Cemetery Road

by Greg Iles

  Blake Donnelly leans toward Buckman. “Duncan was a good ol’ boy, Claude. I think the kid has a point.”

  “Think of the body count if you go this route,” I point out. “You’re gonna kill Nadine. Then me. Then torture Paul’s son to be sure Jet’s not lying. Then you torture Jet and kill her? That’s insane. You’ll have to kill Paul to stop him from killing you all in revenge. You think you can just write all that off like a tax loss? After Buck’s death? And Sally’s? You may control the local cops, but you’re going to have the FBI setting up an office in Bienville after all that. That’s without the fail-safes we’ve set up. That’s crazy-level risk.”

  “I don’t know,” says Russo. “If we leave all the bodies at Paul’s place, we can say he found you banging his wife and went crazy. White man on a rampage. Killed his whole family, then set the house on fire and shot himself.”

  “There you go!” cries Holland. “I read stories like that once a month.”

  Wyatt Cash is shaking his head. He steps closer to Buckman. “This is nuts. Paul and Max were as much a part of this club as any of us.”

  “There’s a cleaner solution,” I press on. “Hang everything on Max and Holland. Beau killed Buck Ferris, then fled the country because the photo we printed placed him at the scene. Max killed Sally, then jumped bail and disappeared. End of body count. Nobody else dies. Any legal problems resulting from today’s story, you hang on Max and Holland. Wrap them up in a nice bow and kiss them goodbye. The paper mill still gets built; you guys stay free and rich. Richer every day.”

  I hear grunts of approval from the semicircle.

  Buckman purses his lips, then visually takes the pulse of the men filling the half-moon of chairs. “Paul? You’ve been surprisingly quiet. What do you have to say?”

  Even in stillness, Paul radiates considerable tension. “I told you guys that whoever killed Ferris was going to destroy the club. Well, here we are. And that’s thanks to this asshole.” He jerks his thumb at Holland. “Tommy’s only standing with Beau because he’s got so much money invested with him. Marshall’s got the right idea. Hang it all on Max and Beau, then boogie on down the road. That’s the surgical solution.”

  Buckman looks at Tommy. “Mr. Russo? What do you say?”

  “He’s right. I’ve got a lot of money tied up with Beau.” Tommy looks at Paul. “Can you make me whole if I lean your way?”

  Paul glances at Jet, then back at Tommy. “What kind of money we talking about?”

  Russo thinks about it. “Ten million would get me most of the way there.”

  “Ten million.”

  “Right.”

  “Can’t do it, Tommy. Not me alone.”

  Russo doesn’t believe him. “You’re about to inherit Max’s fortune, right?”

  “I didn’t tell you to invest with Beau.”

  Feeling the mood shift against him, Beau Holland barks at the men in the semicircle. “What the hell are we talking about? They’ve got nothing! Tie this slut to a tree and go to work on her. Drag that kid out here. She’ll cough up the truth in thirty seconds.”

  Paul looks calmly at Holland. “You’re starting to piss me off.”

  Holland draws a derringer from his pocket and points it at Paul’s belly. “How about now?”

  Paul looks down at the gun with contempt, then surveys the ring of faces. “You guys act like I just got off a bus. Whatever happened to loyalty? Claude, you’re a tough old bird, but you can’t live forever. Tommy? You’re a wop, and you’re from out of state. They’ll never let you run this club. If Max had lived, he’d have been next in line. Everybody knows it. But Max is dead. I killed him. What’s the saying? ‘The king is dead, long live the king’? Well, I’m not just taking Pop’s seat—I’m taking his place.”

  Holland snorts at Paul’s presumption, but I see a couple of men nodding. They’re thinking that Max Matheson left big shoes to fill, but this kid might just be able to do it.

  “Who else is going to run it?” Paul asks. He gestures at Beau with disdain. “You guys want to hitch your wagons to this soft-dick, spray-tan cocksucker with his pimp gun? Give me a break.”

  Claude Buckman shifts in his teak chair. Even the banker is considering Paul’s argument.

  “You got some balls on you, Paulie,” Russo says, looking over at Holland. “You want to make your case, Beau?”

