Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  “Maybe. Yet here we are with a corpse in the truck bed. You never stopped being a Boy Scout, did you?”

  “A Boy Scout wouldn’t have made the deal I made today.”

  He doesn’t comment further. Soon our headlights are the only man-made illumination within our range of vision. The moon hangs on our left, slightly larger than it was when Jet hit Max with the hammer last night.

  “Do you intend to hold up your end?” Paul asks. “Or are you just playing those guys for suckers?”

  As I look over at him, anxiety crawls up my spine like a beetle under my shirt. “How would I play them? And why?”

  “I figure you might want another Pulitzer to announce your re-entry to the D.C. media world.”

  I sigh heavily. “I don’t even know that I’m going back to Washington.”

  “What would keep you here?” he asks, his voice tighter than before. “Jet?”

  There it is. The unspoken question. “No,” I say deliberately. “The newspaper. The Watchman.”

  “Really?” Paul looks surprised at first, then skeptical. But after a few seconds he says, “A lot changes when our fathers die, I guess. I can see that.”

  “What about you? You gonna take Max’s seat in the Poker Club?”

  He shrugs. “Hard to say. I think it’s going to get tougher for rich white guys to rule these towns in the world of Twitter and cell phone cameras. Even small towns.”

  “Maybe. I think their biggest problem may be the black community. They really got behind the coroner this week. They might decide to run a real candidate for mayor this year. Tell the Poker Club to keep their money and try to take over the Board of Aldermen.”

  Paul grunts. “That’d be a hell of a show.”

  In the silence that follows this exchange, I lean against my door and close my eyes. But Paul isn’t through. Before ELP finishes “Lucky Man,” he says, “So did you give it to them yet? The cache, I mean.”

  “No,” I answer, still leaning against the door. “I can’t really give it to them. It’s mostly digital. They just have to accept that I’ll keep it isolated.”

  Paul nods. “But there’s a hard copy somewhere?”

  Shit. “There’s a couple of hard drives somewhere, I think.” To push him away from this subject, I ask him something that’s stumped me from the beginning. “I can’t figure out who sent me those pictures of Dave Cowart and Beau Holland with Buck.”

  “Really.”

  “I wondered if it might be you. It had to be somebody in the club. Somebody with access to game cameras at the mill site.”

  Paul doesn’t turn to me as he answers. “I’m no fan of Holland, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Wyatt Cash would be my guess.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “First, because the cameras were his. Second, he hates Holland. Beau screwed his ex-wife before she was his ex.”

  “Didn’t you tell me there’s a club rule against that?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not the kind of thing you want to bitch about to your friends. I think Wyatt waited for his chance, then hammered Beau hard.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a huge risk for Cash? With the club, I mean?”

  Paul lifts a hand off the wheel as if to say, Not so bad that I wouldn’t take it. “Those cameras transmit data over the cellular network. In theory, they’re hackable. Plus, some other people saw those shots. Nobody could pin the leak on Wyatt for sure.”

  I settle back against the door.

  “But you’ve had them all along, right?” Paul asks. “The hard drives.”

  I sit up in my seat, the obvious question in my eyes. “I never had the cache, Paul. I only know who your mom gave it to—that’s all. And it took me all week to figure that out.”

  His eyes glint in the dark. “Who was it?”

  I don’t answer.

  He smiles strangely. “You’re not gonna tell me who my mama trusted with our family secrets?”

  “I made a promise, man.”

  “You haven’t been big on honoring those lately. That must mean it was Jet. Does she have the cache?”

  “Hell, no. The drives are in a safe-deposit box. That’s all I can tell you. They can’t be gotten to until Monday at the earliest.”

  After a few seconds, he nods and turns his attention back to the dark road. “Well, that’s good.”

  And with that he falls silent.

