’re just going to have to do all we can to make sure Gram gets along as best she can.”
After some thought, Annie says, “Okay.”
She waits until the barges vanish around the bend. Then, very softly, she says, “Somebody at the jail said you killed the man who killed Caitlin. He whispered it, but I heard him anyway. Did you really do that, Daddy?”
I consider lying, but what would that achieve? One day she’s bound to learn the truth. I suppose today is as good a day as any.
“Yes, Boo,” I tell her, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s a secret. We can’t tell anyone else. But I did.”
Annie blinks twice, then looks up at me with wide eyes I can’t quite read. After studying my face for a while, she takes my hand again and looks out over the river. “I’m glad,” she says. “I’ve been really scared, too.”
This hurts me more than anything I’ve heard in the past week. “You don’t have to be scared anymore, Boo.”
A mile downriver, another long string of barges appears, pushing slowly upstream. We watch it labor through the current for a while, then Annie points to a spot in the middle of the river, where two tiny kayaks glide and bob like reeds over the surface. Though they’re far away, I can just make out the sea bags secured to the sides of the boats. Those voyagers probably began their journey up in Minnesota, or even Canada. If so, they’ve traveled far, but they still have many tortuous miles to go before they reach New Orleans and the Gulf. For nearly a minute, the colossal train of barges threatens to overrun the little craft. Annie’s hand tightens on mine as their courses converge, but at the last second the kayaks squirt from under the bow of the iron giant, and she relaxes.
“They made it,” she says with relief.
“They did,” I agree. This far, anyway.
CHAPTER 94
FIFTY MILES SOUTH of Natchez, Snake Knox piloted a Cessna 182 along the floor of the cloud ceiling above Zachary, Louisiana. His son Billy sat beside him, trying to hide his fear. This was a dangerous area to depart from regulation procedures. Baton Rouge’s main airport lay only ten miles to the south, and even though Snake had filed no flight plan, commercial airliners might pick him up with their anti-collision radars, not to mention the possibility of an actual collision. Snake had already been challenged once by an air-traffic controller from the airport, but he’d ignored the call. If he hung around much longer, he might find an F-16 on his wingtip.
“Keep your eyes peeled to the northeast,” he said. “There’s a little town over that way. Ethel, it’s called. I’m thinking that’s where it went down.”
“How do you know it went down at all?” Billy asked, shielding his eyes from the sun glaring through the scratched Plexiglas.
“Because I knocked it down.”
Billy blew out a rush of air and lowered his face into his hands. “I haven’t heard anything on the radio about it.”
“You will, any second.”
“Wait,” Billy said, the moment he looked up. “I see something! Can you drop a little lower out of these clouds?”
“Sure, if you want to go to prison for the rest of your life. What do you see?”
“Fire. Fire in the trees.”
Excitement ran through his son’s voice like an electric current. Snake banked so that he could make a pass with the fire on his side of the plane. Just as he was coming into position, the Baton Rouge air-traffic controller said, “This is Metro Center. All aircraft, be advised, we have reports of a downed aircraft in the vicinity of Ethel, Louisiana. Aircraft is U.S. government Cessna Citation. Please report any visual evidence of debris in the vicinity of Metropolitan Airport.”
Snake felt the primal pleasure he’d always experienced after making a kill shot as a sniper, or even hunting game—only magnified by a thousand.
“How can you be sure all the FBI’s evidence will be destroyed?” Billy asked.
“I couldn’t be, if all I did was bring the plane down. That’s why I used two devices.”
“Two bombs?”
“Bingo. The first one brings down the plane, the second sets the fuel on fire. If I’d blown the thing to pieces in the air, the fuel would have been wasted, and most of the evidence would eventually be recovered. But by bringing down the plane relatively intact and then setting the fuel on fire, abracadabra—nothing left. No bones, no guns, no nothing.”
“Are you sure, Pop?”
“You’re damned right I’m sure,” Snake sai
d irritably. “Jet fuel’s what melted the steel in the Twin Towers.”
Snake could see the crash site now, thirty feet of white-hot flames climbing out of a charred section of scrub pine. At least two vehicles were moving on the ground nearby. Time to bug out.
He climbed fifty feet higher into the clouds and started his last turn.
“Where are we going now?” Billy asked. “I feel like we ought to head for fucking Mexico.”
Snake laughed. “To hell with that. We’re going back to your place on Toledo Bend, just like I told you. We’re gonna sit this thing out in style.”
Billy’s eyes filled with disbelief. “Is that even possible now?”