  “You’re not listening to this asshole, Tommy?”

  “He makes sense.”

  Holland’s face goes red beneath his tan. “He’s a bullshit artist, like his old man! Look at him. You think he can run this club? He’s got head wounds from two wars. He’s been a drugged-out wreck for twenty years. He can’t hold on to his own wife, because she’s fucking his best friend. You want to chain yourselves to that?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Paul mutters. His hard eyes focus on Russo. “You talk a lot about family, Tommy. I want every man out here to think about his son. Because you’ve got my son locked in that camp house, scared to death. He’s worried about his mama. And for what? You sons of bitches ought to be ashamed. You know me. You knew my daddy. Some of you knew my granddaddy. You know the history. When it came to gunplay after the Civil War, which family did you count on to take care of business? The Mathesons, that’s who. Well, what’s changed? Nothing. And I hold every man here personally responsible for whatever happens next. I may not be a rocket scientist—that’s my wife’s department—but when the enemy’s at the gates, I’m the guy you call. You don’t believe me, ask Marshall here what he left out of that book about Iraq.”

  Rapt faces stare at Paul with something close to worship in their eyes. There’s no respect among American men like that reserved for soldiers who have survived combat.

  “One more thing,” Paul says in a softer voice. “Marshall here screwed me over pretty good. But that’s personal. I’m no angel myself. God knows I haven’t treated my wife right over the years. And the thing is, me and him go back to kindergarten. Dixie Youth baseball. Jerking off to our first Playboy. Building forts in the woods. We fought together in Ramadi, and I can tell you this: when the insurgents overran us, he returned fire till his gun ran dry. Today we both lost our fathers. The same day. Now you got us out here for this bullshit inquisition?”

  Paul looks at the ground and shakes his head. “I’m not killing him for you. I won’t do it. He’s gonna hold up his end of the deal. And if you kill him—and that bookstore lady, who hasn’t done a damn thing to you, and whose coffee I like—then I put your names down in my book. And one night soon, you’re gonna wake up just long enough to see the blood spurting from your carotids before you bleed out.”

  “I told you!” Holland cries with satisfaction, pushing his derringer closer to Paul. “We’ve got to kill him, too.”

  Holland seems to believe that Paul has condemned himself.

  “He’s right,” Paul concludes. “You boys got a choice to make. Kill half a dozen people for no good reason, then pray the FBI doesn’t kick down your door tomorrow morning. Or lay it all off on Max and this prick, and call it a day.”

  Holland swallows hard. He looks to Russo but finds no support there. Summoning all the conviction he can, he says, “None of this is up to Paul. Jet’s the one with a copy of the cache. And remember that video. These two are about to wind up in divorce court. Guaranteed. How many of us have been divorced? Seven out of twelve? Think about it. No matter how you start, it ends up a war. No prisoners. Does anybody here think this bitch won’t use everything in her arsenal to get custody of her kid? Be smart! Let’s find out what she knows and put an end to the threat once and for all.”

  “You’re thinking again, Beau,” Jet says, stepping between Holland and the other men. “Who says I’m getting divorced? What did you see on that screen? Me having sex with Marshall? No. He doesn’t want me. He’s in love with Nadine. Sure, I strayed once. So what? It’s nothing Paul hasn’t done a dozen times. All you dinosaurs think if the woman strays, the marriage is over. Well, that’s not how it
is anymore. Paul and I have a son to raise—together. And that’s what we’re going to do.” She looks at Russo. “As for your losses, that’s your problem. If the club wants to make you whole, fine. There’s no reason that should fall on Paul and me. Claude, assess every member of the club. Split eleven ways, that’s $909,090.90 apiece.”

  I’m worried she’s moving too fast for these old guys, some of whom appear to be trying to mentally check her math.

  “Why eleven ways?” Holland asks.

  Jet smiles at him. “Because you’re going to be dead.” She turns to Buckman. “You could get him to write you a check tonight. After all, you own the bank. You could still honor it Monday, even after he’s deceased. Right?”

  Her brazen confidence and mental acuity have stunned the assembled businessmen.

