Natchez Burning (Penn Cage)

by Greg Iles

  After I park in the rear lot of the Examiner, Kirk pulls in behind me, then gets out to shake hands. I’m glad to see a cop guarding the back lot, and I make a mental note to thank Chief Logan for this courtesy. Kirk greets the policeman, then peers into my eyes with a measuring gaze. Kirk is too good a friend to question my character outright, but his doubts are plain enough.

  “I heard a lot of what you said up there,” he says. “You didn’t sound much like the guy I remember.”

  “I know. I didn’t much like doing that. But I’d deal with the devil to save my father. I guess I just proved that.”

  Kirk nods philosophically. “Do you think Royal can do what he claimed?”

  “If he can’t, neither of us is likely to see my dad again.”

  Kirk stares into my soul a little longer, then squeezes my left shoulder. “Call me if you need me, bud. I’m here for you. You and your father.”

  “Thank you.”

  The ex-marine climbs back in his truck and gives me a crisp salute. “Oo-rah, brother.”

  “Oo-rah,” I echo dispiritedly, already dreading my conversation with Caitlin.

  CHAPTER 86

  WALT GARRITY PULLED Drew Elliott’s nondescript pickup truck off Highway 61 and drove west into downtown Baton Rouge, where the state capitol towered above the Mississippi River. Colonel Mackiever had chosen the city’s riverfront casino hotel as their meeting place. Walt wasn’t excited by this; any casino-related business was bound to have security cameras. With the APB out, he worried that his face might be picked up by the NSA’s facial recognition software, which could lead to a lightning-quick arrest. Surely Mackiever understood that risk, yet Walt gauged the probability that his old friend was setting a trap for him at less than 1 percent. Still . . . that didn’t mean Forrest Knox wasn’t watching his boss’s movements. Walt decided not to stay in the hotel any longer than he had to, and to keep his derringer cocked in his pocket both going in and coming out.

  The seven stories of the Sheraton hotel squatted behind the downtown levee, linked by a skywalk to the riverside casino, the Belle of Baton Rouge. Walt pulled his hat low over his face, gave Drew’s pickup keys to a valet, told him to park it close, then walked into a large, glass-ceilinged lobby that looked like a bastard child of the Crystal Palace, which had burned down in London when Walt was a boy. When he asked the desk clerk to connect him to “Mr. Griffith’s” room, the clerk asked him to wait. Walt kept his head down to avoid being recorded by the elevated cameras behind the desk, and he didn’t raise it when the clerk took an envelope from a slot behind him and handed it across the counter. Walt walked a couple of steps away from the desk, opened the envelope with one hand, and read the faxed handwritten message inside:

  Ranger Captain,

  I had to take an unexpected trip to New Orleans regarding our mutual problem. Tough times, partner. They’re coming after me, too. I hope to be back tonight, ASAP. Please check into a room under the name Bill McDonald and wait as long as you can. It won’t be time wasted, and you’ll be safe here. No bushwhackers on this ride.

  Captain M.

  Walt didn’t like the idea of waiting, but he didn’t have any doubt that this message was from Griffith Mackiever. For one thing, he’d signed his old Texas Ranger rank, when in fact he was a colonel of the Louisiana State Police. For another, Mackiever had instructed Walt to check in under the name of one of the most respected Rangers ever to wear the badge. It was Captain Bill McDonald who’d said, “No man in the wrong can stand up against a fellow that’s in the right and keeps on a-comin’.” In later years, Walt had heard more educated men hold forth on the “moral advantage,” but no one had ever put the idea quite as succinctly as Cap’n Bill.

  Checking into a hotel and waiting like a lazy duck on a glassy pond didn’t strike Walt as the smartest of options, and Mackiever’s mention of being assailed himself was worrisome. If Forrest Knox knew Mackiever was onto him, he might decide that a good offense was the best defense and strike preemptively. Given how quickly Trooper Dunn had gone for Tom by the river last night, Knox might already have gone over to the offensive.