“Sure it is. The Bureau will hang everything that’s happened around Forrest’s neck, just the way he was gonna hang it around mine. And I’m gonna give ’em a little help, too.”
Billy rubbed his head with his hands as though trying to hold himself together. “I still can’t believe Forrest is dead.”
Snake shrugged. “He pushed somebody too hard, just like I told you he would someday. And he paid the price.”
Snake checked the GPS and smiled with satisfaction. There was nothing like flying VFR on a pretty day in the good old USA.
“So what about Penn Cage?” Billy asked. “And his father? You just going to let them go?”
Snake could hardly believe it, but his son sounded almost hopeful.
“Christ,” he muttered. “You gotta know me better than that, boy.”
Snake craned his neck around and took one last look at the burning wreckage on the ground. Then he opened the throttle to maximum and headed for Texas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost to Stanley Nelson, the heroic reporter who cracked the Silver Dollar Group cases. Watch for his upcoming nonfiction book on those cases, Devil’s a-Walkin’.
To David Highfill, Liate Stehlik, Tavia Kowalchuk, Danielle Bartlett, and Eric Svenson (and all the reps who worked so hard), my heartfelt thanks. And to Laura Cherkas, a special thank-you.
To Charlie Redmayne, Julia Wisdom, Louise Swannell, Stuart Bache, and all the rest of the crew at HarperCollins UK. Great times and great work!
To Ed Stackler, my copilot.
To Dan Conaway and Simon Lipskar of Writers House, and Kassie Evashevski of UTA, for enthusiastic support and sage advice.
To Betty Iles, Madeline Iles, Mark Iles, Joe Iles, Larry Iles, Geoff Iles, and Betsy Iles, for constant support.
To my team of Southern Philosophers: Courtney Aldridge, James Schuchs, Jim Easterling, Rod Givens, and Billy Ray Farmer.
For brilliant life insights and an infinite number of dissonant chords: Scott Turow, Stephen King, Dave Barry, Michelle Kaufman, Sam Barry, Erasmo Paolo, James McBride, Roy Blount Jr., Mitch Albom, Amy Tan, Lou DeMattei, Ridley Pearson, Ted Habte-Gabr, and Lisa Napoli (and Josh and Gary!).
Medical research: Dr. Michael Bourland, Dr. D. P. Lyle, Dr. Kellen Jex, Dr. Roderick Givens, Dr. John White, and Dr. Brad LeMay.
For other valuable research assistance: Judge George Ward, John Ward, Joseph Finder, Sheriff Chuck Mayfield, Mimi Miller, Keith Benoist, Darryll Grennell, Joe Mitchell, Tom Borum, Gary Abrams, Rusty Fortenberry, and Alan Kaufman.
For unstinting physical support: Rick Psonak, Richard Boleware, and Blake Carr at UMMC Prosthetics. Also thanks to Sarah Greer for friendly diagnosis while partying on the bluff.
Finally, to new friends (and wonderful writers) Tom Franklin and Beth Ann Fennelly, who made London a blast. To Regina and Doug Charbonneau, for the rehearsal dinner! Thanks always to Lyn Roberts and the gang at Square Books, and to John Evans and the gang at Lemuria.
All mistakes are mine.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Caroline Hungerford
GREG ILES spent his youth in Natchez, Mississippi. His debut novel, Spandau Phoenix, was the first of fourteen New York Times bestsellers, and his new trilogy, beginning with Natchez Burning, continues the story of Penn Cage, protagonist of The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, and number one New York Times bestseller The Devil’s Punchbowl. Iles’s novels have been made into films and published in more than thirty-five countries. He is a member of the lit-rock group The Rock Bottom Remainders and lives with his wife in Natchez. He has two children.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
ALSO BY GREG ILES
The Death Factory (e-novella)
Natchez Burning
The Devil’s Punchbowl
Third Degree
True Evil
Turning Angel
Blood Memory
The Footprints of God
Sleep No More
Dead Sleep
24 Hours
The Quiet Game
Mortal Fear
Black Cross
Spandau Phoenix
CREDITS
Cover design by Amanda Kain
Cover photographs © by Allister Clark/Arcangel Images (sunset); Kathy Hicks/Getty Images (tree)
“A Change Is Gonna Come” Written by Sam Cooke. Published by ABKCO Music, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
THE BONE TREE. Copyright © 2015 by Greg Iles. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-231111-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-06-237938-2 (international edition)
EPub Edition April 2015 ISBN 9780062311146
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