Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  He takes the hint and closes my door.

  Things are happening so fast that I can hardly wrap my head around the implications. Two days ago, Buck was murdered by power brokers I would have sworn were untouchable. Now somebody’s feeding me information that could send them to prison. But the price of using it could be death at the hands of a New Jersey–born casino owner. Of course, for Tommy Russo to kill me, I’d have to live long enough to print the story that would make him mad enough to do it; and with Max threatening to show his son the video of me making love to his wife, even that lifespan isn’t guaranteed.

  As I lock my hard copy of the PDF into my filing cabinet, I think of Sally Matheson. She’s lying on a cold slab somewhere, or in a refrigerated drawer. But the cache that she created holds the power to dictate the future of every man in this complex equation. I may already possess part of the data she gathered, but surely there’s more. If so, I need to find it. If I don’t, I may have to consider letting Jet put her plan against Max into motion. Because despite Tommy Russo’s pragmatic threat, it’s Max who has the power to turn Paul against me. And unlike Russo, Paul would not react rationally. That said, I have a paradoxical feeling that Paul Matheson could end up my only reliable ally in what is fast shaping up to be a war. Yes, I have betrayed him. But at some level I feel bound to Paul in a way that excludes even Jet. He knows me as well as anyone ever has, and at bottom he knows I mean him no harm. Logically that makes no sense, I know.

  But since when has human behavior ever followed logic?

  Chapter 30

  At ten forty a.m., I walk out to the Flex to head for my morning coffee at Nadine’s store. Crossing the open space between the building and my vehicle, I turn in all directions, looking for threats. I spent the previous ten minutes briefing reporters on what they’ll be doing today. This was tricky, since I don’t want to reveal the existence of the mystery PDF file yet. To cover, I told them that I have suspicions about the “land grabs” near the mill site and along the I-14 corridor and gave them a list of former property owners to interview. I also asked Ben Tate to have somebody assemble everything there is on the selection of Avery Sumner to fill the Senate seat he assumed only five months ago.

  Even before I open the Flex’s door, I see another USB flash drive taped to my steering wheel. This one is bright orange. Once inside, I find it’s another Lexar—32 GB this time. Slipping it into my pants pocket, I back out of my space and pull onto High Street. Nadine’s is only five blocks away. Driving the lightly traveled streets, I curse myself for not installing a wireless video camera to cover the back lot of our building yesterday. If I had, I might already possess the identity of my secret benefactor.

  After easing into one of the tight spaces behind Nadine’s building, I slip through the back door and go straight to the laptop in her inventory room. Fifteen seconds later, I’m staring at another photo taken by a trail camera, this one—according to the time stamp—shot thirty seconds later on the same night as the photo we published this morning. But Dave Cowart is only a bit player in this one. In this image, Beau Holland stands very close to Buck Ferris, shaking a finger in his face. Dave Cowart stands behind Holland, arms akimbo. My pulse pounds as I stare at Holland’s angry expression, but what fixes my attention is the background of the photograph. Behind the men, about knee level, a line of concrete stretches into the distance—a line that looks familiar from my excursion after the Aurora Hotel party. It’s the edge of the old factory foundation at the mill site. And in the far distance, exactly where it should be, a bright pinpoint of light shines against the dark sky. That light is the beacon atop the electrical tower I failed to climb when I was fourteen.

  I don’t think I’ve breathed for the last twenty seconds. This is why Holland got so angry back in my office. He was at the mill site with Cowart on the night Buck was killed, and he knows there might be photos that prove it.

  After saving the file on Nadine’s MacBook, I pull out the flash drive, slip it back into my pocket, and head up front. I’m excited to tell her about the new image, but to my surprise, she’s nowhere in the shop. Behind the counter stands a young recent college grad named Darryl. Seeing me coming from the back, he starts making my coffee without asking for my order.

  “You want your muffin, too?” he asks.

  “Ah, sure. Where’s Nadine this morning?”