  With an ache of presentiment in his chest, Walt followed his friend’s instructions about the room, then walked to the elevator and waited for the door to close. He thought of Tom and Melba, waiting for him ninety miles upriver. He hoped they hadn’t let the isolation of the lake house lull them into a false sense of security. He hoped they were being as careful as he was. Not one moment while he was in the lobby had Walt taken his finger off the trigger of his derringer.

  CHAPTER 87

  TOM AND MELBA sat on bar stools at Drew’s counter, finishing some eggs Melba had scrambled. They’d watched television for a while, but nothing held their interest, and Drew’s satellite offered no local news. Melba’s eyes betrayed exhaustion, but she’d brewed some coffee to stay awake.

  “Don’t just sit there brooding,” she said. “You might as well talk about it. The time will pass faster.”

  Tom wasn’t so sure. But after a while, he said, “I’ve got two sons, Mel. One is trying to save me, the other to destroy me. There must be a deep truth in there somewhere.”

  His nurse kept her eyes on her plate. “Don’t be too sure. This world is hard. Always has been, always will be, till Judgment comes.”

  Tom marveled at the certainty of her faith. Melba never proselytized, but she had an adamantine faith in God, and in the teachings of Jesus.

  “Judgment,” he said. “That’s an ominous word.”

  She looked up, her deep eyes holding his. “Not just for you. I’ve got my own stains on the inside, that no one but God knows about. We do the best we can, Doc. That’s all we can do. Though it don’t hurt to kneel in prayer now and then. You could have done a little more of that over the years. Wouldn’t have hurt you none.”

  “I suppose not,” Tom said, though he disagreed. If you didn’t believe in a God who heard or answered prayers, then wasn’t prayer a kind of secular heresy? A failure of character—or at least of nerve? “Melba, I want you to go home after you finish that coffee.”

  She looked up sharply. “Have you lost your mind? Captain Garrity left me here to watch over you, and I mean to do it. There’s no way I’m going to stand beside your casket and tell Mrs. Peggy I left you here alone to die.”

  “What exactly will you do if I have a coronary? The nearest ambulance is thirty minutes away. All you’d be doing by calling 911 is opening yourself to criminal charges for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

  Melba looked indignant. “I’m a nurse, aren’t I? I can do compressions till the paramedics get here. And you’ve got adrenaline in your overnight bag. I checked it when you were in the bathroom.”

  Tom smiled and laid his hand on her wrist. “And if a bunch of old klukkers find us?”

  Melba drew back her hand and folded her arms across her chest. “I reckon I can shoot a pistol as well as most men. And it wouldn’t trouble me much to shoot a Klansman, I can tell you.”

  Tom laughed. “I believe you. But it’s not worth your life, Mel. You’ve got grandchildren, and they need you.”

  “So do you, old man!”

  “Yes. But I made the choices that put me here. You didn’t.”

  Melba’s eyes glistened. “I’m here by choice, too.”

  “You’re here because you’re a good woman, and a good friend. But you can’t give your life for me. I won’t let you. You’re going to finish that coffee and drive home. Walt will be back well before dawn.”

  This time, Tom could see he’d gotten through to her. The nurse shook her head, then wiped her tired eyes. “Dr. Cage, please tell me you know what you’re doing. All the years I’ve been with you, I’ve never doubted you. But this time . . . maybe you’re not thinking straight. People do crazy things when they feel guilty about something. Tell me you’re not planning to do something crazy.”

  When he realized what she feared, he felt ashamed. “I’m not going to kill myself, if that’s what
you mean.”

  Melba lowered her chin and looked up at Tom like the experienced nurse she was. “Maybe not with your own hands. But if you put yourself beyond medical help, or where harm is likely to come to you, that’s just as much of a sin.”

  Tom didn’t know how to answer this.

  She leaned forward and touched the center of his chest. “Your patients need you. Where could they go if you passed? These young docs don’t care about folks the way you do. Especially old folks. You owe it to them to keep going as long as you can.”

  Tom didn’t verbalize the obvious, which was that he had to die someday, and it would likely be sooner rather than later, no matter what happened tonight. Melba was right that his patients would suffer, especially those with chronic illnesses, but what could be done?

