Natchez Burning

by Greg Iles

  “No—Penn, wait.”

  Gripping the wheel fiercely, I try to rein in my anger. “A man named Glenn Morehouse was murdered near Vidalia tonight. You need to look into that. He was spilling his guts to Henry Sexton, and the Double Eagle group killed him for it. The same reason they killed Viola fourteen hours earlier.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “Talk to Henry Sexton.”

  “I will. But meanwhile, I don’t have control over what Billy Byrd does.”

  “You’re the DA. He’s the sheriff. Muzzle that son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll try, but it’s not going to be easy. If anything goes down in the morning, you call me before you do anything crazy.”

  “I might not have time, Shad. The Examiner has that Web edition now, and Caitlin’s always hungry for a good story.”

  “Penn … please, man. I’m not doing anything that any other DA wouldn’t do.”

  I slam my hand against the wheel, outraged at having to resort to blackmail. “If Sheriff Byrd goes forward with an arrest, you make damn sure he does it late enough that I can post bail immediately. Because if Dad sees the inside of a cell, you’re going to be packing your bags before lunch.”

  “I hear you. But you’re assuming that the judge will grant bail.”

  Fury blazes along every nerve in my body. “The only way Dad won’t get bail is if you argue that the judge should deny it! And if you do that, you know what to expect. Some pictures are worth more than a thousand words, bud. Some are worth a career and a law license.”

  “I’ve told you about the political pressure. I can’t believe you’re threatening me like this.”

  “Karma’s a bitch, Shad.”

  This time he says nothing, and I cut the connection.

  Without noticing, I’ve crossed the apex of the eastbound bridge and started descending toward the cut in the Natchez bluff. A hundred feet below the span, two floating casinos disguised as nineteenth-century steamboats glitter on the black water. A third was put out of commission eight weeks ago, in what would have been the greatest river catastrophe since the Sultana exploded in 1865, had not luck intervened. The refitted casino boat is scheduled to go back into operation eleven weeks from now, and many of our local citizens are waiting anxiously for their paychecks to resume.

  As I pass through the cut, my heart pounds from my exchange with Shad. But rather than dwell on what he said, my mind turns to my session with Henry Sexton, and to action. Glancing down from the highway, I search my phone’s contacts list for Kirk Boisseau.

  Kirk graduated from St. Stephen’s Preparatory School four years ahead of me. After a truncated career in the Marine Corps—a Force Recon unit—he spent several years working as a commercial diver, both in the Mississippi River and the Gulf of Mexico. Kirk owns an earthmoving company now, but he devotes much of his time to kayak racing on the Mississippi River. Guys like Kirk never quite adjust to civilian life, and thus are usually open to pushing the envelope, especially in a good cause.

  “Mayor Cage,” he says by way of answering his cell phone. “Don’t tell me—research question for a novel. Could I really cut somebody’s throat with a Visa card?”

  “Not this time.”

  “You’ve finally found the funding for my white-water park?”

  “Uh … no. Sorry.”

  “Then what the hell are you bothering me for?”

  “Are you in the mood to break the law?”

  There’s a brief pause, during which I hear Susan Werner singing “Barbed Wire Boys” through the phone. Then Kirk says, “What you got in mind?”

  “A little creative trespassing.”

  Kirk grunts. “Sounds mildly interesting.”

  “With some diving at the end of it.”

  “Now I’m getting a chubby.”

  “Are you familiar with the Jericho Hole?”

  “I’ve studied it on maps. That’s private property.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “What you looking for, Penn?”

  “Bones. Human.”

  “A body?”

  “Just the bones.”

  “How old we talking?”

  “Forty years.”

  Kirk gives a skeptical grunt. “That hole was created when a levee crevasse opened up long ago. The river’s probably swept through there several times over the last forty years during flood stage. That would have scoured any bones out of there.”

  “From what I understand, quite a few corpses have been dumped in that hole over the years. But the guys we’re looking for may have been wired to something before they got thrown in. An engine block, for example. They might even be locked inside a car.”

  “Well, that would certainly help.”