  My slow-building anxiety has shifted into fear. I don’t think Paul was asking those questions for himself. And if he wasn’t . . . then I may be mistaken about what we’re doing on this lightless road. Am I here to help him bury his father? Or am I riding to the edge of my own grave? Does Paul plan to shoot me in the back and roll me in on top of Max before driving back to Jet and his son? If that’s his plan, Boar Island suddenly makes a lot more sense. An island owned and protected by the Poker Club might be the safest place to commit one more murder and hide the evidence. Hell, they process deer carcasses out here all the time—

  Okay, calm down, I tell myself. But my heart doesn’t listen. It’s hammering against my chest wall, and my blood pressure has skyrocketed. The pounding in my ears only allows “Free Bird” into my head in brief pulses.

  If Paul is leading me to my death, I have only a couple of options. Maybe just one. I have a gun, but so does he, and his skill with firearms makes me like a child in comparison. My only chance would be to shoot him in the head while he’s driving the truck. But we’re still moving at sixty miles an hour. Would I survive the impact that would likely result? A head-on crash into a tree is usually fatal. If we tumble down the levee, same result. Besides, if Paul already means me harm, then he’s prepared for anything I might try. If I even touch the gun in my pocket, he could have his out and held against my temple.

  While I ponder these logistics, he turns onto a well-maintained gravel road, the kind that must be replenished every year after being washed out by backwater from the swollen river. He follows this for about a mile, and the trees close in tight as the land rolls by. Before long, we come to a hand-tooled wooden sign that reads:

  Prime Shot Premium Hunting Club

  Boar Island, Mississippi

  Between these letters is a beautifully carved whitetail buck with a twelve-point rack.

  “It’s weird, isn’t it?” Paul says. “This island’s part of Mississippi, but it’s on the Louisiana side of the river.”

  “I think that’s pretty common,” I reply, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “At least on the lower Mississippi.”

  “The river goes its own way,” he says. “Corps of Engineers might as well give up now.”

  I say nothing. It strikes me that the ever-changing river is like a woman caught between two men, snaking across the land from year to year, confusing boundaries and triggering conflicts that take the courts, and sometimes guns, to resolve.

  The road runs a little smoother beyond the sign, and soon we come to a stretch paved with asphalt. As we roll through the dense hardwoods, it occurs to me that he and I have shared more than many brothers. We shared our childhoods, our adolescence. We’ve loved the same woman, and shared her as well, once long ago and now again. We shared the adrenaline rush and terror of combat and the after-action dilemmas that trail in the wake of modern war. He saved my life in Iraq, and back at my house tonight, I returned the favor. If I hadn’t eased up behind him and begun talking, I believe he would have shot himself through the mouth. But will that save me now? Does he even remember it? And if he does, does he care? Or are Jet and Kevin the only things driving him? Jet’s betrayal, and the desire for custody of his son?

  White light blazes out of the forest after a sharp turn. Glancing left, I see that Paul is as surprised as I am. He brakes slightly, then lets the truck keep rolling. Up ahead stands the main complex of the Boar Island hunting camp. Like most of these facilities, there’s a central lodge or bunkhouse, plus assorted outbuildings that serve various functions. As we near the brigh
t bubble of light, I see that its source is a large pavilion in front of the main lodge, a tin-roofed structure set on huge wooden posts and beams, with a cement floor and what looks like an outdoor kitchen under the roof. Maybe a dozen vehicles are parked between the pavilion and the lodge.

  “What the hell, Paul?” I ask. “Did you expect this?”

  “No.” He’s counting the vehicles. “I expected Buckman and Donnelly, maybe Russo and Holland. But that’s it.”

  “Russo and Holland?” Suddenly I understand. While Paul was alone in my house with Jet, he must have called Claude Buckman and told him to get some Poker Club members over to Wyatt’s island. Then he drove around Louisiana long enough to let them beat us here. While I slept like a dumb steer headed to the slaughterhouse. “You called those guys?”

  He parks twenty yards short of the pavilion, then turns to me, his face like that of a stranger. “Listen, Goose. You can’t do what you’ve done these past few months and expect to walk away clean. You gotta know that. Some things have to be settled.”

  The fear in my belly almost unmans me. “What does that mean?”

  He looks at the lighted pavilion. “Given what I see here, I’m not sure. But there’s no running from it. For either of us. So let’s find out.”