  “She had to run an errand. I’m not sure where. Said it wouldn’t take more than an hour. She left thirty minutes ago.”

  Maybe it’s not so odd that Nadine isn’t here during my usual visiting time. When she dropped Jet’s earrings into my hand last night, it was pretty clear that she assumed I’ve been sleeping with Jet. Given the unexpected intimacy of our kiss the previous night, discovering Jet’s earrings in my bathroom might have soured Nadine on our daily kaffeeklatsch. The maddening thing is that I know Jet left those earrings there solely so that Nadine would find them if she used the bathroom that adjoined my bedroom. They were left there as a test of fidelity.

  “Thanks, Darryl.”

  I take my muffin and walk into the café seating section with the hot mug in my hand. I’m glad to find the tables almost empty. Against the wall to my left sits another couple who look like tourists, though not the same ones I saw two days ago. At the back of the room sits a tanned blond college student wearing tennis shorts. He’s facing away from me, so I’m spared the ordeal of trying to figure out whether I should know him or his parents. I choose one of the two-chair tables and eat the muffin while waiting for my coffee to cool. As I chew, I feel anger building at Jet’s little earring trap. She’s not normally into games, at least in my experience.

  I take a sip of coffee, and the caffeine hits me immediately. I welcome the relief. I’m feeling jumpy, and paradoxically, caffeine sometimes settles me down. Relief from withdrawal, probably.

  Before I take my second sip, my iPhone rings. As I take it out, I find myself wishing it had been my burner phone. But Jet hasn’t called. No surprise, really. The family’s bound to be consumed with preparing for Sally’s funeral. And yet—the name on my iPhone screen reads Max Matheson.

  “Shit.” I answer and put the phone to my cheek. “What do you want, Max?”

  “I heard you’ve found Sally’s data cache.”

  “That’s bullshit.” But then it hits me. “You’ve been talking to your poker buddies.”

  “You rattled ’em, Goose.”

  “I don’t have the cache, Max. I have a few files some anonymous person emailed to me, that’s all. The address is untraceable. That person might have Sally’s cache, but I have no way to find out who they are. I already tried.”

  “You told Russo you’re planning to print this stuff?”

  “No. But I might have said more than I should have. Beau Holland pissed me off.”

  “You let that prissy asshole get to you?”

  “Yeah. I need to go, Max.”

  “You bury those files, Goose. Hear me? If you print them, I’ll have to show Paul your little amateur skin flick.”

  “I’ll try to bury them,” I tell him, stalling for time. “But it won’t be easy.”

  “Find a way. Because Paul may not be your biggest problem. If he kills you, at least it’ll be quick. But you’ve got Russo worried now. And Tommy’s the creative type.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At my office at the sawmill. Why? You need to see me?”

  I asked because I’m thinking about going to talk to Tallulah Williams, the Matheson maid. “Where’s Paul?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “Jesus, Max.”

  “Okay, hell. Paul’s at the wood treatment plant. I hope you’re not trying to see Jet again. I told you last night, you’ve hit that pussy for the last time. If I find out you’re disregarding my advice—”

  “I’m not looking for Jet. I’m trying to find your damn cache.”

  The tourist couple is staring at me.

  “Good survival strategy, Go
ose. Keep me posted.”

  I click off and take another long swallow of coffee.

  Before I can even reflect on my conversation with Max, my iPhone rings again. I figure it’s Max calling back, but the screen says bienville southern bank. That bank belongs to the most senior member of the Bienville Poker Club.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. McEwan?” says a perky female voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I have Claude Buckman for you. Please hold.”

  Two seconds later, a hoarse, elderly voice says, “Mr. McEwan, this is Claude Buckman. We met on the roof of the Aurora two nights ago.”

  “I remember. What can I do for you?”

  “You’ve got that backwards, son. I want to do something for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d prefer to tell you in person. Could you come by my bank in half an hour?”

  This request is so unexpected that my initial instinct is to stall. “What for?”

  “Merely a conversation.”

  “On the record?”

