Turning Angel

by Greg Iles

  Mia’s eyes go wide. “The Wilsons Marko lives with?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Marko do it?”

  This brings me partly from my trance. “You obviously think he’s capable of it.”

  “I don’t know why I said that. Maybe I do. Or maybe I’m retarded. Like I told you, Marko’s different from the rest of us. He liked the Wilsons, though. No, I don’t think he would do that.”

  I sit on the end of the sofa opposite Mia. She’s still staring at me with wide eyes.

  “Penn, what the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “I mean, it’s been, what…three days? Three days, and how many people dead?” She counts off the casualties on her fingers: “Kate, Chris, the narc…three black guys. And now the Wilsons.”

  “And that Catholic kid is still in intensive care.”

  “Right, Mike Pinella. I mean, does anybody have any idea what’s going on?”

  I shrug.

  “What do you think? Seriously.”

  “I think it’s a drug war. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.”

  She nods slowly. “Can Natchez cops handle a drug war?”

  “That question’s moot. Tomorrow we’ll see federal involvement. At least the DEA, and maybe a task force. That’s what needs to happen. Some of the violence is coming from the Asian gangs on the Gulf Coast. The rest of it…I don’t know.”

  Mia processes this in silence.

  I lay my elbows on my knees, then turn and look hard into her eyes. “You’ve seen Marko selling drugs to St. Stephen’s kids, haven’t you?”

  She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink. But then, very softly, she says, “I feel so bad about that now. Like maybe I could have stopped some of this.”

  “You couldn’t have. But you need to tell me the truth now. Have you seen Marko sell drugs on school property?”

  She nods.

  “Have you seen him hurt anybody? Physically, I mean.”

  A deep breath, held in. “No. I haven’t seen that.”

  “Why the hesitation?”

  “I was thinking about something else.”

  “What?”

  “Private stuff.”

  I decide to leave this alone. “Was Marko in school today?”

  “No.”

  “What about Steve Sayers?”

  “Steve was there. He was trash-talking Dr. Elliott when I saw him.”

  An image of Kate’s ex-boyfriend rises in my mind. A Matthew McConaughey look-alike with a more redneck bent. “Have you ever seen Steve do drugs?”

  Mia rolls her eyes. “I’ve seen him smoke weed. But most of the guys do that on occasion, even the jocks.”

  “Nothing harder than pot?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think Steve could have killed Kate?”

  She picks at a thread in the fabric of a pillow beside her. “Only in a fit of rage. He’d be screaming and crying as soon as he realized what he’d done.”

  “Maybe that’s exactly what happened.”

  “If Kate insulted his masculinity or something, I can see him hitting her.”

  “What about choking her?”

  She tilts a hand from side to side. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  “Steve still has a weak alibi. And he assaulted Drew before word about the affair with Kate was really out in the community. Will you see if you can find out how he first learned about Kate and Drew?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry. Steve’s pretty much a brick.” Mia hugs the pillow to her chest. “You know, I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out what’s behind all this violence.”

  “Have you?”

  “I think people’s motivations are pretty basic, you know? Primitive.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s like sex.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She shrugs as though her point is self-evident. “Sex is always there, you know? People act civilized, they go through the motions of public life, but these secret attractions and affairs are always going on. Look at St. Stephen’s—the parents, I mean. How many of them are having affairs with other people’s husbands and wives? Quite a few that I know about. How do those affairs start? With a glance that lingered too long? Bumping into each other in the grocery store? My point is that sexual energy is always there. That desire to be loved and wanted is always looking for a connection. And that’s the secret motivation of a lot of what we see.”

  “You’re right. So?”

  “That’s what’s missing from history, I think.”

  “History? What do you mean?”

  Mia is hugging the pillow hard, but she seems unaware that she’s doing it. “In school we learn about all these events, historical trends, stuff like that. But what we don’t learn—and probably can’t ever know—is the true nature of personalities. I mean we can read biographies—and if we’re lucky, personal letters—but the real interplay between individuals, the chemistry of aggression and submissiveness, pride and shame, sexual attraction—we can’t ever know that. That’s why it was so shocking to the country when they proved that Thomas Jefferson had children by his black slave. Suddenly he was no longer a granite figure on Mount Rushmore. He was just like us, you know? Feet of clay. We tell ourselves that we know everyone is human, but then we act as if we expect something else. We expect our heroes to be immortal. That’s the real problem Drew has now.”

  Mia’s words are almost tumbling over themselves, but her command of the language amazes me. Did I speak this way as a high school senior? I don’t think so. I have a feeling Mia goes through life holding herself in, praying for someone who might be receptive to her thoughts. It strikes me as even stranger that this vocabulary is pouring from the mouth of a beautiful girl. That’s only my prejudice, of course, but I wouldn’t be half so surprised if Mia were a plain girl who sat at home all the time. But she’s the head cheerleader, with a body to make the shallowest high school jock drop his jaw in lust. Kate Townsend shared this quality with her, though Kate was not so conventionally beautiful. It’s not hard to see why Drew was drawn to this unusual combination of qualities.