  “There’s nobody here but us,” he said gently. “Won’t you call me Tom now?”

  She shook her head almost involuntarily, and Tom wondered what troubled her so about crossing that formal boundary. “What if I called you Nurse Price out here? How would that make you feel?”

  Blood rose into Melba’s dark cheeks. After some thought, she said, “If I call you Tom, will you let me stay until Captain Garrity comes back?”

  “No. I can’t make you leave, but I’m asking you to. My heart will beat a lot easier if you go.”

  Melba picked up her fork and tapped it on the china plate. “I can’t believe it’s come to this. All those good works you’ve done, and it’s come to running like a common criminal.”

  “We never outrun our sins, Melba. None of us.”

  “And you tell me you don’t believe in God! How can you believe in sin, if you don’t believe in God?”

  “I don’t know what I mean, exactly. I just use the words I know.”

  A tear rolled down the nurse’s cheek. “I still have hopes for you . . . Tom. You’ve always done God’s work, whether you know it or not.”

  His throat tightened so much that for a moment he couldn’t breathe, much less speak. “Thank you, Melba. Now, you give me a good, long hug, and then walk out to your car and drive home. Walt will be back soon, and we’ll resolve this mess.”

  “Do you really believe that? Don’t lie to me.”

  “I do. That old dog still has a trick or two left.”

  Melba looked grateful for the lie. After a moment, she rose from the stool, and once he’d followed suit, she took him into her arms and hugged him, taking care not to put pressure on his wounded shoulder. At first the embrace felt awkward and stiff, but then Tom felt something let go in the nurse’s frame, and it was as though they’d been married for thirty years. In a way, he supposed, they had—just as he and Esther Ford had, and of course Viola, though their relationship had crossed into something far more intimate.

  “Don’t you sit here studyin’ ’bout Viola and that boy of hers,” Melba said in his ear. “You don’t know for sure he’s yours. And even if he is, you never knew about him. Viola made that choice. And if that boy hates you now, well . . . if you let him know you, he’ll come around.”

  “He’s not a boy anymore.”

  Melba drew far enough back to look into his eyes. “Yes, he is. Down deep, he is. And a black boy is a hard thing to be, especially without a daddy. Take it from me.”

  “I believe you, Mel.”

  The nurse hugged him tight again. “I feel like I’m never going to see you again.”

  “You will. I promise.”

  She shook her head stubbornly. “I feel it. And I want to say something to you.”

  “What?”

  She finally released him and stepped back, but she kept hold of his arthritic hands. “Don’t give up. Please. Don’t let them take you without a fight. Nobody’s perfect. Not even you. You deserve all the time you’ve got left.”

  Tom felt his eyes getting wet. “Thank you, Mel. You go now.”

  “I will. But I’m only going because I know you’re not alone here.”

  As his nurse turned and walked to the door, Tom felt the familiar and terrible weight he had borne all his life, the faith of simple people who had believed too much in him.

  CHAPTER 88

  AS SOON AS Caitlin got back to the Examiner building, she’d found herself in the eye of a hurricane. Not only was her full staff working frantically to finish the stories they planned to run on various threads of Henry Sexton’s murder investigations, but the editors of her father’s satellite papers were screaming for the stories they’d been promised by a deadline that had passed an hour ago. After passing a taped copy of her phone recording to Penn, Caitlin had deflected her staff by issuing a quick barrage of orders, then told Jamie to call his counterparts at the satellites and tell them thirty minutes of overtime had been authorized. It was a lie, but one she was banking no one would test by waking her father in Charlotte. As everyone left to implement her instructions, she’d retreated to her private office and locked the door.