  “I’m afraid not. But you’ll be glad you came.”

  Now I get it. “Is this about a bribe?”

  Buckman chuckles. “Not in the sense you’re thinking of. This is about making the world a better place.”

  Those are the last words I could have imagined coming from Claude Buckman’s mouth. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Only to say that you’ll be perfectly safe, and several of my associates will be present. You know most of them, I believe.”

  So this is to be a meeting of the Poker Club. “I just spoke to Max Matheson, and he didn’t say anything about a meeting at your bank.”

  “Max doesn’t know about it. Half an hour, Mr. McEwan. I’ll be expecting you.”

  He hangs up.

  “Unbelievable,” I murmur.

  Like Max, Claude Buckman must believe that I’m in possession of Sally Matheson’s cache. What princely sum will the banker offer me to bury it? The most interesting thing Buckman said was that Max doesn’t know about the meeting. That tells me there may already be a rift inside the Poker Club. The covert delivery of the flash drives has already suggested as much. If there is dissent in the club, then maybe this meeting will offer an opportunity to turn one faction of the club against Max.

  As I ponder this prospect, I sense someone approaching me from behind. I turn in my chair, causing a loud scrape on the floor.

  “Sorry,” says the “college guy” who a moment ago was sitting in the back of the café. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  The man I mistakenly assumed was a college student turns out to be about fifty. Like Max Matheson, he’s in such good physical shape that I didn’t notice his true age from a distance. Also like Max, he’s blond and handsome, though not quite as rugged or rangy. This guy reminds me of Stefan Edberg, the Swedish tennis player. But maybe it’s only his outfit.

  “Mr. McEwan?” he says. “I was hoping I could speak to you for a minute.”

  So he knows me. “Look, if you’re upset about a newspaper story, I’d rather you write me an email.”

  He blushes. “Oh, no. I’ve loved the recent stories. Buck Ferris was a wonderful man. The idea that somebody killed him because of that paper mill is just . . . obscene.”

  This is so far from the usual reaction I get when people accost me in Nadine’s that it makes me curious. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “A long time ago. I’m Tim Hayden. I coached tennis at St. Mark’s for two seasons, back in the mid-eighties.”

  A rush of good memories spools through my head. “I remember you! You coached Adam.”

  Hayden breaks into a broad smile. “I did. He was a great player. Really gifted.”

  “In every sport, annoyingly.”

  Hayden’s smile widens. “I think Adam could have gone pro if he’d . . . you know, had a chance. And if they hadn’t made him play football and baseball.”

  “Nobody forced him.”

  He laughs. “You’re right. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “What about? Adam?”

  Hayden’s smile vanishes. “Yes, actually. I need to confess: this isn’t a random meeting. I’m a friend of Christopher Simms, Nadine’s friend. The one she’s staying with. He told me that you come in for coffee every day around this time.”

  “I see. Well . . . I have about twenty minutes before a meeting. Sit down.”

  Hayden looks uncertain. “Actually, I was hoping we could speak privately.”

  I look around the shop. “Nadine’s courtyard?”

  He shakes his head. “Customers out there. There’s a little park halfway up the block. I hate to impose. I’ve wanted to talk to you for a long time, but you’ve lived away ever since high school. It would mean a lot to me.”

  Maybe Hayden’s request should trip my radar, but something about his manner reassures me that he’s not a threat. “Okay, let’s go.”

  I pick up my shoulder bag and walk toward the door. “Have you lived in Bienville all your life?”

  “No, no,” he says. “I lived in New Orleans for twenty years. I liked it, but it was too violent for me. Katrina gave me an excuse to get out. I’ve moved around some, but now I’m the tennis pro out at the new country club here. Belle Rose.”

  “I see.”

  “The park’s just up on the right,” Hayden says, pointing.

  I remember it now. I drank an eight-pack of Miller ponies with a buddy in that park when I was about fifteen.