  “Do you know how deep that hole really is, Kirk?”

  “No. Maybe forty to sixty feet.”

  “Can you search it for me?”

  “When you need it done?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Why did I ask? I’ve still got my lights and equipment. How close can I take my truck without being detected?”

  “No idea.”

  “Hang on … I’m checking a topo map. I know a crop duster who works that area. He can tell me the lay of the land. Is the property owner the type to shoot first and ask questions later?”

  “Again, no idea. But I’d suggest treating this more as a Force Recon mission than a commercial diving job. This is beyond the call of duty.”

  “You know what I say to that.”

  “What?”

  “Oo-rah, motherfucker! Beats the shit out of pushing dirt all day. Who’s the dead guy?”

  “Two civil rights activists. Vietnam vets.”

  “Even better. Let’s haul those ground-pounders up and make somebody pay.”

  My sense of relief is so strong that laughter almost bubbles out of my chest. “Thanks, Kirk.”

  “Thank me after I’ve found the guy.”

  “Gratitude’s one of my strong suits. You know that.”

  “That I do, Mayor. Look, I’m going to need somebody standing post on the bank while I’m down hole. Do you have time to back me up?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll be spending tomorrow in court, defending my father.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story. Can you get somebody else?”

  “Yeah, my girlfriend can cover it. Just tell me you’ve got my back, legally speaking.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll pay any fines and keep you out of jail, no worries.”

  “Good enough. Hey, if I do find the guy, what exactly do you want me to bring up?”

  “Two or three bones, the bigger the better. I want a DNA match, if possible. I need probable cause for the FBI to come in and drain the whole lake. A bone with barbed wire around it or crushed under an engine block would be fantastic. Photos in situ would be the jackpot.”

  “I read you. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Kirk. Be careful.”

  “Way of life, bro. Out.”

  Turning right on State Street, I press END and head away from the river, wondering whether Shad will really force me to go public with the dogfighting photo.

  As I park by the old carriage step in front of my town house, I feel a powerful urge to talk to my mother. Where our family is concerned, she’s always known all secrets great and small, though she’s carried most in silence. But before I take that irrevocable step, I need to give Dad one more chance to come clean on his own.

  Getting out of my car, I stand in the cold wind blowing up Washington Street and bask in the yellow glow emanating from the first-floor windows of my house. For the past seven years, Caitlin Masters and I have lived in separate houses on opposite sides of this beautiful street. Her Acura is parked in her driveway now, but this living arrangement is soon to change, though not in the way Caitlin expects. I have a breathtaking surprise for her, a wedding present she will not quite believe, and it involves our future home. But today’s events have raised a specter
of uncertainty in that regard, one I’ve not yet decided how to handle.

  As I start up my steps, a big V-8 engine revs loudly, rumbling between the houses. Headlights flash out of the darkness to my left, streaking through the street in front of my house. Washington is a one-way street that runs toward the river, but these lights are shining from the river. Before I can think further, a big white pickup truck blasts out of the line of cars parked beside the Temple B’nai Israel and roars toward me.

  Backpedaling up the steps, I stare into the pickup’s open window, searching for the glint of a gun barrel. To my surprise, the truck screeches to a stop, its diesel engine idling low and heavy, like that of a tank. A dark face hovers in the driver’s window; I can just make out the whites of eyes in its upper half.

  “You the mayor?” asks a voice that’s not quite James Earl Jones deep, but very nearly so.

  “That’s right,” I answer, still wary of an attack.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “I have an office.”

  The lips part enough for me to see yellow-white teeth. “I ain’t gonna hurt you none.”

  “You’re going to hurt somebody, driving like that.” Edging down off the steps, I move warily toward his window. “You’re going the wrong way on a one-way street.”

  “That right?” The man laughs without humor. “Well, I’m new in town.”

  “Where are you from?”

  The eyelids blink once, slowly. “You don’t know who I am?”