  “Most people in Natchez thought Drew was the greatest guy they’d ever met,” Mia says. “Now it turns out he was having sex with his babysitter, and they’re so pissed off they’re about to pop. But their anger’s not really about Kate, you know? It’s about them. They feel betrayed. They put him up on a pedestal, and then he committed the crime of being human. So fuck him, right? Never mind that Kate was two weeks shy of eighteen, and on the make for exactly the kind of affair she had with Drew.”

  “So you think Kate was the aggressor?”

  “I’d bet all the money I have on it.” She grins, exposing perfect teeth. “Which isn’t much.”

  “If only Drew could get jurors with your mind-set. But go on. You said you’ve been trying to figure out what’s behind this violence.”

  Mia looks startled. “Oh! Sorry, I went off on a tangent, as usual. Okay, I know this sounds obvious, but I think you should start with the people and move forward, rather than the way cops work.”

  “Which is?”

  “They start with the murder and work backward. Right?”

  “Some of them. Go on.”

  “We’re not just looking for a killer. We’re trying to understand the secret reality of this town. Like Kate and Drew. That was the reality, not Drew and Ellen. You see? If you figure out the true connections, the killer will be obvious.”

  Mia is right. Of course, the best homicide detectives use the exact methodology she’s describing. They’re experts on human psychology, even if they’ve never taken a single psychology course. But I doubt they developed their methods by the age of eighteen.

  “Mia, I think you should think long and hard before you choose a career. Because you need to find something that’s going to make use of all of your
gifts.”

  She stares at me without speaking. Then she blinks as though suddenly coming awake. “It’s time for me to go, isn’t it?”

  I give her an apologetic smile. “I think so.”

  She forces herself to release the pillow, then speaks without looking at me. “Are you in for the night?”

  “Absolutely. I don’t think I can move from this spot.”

  Now her eyes find mine. “You don’t need me to stay and take Annie to school?”

  “No, my eyes will pop open at seven.”

  A skeptical smile. “I left my backpack in the kitchen. I’ll get that, and then I’m gone.”

  “Okay. I can’t thank you enough for staying late. You just did something I didn’t think anyone could do.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, standing.

  “Took my mind off of the Wilsons’ bodies.”

  “Well, I’m glad for that. See you tomorrow.”

  She picks up her paperback and her cell phone, then leaves me alone in the study. I take a deep breath and settle back against the soft cushion. Mia’s theories of history and detective work acted like a tranquilizer on my frayed nerves. Driving home, I feared I would have trouble sleeping tonight, but my only trouble is going to be making it upstairs to my bedroom. The couch is plenty soft enough to sleep on.

  I must have dozed off, because the next thing I feel is strong hands massaging my shoulders. I wouldn’t have allowed Mia to do this if I’d been awake, no matter how good it feels, which—frankly—is pretty damned good. Her fingertips dig expertly into the muscle fibers of my neck, then climb to the base of my skull, slowly easing the pressure on the disks between my cervical vertebrae. I groan involuntarily, and the sound of my pleasure brings me to full alertness.

  “Mia, that feels great, but I can’t let you do that.”

  “Why not?”

  I jerk my head around to find Caitlin staring down at me, looking half amused and half angry. She raises her eyebrows and says, “You were a little slow to tell the babysitter she shouldn’t be rubbing your neck.”

  “I was asleep!” I protest, getting to my feet.

  Caitlin gives me a look of mock suspicion. “Were you?”

  “How the hell did you get here?”

  “Hug first, then talk.”

  I walk around the sofa and crush her body against mine. Only after I sense her having difficulty breathing do I pull back and look at her. No matter how much time I spend with Caitlin, I can’t get accustomed to the luminous green of her eyes. They seem almost incongruous in her face, which is porcelain pale, while her hair is jet black and very fine.

  “Where’s Mia?” I ask.

  “She’s gone home, where she belongs. I slipped through the back door and saw her in the kitchen. She left that way.”

  “That’s some timing.”

  A little color comes into Caitlin’s cheeks. “I watched the two of you from the porch for a little bit.”

  “Spying?”

  “A girl has to protect her investment.”

  I maintain my smile, but the thought that came into my head was, You haven’t invested much in me lately—or in Annie, either.

  “Are you all right?” Caitlin asks. “I know you were at the Wilson scene.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’ve been in touch with my reporters all the way down.”

  I pull her over to the couch and sit beside her. “Down from where? Explain yourself.”

  She laughs at my puzzlement. “I was flying down to Wilmington to see my father. He wanted to talk to me about an acquisition for the chain. Face time, not phone time.”

  Wilmington, North Carolina, is the home base of Caitlin’s father, the owner of one of the fastest-growing and most successful newspaper chains in the South. They’re at eighteen papers and counting. Daddy’s company owns the Cessna jet that allows Caitlin to change her flight destination on a whim.

  “Ann Denny called me after Sonny Cross was shot,” Caitlin goes on. Denny is the editor of the Natchez Examiner, which means she reports directly to Caitlin, who is still technically the publisher, despite her long absences. “I figured you were probably in the middle of whatever was going on here, so I decided, ‘Screw it, let’s turn this plane southwest and go to Mississippi.’ ”

  “Well…I’m glad you did.”