  I find the little alcove between two buildings. Behind a low wrought-iron fence, two heavy park benches stand on weathered flagstones. The ornate green benches face each other. Tim Hayden takes the right-hand one, and I, the left. Looking into his still-boyish face, I suddenly wonder whether the pitch about Adam was a pretext, and he’s my secret source for the Poker Club material.

  “This is hard for me,” he begins. “Do you remember me from Adam’s funeral?”

  Something in me goes still. I don’t know what he’s getting at, but bringing up Adam’s funeral puts me on guard. Over a thousand people came to the high school for Adam’s memorial. Athletic teams from nearby cities caravanned in on school buses. “I’m sorry, that day is mostly a blur for me.”

  “I’m sure. Of course.”

  “What’s important about that day?”

  “It’s not that day, really. I got to be good friends with Adam when I coached at St. Mark’s. We were only four years apart in age. I’d just graduated from college, and I helped out there as a favor to my old coach. I wasn’t on staff or anything. St. Mark’s never took tennis that seriously.”

  “I know. Same with swimming.”

  Tim smiles wistfully. “I remember your swimming medals, by the way. If you’d kept on . . .”

  I wave my hand. “After what happened to Adam, I couldn’t do it anymore.”

  He looks down at the flagstones and shakes his head. When he looks up, his eyes are wet. “I don’t know how to say this. I don’t even know if I’m right to say it. But I imagine you’ve spent a lot of time wondering about your brother, what his life might have been like if he’d lived.”

  “Sure I have.”

  “Adam was very confused during his senior year.”

  “Confused?”

  “Yes. He thought he might be gay.”

  I should have realized sooner where this was headed. My conversation with Russo and Buckman must have knocked me off-balance. But the truth is, I never once suspected that Adam might be gay.

  “Should I go on?” Hayden asks.

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Adam got so much attention from girls, remember? And women, too, my God. I think every female teacher under fifty was in love with him.”

  “Oh, I remember.”

  “He was lucky because of that, though. All the female attention, plus him being a star athlete, kept everyone from guessing he might be anything but straight. But late in his senior year, he started asking me questions.
He sensed that I was gay, and about halfway through the tennis season, he got up the nerve to ask me about it.”

  I nod to encourage him.

  “I told Adam about my own experiences in high school. How tough it had been with the father I had. I was still in the closet, but a small number of people knew. My mother was one, thank God.” Hayden shifts his weight on the bench, then winces as though what he’s thinking about causes him physical pain. “The thing is . . . near the end of Adam’s senior year, he and I had an experience together. Then one more. That was it, just two times. He drowned shortly after that.”

  A strange numbness is moving through my limbs.

  “Adam was eighteen,” he goes on, “but I feel very ambivalent about what I did. Technically I was his coach, even though I wasn’t being paid. But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. I just . . . I feel like there was a side to Adam—not a side, really, but his essence—that no one knew about. On one hand, he was worshipped by everyone, but that didn’t mean much to him. Because no one really knew who he was. At least I don’t think so. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. To find out whether you knew that side of him. Or even suspected it.”

  I’d like to be able to tell Hayden that I knew, that Adam had trusted me with his secret. Or failing that, that I’d known my brother well enough to figure it out on my own. But I hadn’t. I remained at the same distance as the other mortals. Perhaps a little closer . . . but not close enough.

  “I didn’t know, Tim. I had no idea. He dated Jenny Anderson for two years, and I just assumed—”

  “Everybody did.” He nods and smiles wistfully. “Their relationship wasn’t sexual, believe it or not.”

  “I can’t believe I was that blind. I knew how sensitive Adam was, especially for a jock. Not that he was ever a jock, in the simplistic sense. He just had the talent. But there was something else in him. Empathy, I guess. And a kind of magnetism that pulled people to him. Men and women wanted to talk to him, to be around him. Old or young, it didn’t matter. Adam was just . . . different.”

  Tim is nodding, his eyes bright with tears. “This must be strange for you. And hard. I hope I didn’t presume too much. I was afraid you might be furious at me.”