  His face is darker than those of many local blacks, and squarer than most, as well. There’s a grayish cast to his skin, or perhaps even a blue tint, but it’s hard to tell by the dashboard lights. He has a strong jaw and nose, but I can’t tell much about his eyes. Up close, the sclera are more yellow than white, giving him a jaundiced look. I’m about to say I don’t recognize the face when I realize I must be looking at Viola’s son—Lincoln Turner.

  “Does this truck have Illinois plates?”

  Lincoln grins. “Give that man a see-gar!”

  “What do you want here?”

  “Your daddy killed my mama,” he says, all humor gone from the bass voice. “I’d say we’re overdue for a meeting.”

  An emotion I’d like to call something else but which is in fact raw fear has scrambled my nerves. I suddenly need to piss—badly.

  “Why are you here at my house?”

  “I wanted to see your face. And to tell you something. There was a time when your daddy could have done what he did to my mama and have nothing happen behind it. But that time’s past. Even in Mississippi.”

  “Are you so certain about what happened to your mother?”

  “My auntie doesn’t lie, Mayor.”

  Turner must be referring to Cora Revels. I consider raising the question of his paternity, but a dark street doesn’t seem like the best place to bring up a gang rape. Better to let Shad broach this subject with Turner.

  “This isn’t the proper venue to discuss these matters, Mr. Turner.”

  He grins again. “A lawyer, even now? Out here?” His voice is taunting. “Are you inviting me into your house? With your fiancée and your little girl?”

  My chest goes tight and his mention of Caitlin and Annie. The subtextual threat is clear. “Maybe another time.”

  As I turn to go, Turner’s voice rumbles in his chest like distant thunder. This must be his version of a chuckle. “Are you going to be defending your father in court?”

  “I’m not a defense attorney, Mr. Turner.”

  “Call me Lincoln.” He revs the big engine twice, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. “That’s not what I asked you,” he reminds me. “I asked, are you gonna be defending him?”

  I turn back and give him a level stare. “I don’t think this case is going to reach a courtroom.”

  The luminous teeth shine again in his dark face. “Oh, yes it will. You can bank on that, my brother.”

  “I was sorry about your mother. I only knew her when I was a boy, but I remember her. I liked and respected her.”

  The teeth vanish. “You didn’t know shit about her.”

  My fear that he might be carrying a weapon returns. “I didn’t mean to presume anything. You have a good evening,” I say absurdly, backing away from the truck.

  I’m already on the sidewalk when he shouts, “All that fancy legal education you got? All those years you spent in the courtroom? They’re not going to help your daddy one bit!”

  We’ll see about that. “Aren’t you an attorney yourself?” I call.

  “Not like you. I didn’t go to a high-dollar law school with a world-class library and scouts from the big firms waiting for the graduates. I went to a night school, the kind ‘real’ lawyers joke about. Until I hand them their asses in court, that is. I’ve been scrapping out a living since the day I was born, Mayor. I’ve seen things white-shoe lawyers like you can’t even imagine. So don’t be thinkin’ we’ve got anything in common. Just remember what I told you: your daddy’s going down—all the way down—like he should have done a long time ago.”

  This guy just lost his mother, I remind myself, but she was terminally ill for nearly a year. His fury is clearly based on a perception of insult much older than that. Could he have some idea that he was likely conceived during his mother’s rape by Mississippi rednecks?

  “What do you really know about my father?” I ask.

  The eyes narrow to slits. “More than you, I’ll bet. I know what my mama knew. Your daddy might have shut her up last night, but I’m still vertical.” Turner thumps his big chest with his fist. “I’m the chicken come home to roost, brother, the cat that got thrown in the river but finds his way back home. I’m the avenging motherfucking angel. A black angel! Men reap what they sow, Mr. Mayor. You’ll find out the details when reaping time comes.”

  “When will that be?”

  The low thunder rolls in his chest again. “When the judge and jury are listening. When all the cameras are switched on, and the lights are shining bright as noontime.” Turner jams his truck into gear with a lurch. “You take care now.”