  “You could back your truck out of here and run for it.”

  “We’d never make it.” He claps me on the thigh without looking at me. “Let’s go.”

  He takes his keys when he climbs out of the truck, leaving me no choice but to follow. As I walk toward the pavilion, I see Beau Holland’s Porsche 911 parked between two pickups. Fear makes my hands tingle. The drone of a big generator provides the basic soundtrack out here, punctuated by the sudden electrocutions of a bright violet bug zapper. The smell of whiskey and cigars rides the damp air, but there are undercurrents: rotting fish and vegetation, motor oil, mud, gasoline, horseflesh, leather, corn, wet dog fur, and spent gunpowder. This is like rolling up on an American military camp in the jungle, which I once did in the Philippines. Air-conditioned luxury in the primeval wilderness, powered by diesel generators.

  Paul raises his hand in greeting.

  Beyond him, I see a semicircle of teak chairs, each occupied by a member of the Poker Club. There are twelve chairs in all. Two stand empty. One must be Max Matheson’s seat. I recognize most of the men in the chairs. Claude Buckman sits in the only seat outside the semicircle, and he faces the others, like an elderly general briefing his commanders. Nearest him sits Blake Donnelly. Then come the usual suspects: Senator Sumner, Arthur Pine, Beau Holland, Tommy Russo, Warren Lacey. Farthest from Buckman sit three older men I don’t know. One might be a prominent insurance agent, the other a wealthy farmer. The third, I have no idea. Opposite the semicircle is a large bar and outdoor oven, including a fireplace big enough to warm a platoon. Above the mantel hangs a colossal flat-screen television. Beneath it sit several SEC football helmets, all autographed by Hall of Fame quarterbacks. Ole Miss, LSU, Alabama, Mississippi State, Tennessee, even Florida. Around the pavilion’s perimeter I see at least three armed guards.

  Nobody has football on his mind tonight.

  As I come even with Paul, he walks out before the assembled Star Chamber and addresses Buckman. “This isn’t exactly what I expected, Claude. Looks like a full meeting. Except I don’t see Wyatt. This is his island. Where is he?”

  “Mr. Cash will be along.”

  “So what’s going on?”

  The old man gives Paul a philosophical smile. “There’s too much on the line to keep this small. We need to set everything to rest tonight. What did you learn from McEwan?”

  “He means to keep the deal he made with you. As for Avery resigning, he’s flexible. He still wants Beau to go to Parchman, though.”

  “Keep dreaming,” Holland says from his seat.

  Beau Holland is wearing his customary Izod shirt and chinos, the aquamarine shirt chosen to set off his tan. A sweating glass of whiskey sits in a hole in his chair arm, and his right hand holds a burning cigar. As I scan the circle, each man sees me marking his presence, but not one nods or raises his hand in greeting—not even Blake Donnelly. A result of today’s newspaper stories, I’m sure. These men have come here solely out of self-preservation. They’re treating me like I’m already dead.

  “The situation has changed quite a bit this evening,” Buckman explains. “We’re going to have to make some big decisions. Final decisions. Beau, get the TV.”

  Holland lifts a remote control from his lap and presses a button.

  The big screen above the mantel lights up, showing what looks like a scene from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. In reality, it must be security cam footage of the interior of a deer-skinning shack. Hoists and hooks are bolted to the walls and ceiling joists, while knives, bone saws, and pliers hang from the wall. Tied to a six-by-six post at the center of the screen is Nadine Sullivan.

  She’s naked except for a pair of panties, and a rag has been tied around her mouth. Her eyes look glassy from fatigue, or fear, or perhaps narcotics. Behind her the wall is stained with blood. It looks like old blood, but with this video setup it’s hard to be sure. The camera’s wide-angle view shows me a big drain in the floor, surrounded by something wet. A small pile of clothes lies at Nadine’s feet.

  It’s all I can do to hold down the contents of my stomach, which feel like nothing but acid and whatever casserole my mother’s friends brought over after my father’s death. I’m about to speak when Paul reaches out and grips my arm hard enough to stop me.