  She was confident that the six stories on Henry’s murder investigations had been well written; she trusted Jamie to make sure of that. But without her master story to provide historical context, readers would have no way to place the dramatic events that her reporters had dealt with elsewhere. And her master story had one major problem. If Brody Royal agreed to Penn’s demand, and Penn asked her to leave Royal out of her story—even for one day—the resulting gaps would be like antitank trenches dug in the highway of her narrative. She didn’t know if she could bear to butcher her story that way. Reality was fast overtaking Penn’s concerns anyway. The rumor mill had already spread the news of Katy Royal’s attempted suicide to every corner of Adams County and Concordia Parish. Speculation about her motive was rampant, and right now Caitlin was the only journalist in the world who knew the truth. Better still, she understood how that motive fit into the forty-year-old matrix of rape and murder that had divided the community and triggered two assassination attempts on one of the South’s best journalists.

  Bottom line: the Katy Royal tape had changed everything.

  The revelation that a man of Brody Royal’s wealth and position had ordered (and possibly taken part in) the murders of Albert Norris, Pooky Wilson, Dr. Leland Robb, Jimmy Revels, Luther Davis, Viola Turner, and other collateral victims dwarfed Caitlin’s 1998 story of the murder of black Korean war vet Delano Payton, and that story had won her a Pulitzer. If she wrote tonight’s story as she wanted to—as it demanded to be written—a second Pulitzer was a lock, a prize she would happily share with Henry Sexton.

  To write that story, though, she might have to break faith with Penn. With him still closeted somewhere with Royal, she saw no way to finish her story before the other Masters papers closed out their editions—not if she waited to find out Royal’s answer about the APB. Caitlin had never felt so strangled by conflicting loyalties. She loved Tom as she loved her own father. But how could she abandon her duty to Henry Sexton, Katy Royal, and all the families of the victims of the Double Eagle group to save a man who had refused to try to save himself?

  Taking a Mountain Dew from the mini-fridge in the corner, she poured several ounces into her mouth and swished it around so that the caffeine would be absorbed more quickly. Then she called up iTunes, selected David Gray’s “Please Forgive Me,” and opened a clean page in her word processor. The text of the toolbar swam before her eyes for several seconds, then resolved into black letters on a field of taupe, her preferred color scheme. Thus prepared, in a single sustained burst of clarity she wrote a nine-hundred-word lead story titled LOCAL JOURNALIST SURVIVES SNIPER ATTACK.

  She led off with a firsthand account of the attack on Henry Sexton and Sherry Harden, and concluded with the contents of the Katy Royal interview. She spared Brody Royal nothing. The only person she treated with kid gloves was Tom Cage. As she corrected the last typo, she knew in her gut that this was the story to print tomorrow. Penn might hate her for it, but he would be judging her by inverted priorities. He was so deep inside the nightmare that he could no longer tell right fro
m wrong. She was preparing to send the story to Jamie for a read-through when someone knocked at her door.

  “Working!” she shouted.

  “It’s Penn,” said a male voice, muffled by the wood.

  Was that a male staffer telling her Penn was out front? she wondered. Or was Penn actually at the door?

  “Caitlin!” Penn shouted. “Open up!”

  A ripple of irrational fear crossed her skin. She sat frozen for three seconds, then got up and opened the door. Penn stood there, looking as tired as she’d ever seen him.

  “You talked to Royal?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She took his hand and pulled him into her office, then closed the door. “And?”

  Penn’s other hand held a leather holster with his .357 inside. He laid the pistol on the credenza to his right. Caitlin stared at it for a couple of seconds, realizing how seriously he was taking the danger. “So? What did he say?”

  “He’s going to do it. He’s going to get the APB canceled. He didn’t have any choice, really. He’s going to fix everything.”

  “Fix everything?” she echoed, unable to conceal her disappointment. “What does that mean?”

  “The APB, the dead trooper, even Viola’s murder case.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I did. I do. The whole conversation was anticlimactic. More surreal than confrontational, like a weird business deal. I think Royal has dealt with this kind of crap his whole life, though not with quite so much at stake. He realizes that his freedom and wealth are in danger, so he’ll do whatever’s necessary to preserve them.”

  Caitlin shook her head in disbelief. “How can he do those things? Magic?”

  Penn ran his hands through his hair, then collapsed into the chair opposite her desk. “By calling the right people, apparently. It’s not what you know, right? It’s who.”