  The big wheels spin with a scream that makes me shudder, and the truck reverses up Washington Street to the intersection, where Turner executes a stunt maneuver that spins his vehicle 180 degrees. Gunning the engine, he fishtails up Washington, narrowly missing sedans parked on both sides of the crape myrtle–lined street. I stare after the pickup, recalling a night two months ago when a man far more frightening than Lincoln Turner ambushed me on my porch. But fear and danger aren’t always directly proportional. We’re all terrified by rattlesnakes, but the spider we brush off our sleeve with hardly a thought is far more likely to hurt us.

  CHAPTER 26

  HENRY SEXTON’S GIRLFRIEND lived in a leafy neighborhood near the western end of one of the two bridges spanning the Mississippi River from Vidalia, Louisiana, to Natchez. As per Penn’s instructions, Henry had gone straight there and loaded her shotgun, then waited for a retired cop that Penn had hired to pick up Henry’s mother and deliver her to Sherry’s house. He’d told Penn that the two women had never gotten along and never would, but Penn had persuaded him that twelve hours of constant fighting between Sherry and his mother would be preferable to both of them being killed. Of course, Henry had the much harder job of making the women understand what was at stake—without sending them into total panic.

  Sherry cottoned on pretty quick. She’d always insisted that Henry was courting disaster by probing old Klan murders, and she’d often tried to dissuade him from pursuing potentially dangerous leads. His mother, on the other hand, believed that since nothing had happened to Henry up to now, nothing was likely to in the future. The white-haired old lady perched in a club chair in Sherry’s den like a dowager countess being forced to accept the hospitality of a peasant, while Sherry made futile offers of coffee, biscuits, fried chicken, and even banana nut bread.

  “For the life of me,” sniffed Mrs. Sexton, “I don’t see how someone expects to
host anybody without a drop of sherry in the house. No pun intended.”

  Henry announced that he was running over to McDonough’s package store to buy a bottle of Dry Sack, but James Ervin, the heavy-jowled old cop that Penn had hired to watch over them, told him they’d better make do with what they had. After Henry got his mother to accept some Chardonnay, Ervin led him and Sherry into the guest room to give them a quiet refresher course on handling her shotgun. Unlike 98 percent of the boys he’d grown up with, Henry had little experience with guns, but the 12-gauge Ithaca was pretty simple to operate, and after some dry-firing, he felt he could repel an intruder if necessary. The wisest course in that circumstance, Ervin suggested in a kindly voice, would probably be to let Sherry handle the shotgun.

  Once the ladies had settled into an uncomfortable truce, Henry retreated to the kitchen, took out his Moleskine notebook, and pretended to work on an article at the Formica-topped table. The fact was, he could barely keep his thoughts in any kind of order. The knowledge that Glenn Morehouse now lay on a slab in the hospital morgue, after they’d talked intimately only hours ago, was disorienting enough; but to be nearly certain that his interview had triggered the old man’s murder had given Henry a far more visceral appreciation of the dangers of his quest.

  While Sherry guessed answers on a game show in the den, he opened his briefcase and removed an envelope containing several photographs. One was the original photo of Tom Cage with Brody Royal and his cronies in the fishing boat. But another Henry had decided against showing Penn, at the last moment. He slid it out now, keeping one corner under a page in his notebook so that he could easily cover it if someone entered the kitchen.

  This photo showed a blurry image of Henry himself, shot with a telephoto lens as he walked out of the Ferriday Walmart. A rifle scope reticle had been perfectly superimposed over his face, with a bull’s-eye on his forehead. He’d received this photo in the mail, and he’d duly turned it over to the FBI, but the Bureau had been unable to trace it. All they could verify was that it had been mailed from Omaha, Nebraska, which Henry could see from the postmark. What Henry didn’t tell the FBI was that he’d spent the week prior to receiving this threatening photo in New Orleans, investigating the real estate dealings between Brody Royal and Carlos Marcello. The old Mafia boss had died in 1993, long after Alzheimer’s claimed his mind, but the MarYal Corporation still had extensive holdings in New Orleans and South Florida. Throughout his investigations of the Double Eagles, Henry had ignored all threats. But investigating Brody Royal and his ties to the Mafia was apparently different, and something had told him he ought to back off, at least for the time being.