  Her lovely eyes narrow. “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  She gives me a long and searching look. “Then why aren’t you raping me?”

  Her eyes flash invitingly, but I feel no reaction other than anxiety. If I make love with Caitlin now, and then tomorrow vent the feelings that have been building up while she’s gone, she will feel betrayed. Besides, the truth is, I don’t feel like having sex right now. What I most want now is sedation. General anesthesia.

  “You’re upset, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I concede.

  “I heard the Wilson scene was bad. Was it?”

  Even this simple question causes resentment in me. Is she asking me out of curiosity, or out of professional interest? “It was a murder scene.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I know this sounds bad, but I think I need sleep more than anything else.”

  Caitlin shakes her head and smiles. “No, I understand completely. Do you want me to stay here?”

  “Can you stay all night?”

  She seems to steel herself, then says, “I promised Ann I would go over to the paper at two-thirty for a strategy meeting. She’s working through the night.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Penn, that still gives us almost two hours. I can tuck you in and watch you sleep.”

  A year ago I would have loved hearing this. Not now. “I don’t think I’m very good company tonight. I’ll have my resources back in the morning. We can start over then.”

  Caitlin stands. “Okay. I need to air my house out anyway. I’m going to open all the doors and windows and drink a gimlet. Maybe two.”

  “I wish I was up to joining you. Sorry.”

  She looks down at me, silently imploring me for some explanation, but she must already know the truth of the situation.

  “Caitlin…you wouldn’t even be in Natchez if it weren’t for these murders, would you?”

  She bites her lip and thinks this over. “That’s probably true. But I was coming back in two weeks no matter what, and staying for a whole week.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes. Penn, what’s wrong? Please talk to me.”

  “We should talk before we slip back into our old routine.”

  “Let’s talk now.”

  “No. I’m too exhausted. I’ve seen too much tonight. I’m happy to see you, and Annie will be ecstatic. Let’s leave it at that for now.”

  Caitlin starts to reply, then thinks better of it. She steps forward and gives me a soft kiss on the lips, then turns and walks out of the study. She’s never been slow on the uptake.

  One way or another, change is coming.

  Chapter

  25

  The St. Stephen’s high school gymnasium sounds like a Broadway theater before the lights go down. Four hundred students ranging from fifth-graders to the senior classmates of Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel have been crowded into the bleachers on both sides of the gleaming basketball court. Most teachers are sitting with their classes, trying in vain to keep the anticipatory energy under control. About fifty adults from the community—many of them St. Stephen’s parents, but some teachers and coaches from other schools—stand against the wall by the large double entrance doors. Coach Wade Anders, our athletic director, stands by the smaller door to his office, glaring at the loudest of the students to quiet them down.

  A podium has been placed at the center of the tip-off circle, with chairs on both sides of it. In the chairs sit Jan Chancellor; Holden Smith; Dean Herrick, minis
ter of the Presbyterian church Kate attended; Roger Mills, minister of the Methodist church Chris Vogel attended; and Charles Martin, the school chaplain. There’s no chair for Jenny Townsend, Kate’s mother, but she must be here somewhere. Likewise, the Vogel family.

  Jan Chancellor stands and walks to the microphone, a folded piece of paper in her hand. On any other occasion, it would require some effort to obtain quiet, but not today. Today the room goes still as though everyone has suddenly held his breath. Death retains its power to awe.

  “We have gathered here,” Jan says in a strong voice, “to remember two of the most distinguished students ever to attend this school: Kate Townsend and Chris Vogel. Because St. Stephen’s is such a small institution, we are truly a family. And today we all grieve the loss of two family members.”

  As Jan goes on, I realize she is an even better speaker than I thought. She doesn’t distance herself from the kids by being too formal; neither does she condescend to them. She paints a brief picture of each dead student that brings home their special qualities and avoids all mention of the manner in which they died. I suppose that subject will be handled by the ministers winging the podium.

  As Jan introduces Reverend Mills, I find my thoughts drifting away from the proceeding. This gymnasium served as a backdrop for some of the most seminal moments of my life. Several of the royal blue banners hanging from the far wall have my name inscribed in gold upon them, along with the names of boys I knew from the age of four until today. From this tiny town, we sallied forth in a creaking old school bus and claimed state titles in basketball, baseball, football, and track. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of rain thundering on the tin roof as we run line drills during P.E. and basketball practice. We even practiced football on this floor when it rained, barefoot to protect the wood, wearing shorts, shoulder pads, and helmets. On this floor I stole kisses under the eyes of watchful chaperones during school dances, devoured barbecue chicken at athletic banquets, received ribbons on academic awards days, watched school plays, and ran endless sprints as punishments for various infractions. But this is the first time I have come here for a funeral.

  It’s not a funeral really, but a memorial service. The real funerals will begin in less than an hour, in churches downtown. Students from the tenth grade and above will be excused from school to attend them, if they so choose. The rest will sit in class and pretend to work while they wonder what is happening at the funerals.