  “Mr. McEwan,” Buckman says. “What about Avery Sumner? I’d very much like him to retain his Senate seat. Bienville needs him. He’ll vote honestly on all China-related bills. You have my word. Can you live with that?”

  I barely have enough spit in my mouth to form words. “I can.”

  Buckman looks over at Donnelly, who nods once. Then at Arthur Pine. Pine is slower to agree.

  “This is crazy!” Holland yells. “You’re willing to risk our security because of this bitch? Because you haven’t got the nerve to do what needs to be done?”

  “I’m about tired of this motherfucker,” Paul says.

  Holland’s eyes blaze. “You don’t get to—”

  Like a rattlesnake, Paul’s right hand strikes Holland’s throat and clamps around his windpipe. Holland fires the derringer, but Paul’s left hand has already parried it, and the bullet ricochets off the cement into the night. Holland tries to speak when Paul wrenches the little gun from his hand, but no sound emerges.

  As Beau’s tanned face darkens, Paul cracks his head against a vertical post, stunning him senseless. Tommy Russo whips out a pistol and aims at Paul, but Paul ignores him. Buckman looks at Russo and lifts a restraining hand.

  “I’m a new member, Claude,” Paul says. “Do I need a show of hands or what?”

  The silence stretches while Buckman’s mind races, calculating odds. In the end, he takes too long. In one violent motion Paul slams Holland down to the concrete, then rises and stomps his neck so hard that a shock runs up our legs.

  Several men jump in their seats, and Jet turns away.

  “Can I get a second?” Paul asks, straightening his shirt and looking around the circle.

  “Second,” says Wyatt Cash. “Goddamn.”

  “Well,” croaks Buckman, staring at Holland’s motionless corpse. “I guess that’s that.”

  Paul looks around. “Somebody find a blanket and show Marshall where the skinning shed is. And lend him a truck to take Nadine home.”

  “What about my ten million?” Russo asks, staring at Holland’s body.

  Buckman’s mouth works silently as he thinks about it. “The club will cover half your losses, Mr. Russo. What would that be, Mrs. Matheson?”

  “Eleven ways?”

  “Yes. I can assess a share from some of Mr. Holland’s shadier deals.”

  Jet clucks her tongue. “$454,545.45 apiece.”

  Buckman smiles. “You have a job at my bank any time you want it.”

  “No thanks.”

  Paul looks at the semicircle. “Dr. Lacey, how about you step over here a second?”

  Lacey looks left, then right, hoping someone will excuse him from this reckoning. No one meets his eye. The doctor rubs his knees, then gets up and walks slowly to where we stand.

  “You like my wife’s ass?” Paul asks.

  Lacey’s face goes red. “Paul, listen, I’m into the gin pretty good—”

  Paul backhands the doctor with a blow that sends him reeling, then turns his attention to Wyatt Cash. “Wyatt, how ’bout you take Jet in there with Kevin and Tallulah? Once they’ve calmed down, put them in your chopper and fly them home. I’ll stay here till Max is in the ground. Claude and I will work out the fine print going forward. Somebody needs to lose Beau’s Porsche.”

  “Consider it done. All of it.”

  “What about Mr. Holland’s remains?” asks Buckman.

  Paul looks down at the corpse and snorts. “You can feed that motherfucker to the hogs for all I care.”

  Everyone present seems taken aback by the speed with which the situation has changed, yet no one looks displeased. It’s as though Paul has so completely assumed Max’s mantle that he seems a younger incarnation of his father.

  “Paul?” Buckman says as Wyatt prepares to escort Jet inside. “There’s still the matter of the cache. The Seychelles accounts, all the things your wife mentioned.” The ruthless old banker looks Jet in the eye. “May we rely on your continued discretion, my dear?”

  After several seconds, she nods. “Just don’t cross me, Claude.”

  The deer-skinning shed stinks of blood and urine. Nadine whimpers when I open the door, but then she recognizes me. Her first response is a quick sucking in of breath. Then she says, “Are they going to kill us?”

  “No.” I go to her and cover her with a Pendleton blanket Wyatt Cash brought me.

  She sobs and shudders against me. “I prayed you’d come.”

