by Greg Iles
Like the full import of a terminal diagnosis, the ramifications of what Jessup is telling me are slowly sinking in. “This is our town,” he says slowly. “That still means something to me. They’re screwing our hometown and laughing about it. Carpetbagger motherfuckers.”
Despite my argument, I can’t deny that I feel what he’s feeling. “I understand your anger, Tim. But this isn’t worth your life. It’s not even worth a beating. This isn’t the same town we grew up in. When you go to a restaurant, how many people in it do you know?”
He smiles wistfully. “Yeah. Time was, I was on a first-name basis with everybody I ran into in this town.”
“No more.”
“No.” He points his forefinger at me. “But you came back. And you’ve stayed. You must think this place is worth saving, or you’d be living on an island somewhere, spending all that money you’ve made. Instead you’re the mayor in a town where you couldn’t pay most people to take the job.”
He’s right, though about every other day I think running for mayor was the worst mistake of my life. “I do think Natchez is worth saving, okay? But everybody has a different idea about what constitutes saving a town. One thing I know for sure: nobody would say it’s worth your life to save us some gambling revenue.”
Tim’s eyes glisten. “It’s not just that. God knows, I’ve made some bad choices in my life. I’ve disappointed a lot of people—my dad most of all. But what’s going on now is really hurting people. Those young girls . . . innocent animals that just want to live, the same as any other creature. And I’m in a position to do something about it. What kind of man would I be if I just turned away and let it go on?”
“You didn’t turn away! You came to me. And I’m going to inform the appropriate authorities. You’ve fulfilled your responsibility. Hell, you’ve done more than a lot of men would in your situation.”
Jessup shakes his head with almost childlike deliberation. “You’re not going to inform anybody of anything, Penn. It’s too soon. You’re a good enough lawyer to know that. Wait for me. God put me in this position for a reason . . .”
“Don’t bring God into it.”
“I’m not asking you to believe like I do. I’m just asking you to be ready to take what I bring you and do the right thing.”
I feel obligated to dissuade him further, but part of me knows that in cases like this, often the only way to convict the people at the top is to have a witness on the inside, directly observing the criminal activity. Tim Jessup could be that man.
“What are you going to bring me?”
“The goods.”
“Evidence?”
“That’s right.”
“Of what? Dogfighting and whores? Or the big-money stuff?”
“Whatever I can get. Just tell me you’re with me. Tell me I can trust you.”
“You can trust me, Tim. Just be careful, okay?”
He looks me full in the face, his eyes almost serene. “I will. Especially now that there’s two of us in this.”
I reach out and squeeze his arm. “You’ve come a long way against long odds, brother. Don’t you go getting hurt now.”
“Don’t blame yourself if I do. The way I see it, I’ve got no choice.” Jessup smiles suddenly. “Hey, you still dating that lady who runs the bookstore?”
“Laura? Yes, why?”
“No reason. I like her, by the way. But what happened to that newspaper girl? The publisher?”
The change of subject throws me. “Caitlin couldn’t resign herself to living in Natchez. She likes life a little faster than it runs here.”
Tim raises one eyebrow. “The water may not run fast here, but it’s deep. I thought you might want to know that I’ve seen Laura’s son down on the Queen a few times the past couple of weeks. He looked high to me.”
This news hits me almost as hard as Tim’s earlier revelations. I’ve spent a lot of time and too much political capital getting my girlfriend’s nineteen-year-old son out of trouble with the law. If he has broken his promise to stay clean, the future holds some serious unpleasantness.
Jessup is watching me closely. “Was I right to tell you?”
“Are you sure he was high?”
Tim doesn’t reply. He’s holding up his hand for us to be silent. As he comes to his knees, I realize what has disturbed him: the sound of a car coming up Cemetery Road. We listen to the rising pitch of the engine, waiting for it to crest and fall. But it doesn’t. There’s a grinding sound of brakes, then silence.
“It stopped,” Tim hisses. “It’s right below us.”
“Take it easy,” I tell him, but I’m surprised by my thumping heart. “It’s probably just a patrol car, checking out my Volvo.”
Tim has his feet under him now. He crab-walks over two graves and lifts his eyes above the rim of the far wall. “Remember what I told you. Even if it is a cop, that doesn’t mean we’re okay.”
“Can you see anything?”
“No! We’re too deep in.”
“Jesus, calm down. I’m the freaking mayor, all right? We’re fine. Let me go take a look.”
“Stay here.”
I scramble to my feet, then scissor my legs over the wall. Before I’ve covered twenty feet I hear the tinny sound of a police radio. This brings me immediate relief, but when I hurry back to tell Tim, I find the walled plot empty save for the dead. My old friend has vanished as silently as he appeared.
Given a choice between waiting for the cop to leave or walking down to face him, I choose the latter. For one thing, the cop might not leave. He might call a tow truck instead. For another, I am the mayor, and it’s none of his business what I’m doing up here in the middle of the night. I could be having a dark night of the soul, visiting my wife’s grave.
Instead of sliding down the face of Jewish Hill, I walk around to the steps, then cross the cemetery wall thirty yards up the road from the cop, so that I won’t startle him by appearing suddenly from the graveyard. He’s standing at the cemetery wall, shining a flashlight twenty feet up the hill. As the beam passes over the wire bench, my heels crunch on some gravel beside the road.
The cop whips his light toward me. “Hold it!” he shouts. “Stop right there!”
I raise both hands and call, “It’s Mayor Cage, Officer. Everything’s fine. I just had a little car trouble.”
Despite all my reassurances to Tim Jessup, my heart only races faster. The cop shines his light right in my eyes. Surely he must have called in my license plate by now. He knows he’s facing the mayor of the city. Just to be sure, I call out again.
“I’m Penn Cage, Officer! The mayor. Please put that light down.”
Not only does the cop keep his light in my face, but he also starts walking toward me. Incredibly, as my eyes adjust to the glare, I see him reach down with his right hand and draw his sidearm from the holster at his hip.
“Hey!” I shout. “Did you hear me? It’s Mayor Cage!”
“I heard you, all right.”
He closes the distance between us without slowing, and before I can speak again, he hammers the flashlight into my solar plexus. As I drop gasping to the concrete, it strikes me that Tim Jessup knows a lot more about my city than I do.
The flashlight whistles as it drops toward my head.
ALSO BY GREG ILES
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
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Greg Iles
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This Pocket Books trade paperback edition June 2011
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Text set in Sabon
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ISBN 978-1-4516-4775-4
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