  “Is that the bookstore girl?” he asks. “Nadine?”

  “That’s right,” says Beau Holland. “She had the cache your mother made. The one designed to destroy your father. And us, if necessary.”

  Paul glances at me, then back at Holland. “How’d you find out she had it?”

  “Your wife told us.”

  This throws Paul off-balance. “My wife?”

  Tommy Russo answers the question. “We sent a couple of guys to talk to her this afternoon.”

  Holland can’t bear to let Russo have the floor. “As soon as Jet realized her kid was in danger,” he says, “poof, no more cache problem.”

  Paul takes a deep breath, sighs. I may be the only man under this roof who understands that he’s already in the grip of homicidal rage.

  “You sent men to interrogate my wife?” he asks softly.

  “Had to, Paulie,” says Russo. “And it’s a good thing we did. ’Cause she gave up the Sullivan girl without hesitating. And Nadine talked just about as quick. She thought she was being smart. She hid the cache in a safe-deposit box in a bank in Monroe. Since the bank had just closed for the weekend, she figured we’d have to keep her alive at least till Monday so she could get it out for us.”

  “But . . . ?”

  “But,” Holland says with a grin, “she didn’t realize that Claude knows every banker from Texas to Alabama. We had that cache in hand ninety minutes after Nadine told us about it.”

  Paul sniffs and looks over at Buckman. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “She also told us that Marshall never had anything more than what she fed him anonymously,” Holland adds.

  “What about some kind of fail-safe mechanism?” Paul asks. “She dies, and copies get sent out to the FBI and the media? There could be a dozen copies out there in the cloud.”

  “There aren’t,” Russo assures him.

  “How do you know?”

  Russo nods at the TV. “We made sure. Take my word for that.”

  My hands are shaking. It’s all I can do not to jerk Nadine’s gun from my pocket. Worst of all, I feel guilty for having the pistol at all. Maybe if she’d had it, Nadine could have defended herself against the men who abducted her.

  “Okay,” Paul says with what sounds like weariness. “So what’s everybody doing here? Why the big confab?”

  Buckman draws on his cigar, then answers in his gravelly voice. “You’re going to have to earn your father’s seat, son.�
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  “How do I do that?”

  “By killing McEwan.”

  Paul sniffs again and looks over at me. He doesn’t look surprised by this order. “What about the Sullivan girl?

  “She’s not your problem,” says Holland. “Nadine and I have a little unfinished business.”

  Paul snorts. “Having a hard time getting laid, Beau?”

  Holland grins with maddening arrogance. “Never.”

  Paul surveys the semicircle of faces, then settles his gaze on Buckman. “So the price of my father’s seat is Marshall’s life?”

  Holland’s grin widens. “That’s right.”

  “Who’d you kill to get your seat, Beau?”

  The real estate man’s grin gets brittle.

  “That’s what I figured.”

  Buckman says, “The demands McEwan made this morning could cost us in the neighborhood of seventy million dollars, Paul. That’s unacceptable.”

  “The club and the city together, you mean.”

  “Marshall was never going to honor that deal,” Holland cuts in again. “He was going to write another book. Try for another Pulitzer.”

  “What if I don’t kill him?” Paul asks.

  The old banker leans forward. “Then we’ll know your priority is not the club. But this is all academic. If you killed your father tonight, I can’t see how killing Marshall could be any more difficult.”

  “Hell,” says Holland, smirking, “I’d think you’d enjoy capping this asshole.”

  I hear muffled laughter from the semicircle, but Paul seems not to notice. There’s a coldness in his eyes that I know is a prelude to violence.

  “Let me be sure I’m clear on the terms,” he says. “I kill Marshall, my family is free and clear. I ask because I know Pop protected my wife in certain circumstances. And he’s gone now. If I kill Marshall, Jet is safe. Right?”

  Buckman regards Paul through the smoke rising from his cigar. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  Paul rolls his shoulders, then cocks his head and looks down at the old man. “Why’s that?”

  “You’ll find out in a minute,” says Holland. He glances at his watch. “Less than a minute, actually.”