  “I’m so sorry I took so long.” I squeeze her tight, trying to comfort her. “I’m sorry I had your gun. What did they do to you?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” She draws back far enough for me to see revulsion in her face. “Except that Beau Holland. I never want to see him again.”

  “You won’t. Paul killed him two minutes ago. You can look at his corpse if you want to.”

  A look of desolation crosses her face. “I almost do. But no.”

  “Paul and Jet got us out of here, believe it or not.” I hear engines outside. The meeting must be breaking up.

  “Can we go now, please?” she asks.

  “They’re getting us a truck. For me to drive you home.”

  “Thank God. I can’t believe it.”

  “Unless you want to ride in a helicopter with Jet and Kevin?”

  Her face hardens. “No. It was Jet who told them about me. Did you know that?”

  “I just found out. I’m sorry.” I feel I should try to defend Jet’s action, even though I can’t believe it myself. “They threatened her son.”

  Nadine nods, but it’s plain that forgiveness will be a long time coming, if ever. “You said you’re driving me home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I stay at your house? Not to—you know. I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “Absolutely.”

  When I pick up her clothes, I realize they’re tacky with blood. “Um . . . you’ve got blood on your things.”

  “I don’t care. It’s my blood. Just turn around for a minute.”

  I turn to the stained wall of the skinning shed, thinking how close we came to dying in here. Not just the two of us, but Jet and Kevin and Paul as well.

  “I’m finished,” Nadine says. “Can we go now?”

  Hanging the blanket around her shoulders, I open the shed door and lead her out into the harsh light. An old GMC pickup stands waiting, keys in the ignition. I walk her around the truck and help her into the passenger seat, then climb behind the wheel and crank the engine. As I put the truck into gear, Wyatt Cash’s chopper lifts into the night sky above the camp.

  I gently press the gas pedal, and the truck rolls forward. Passing the Boar Island pavilion, I see a figure detach itself from the others and stand silhouetted in the light, one arm raised in farewell.

  “Who’s that?” asks Nadine.

  “Paul.”

  She raises a hand and waves limply. “What the hell happened out there?”

  “You’ll never believe it.”

  “But you’ll tell me everything?”

  “Later. Once we’re safe.”

  I gun the engine and blow past the vehicles and men of the Poker Club, back toward the mainland. To
ward home. If Bienville is home. Before anything else, I need to do what I came back to Mississippi to do in the first place. Bury my father. Or in his case, scatter his ashes on the river.

  Then we’ll see.

  Chapter 56

  Buck’s funeral is scheduled for three p.m. That worked out well, because Nadine and I slept twelve hours straight after getting home from the hunting camp. I wasn’t sure Mom coming to the cemetery was a great idea, given that my father’s funeral will be held in a couple of days, but she brushed away my concerns. She told me she’s always been grateful for what Buck did for me as a boy and doesn’t want his widow to have to bury her husband with only a handful of people to mourn him. That’s the closest Mom has ever come to acknowledging Buck being my surrogate father.

  Nadine, too, fears that the funeral will be a bleak affair, given that the town virtually disowned Buck after his work threatened the paper mill. I feel a little more hopeful since learning that most of the newspaper staff is going; every warm body will make Quinn feel a little better. Mom is riding beside me in the Flex, while Nadine sits in the middle of the backseat, wearing a dark navy dress that’s quite a change from her usual jeans and T-shirts.

  Two blocks from Cemetery Road, I recognize a couple of cars ahead of us. Hopefully they’re headed to the service. One is Dr. Jack Kirby’s, which lifts my heart. The other looks like it belongs to Byron Ellis, the coroner. Maybe we’ll have a decent showing after all, enough to pay modest tribute to all the good work Buck did for the people of this town.

  As we drive through the cemetery gate, something tells me I might have misjudged the occasion. A young Boy Scout stands beside the asphalt lane, staring ahead with military bearing, his green ball cap held flat against the red kerchief on his chest as a sign of respect. I remember exactly what that uniform feels like, though in my day we wore the iconic Stetson campaign hat or a military-style garrison cap. Thirty yards down the lane, another Scout stands in the same rigid posture.

  “My goodness,” says my mother, flattening her hand against her bosom. “What fine boys. What fine, thoughtful boys.”