by Greg Iles
Drew had brought Melba along because Tom’s nurse had demanded that if he heard anything from Tom—especially about needing help—he should call her. Knowing that he couldn’t stay there all night, Drew had done so. Two minutes after crossing the westbound bridge over the Mississippi River—driving in tandem—Melba had noticed a Louisiana State Police cruiser thirty yards behind him, so she’d texted a warning. To test for surveillance, Drew had gone to the Mercy Hospital first to check on Henry Sexton. After that visit, they’d seen no sign of the patrol car, and so had proceeded to the lake house.
“Thanks, Drew,” Tom said, forcing a smile. “It feels a lot better already.”
“That’s just the local, you know that. Once the lidocaine wears off, it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch. And I don’t want you hitting that Lorcet too hard.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Walt. “I took his bottle.”
Drew smiled. “Good. Tom’s bad about self-prescribing.” He leaned over his senior partner. “You know, with your heart the way it is, you really should be in the ICU at St. Catherine’s.”
Tom shook his head. “They’d put me in the county jail.”
“Not if they don’t know you’ve skipped,” Walt said.
“And not with your pericardium filling with fluid,” Drew added.
“We’re talking about Shad Johnson and Billy Byrd,” Tom said. “Shad’s going to get my bail revoked as soon as he can.”
Drew looked troubled. “I think Penn is more than enough lawyer to arrange for you to be held in the ICU while he sorts this mess out.”
When Tom shook his head and protested that he’d brought plenty of diuretics with him, Drew raised his hands in surrender. “All right. But if you develop serious complications over here—or God forbid, have a fatal MI—Penn and Peggy will never forgive me. I didn’t save your life two months ago to have you die in my lake house.”
“You didn’t save my life.” Tom winked at his nurse. “Melba did. You just plugged up that defib unit and shocked me back into rhythm. It was Melba barging into my bathroom and finding me on the floor that saved me.”
Drew laughed, and Melba’s eyes shone with pride.
“I don’t guess you want to tell me why you skipped bail,” Drew said with sudden seriousness.
“You’re better off not knowing.”
“I don’t believe you murdered anybody, Tom. So I’m not worried about getting in trouble for helping you.”
“Don’t be naïve.”
“Hell, I’m already aiding and abetting now, right?”
Walt nodded, and Melba looked worried.
“I wish I could tell you more,” Tom said.
“More? You haven’t told me anything yet.”
Tom tried to think of a way to make Drew understand the stakes. “Do you remember when you had your back against the wall a few years ago?” Tom asked. “Shad Johnson had locked your ass up, and nobody believed a word you said.”
At last his words had penetrated Drew’s good humor. The smile had vanished as though it never existed. “I’ll never forget it.”
“Did you tell anybody everything? Even Penn?”
Drew sighed heavily. “No. But I should have. And even though I held back on him, he’s the one who got me out of trouble.”
“Penn can’t get me out of this. You have to trust me on that.”
“I guess I have to. It’s your life, after all.”
“Doc?” Melba said gently. “Are you feeling all right? You look clammy.”
Tom forced a smile. “I don’t think Drew’s going to have a hissy fit if you call me Tom, Melba.”
The nurse gave a self-conscious smile. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Do you two want me and Captain Garrity to give you some privacy?” Drew asked, carrying his bloody instruments to the sink.
“I’ll wash those, Dr. Elliott,” Melba said, quickly moving after him.
“No, you won’t. You keep our patient comfortable.”
Melba came back to Tom’s side.
Drew ran water into the sink and waited for it to get hot. “Did you tell him about Mrs. Nolan?”
“Pithy?” asked Tom, suddenly worried. “Has something happened to her?”
“No,” said Melba. “Penn asked me to go by her house and give her a steroid shot. I got Dr. Elliott to prescribe it.”
Tom knitted his brow. “How the hell did Penn know I missed that house call?”
“He went by there to talk to Pithy,” Melba explained.
“About what?”
The nurse shrugged. “He didn’t tell me. And Miss Pithy didn’t, either. She’s sure worried about you, though.”
Walt looked down at Tom and shook his head. “That’s a big club.”
“I appreciate you coming tonight, Mel,” Tom said. “But you need to get on back to Natchez.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Dr. Elliott, leave those things in the sink and go home. Your family needs you.”
Drew nodded, drying his hands. “Will you be at the office tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. Let’s wait and see how our patient does.”
Drew picked up his black bag in preparation for leaving, then looked at Walt. “If you guys absolutely have to drive somewhere, don’t drag Melba into it. You can ‘steal’ the old truck parked down by my pier. The keys are on top of the bathroom medicine cabinet.”
Tom saluted his partner with gratitude. Drew chuckled, started to leave, then walked back to the sofa and looked down at Tom with sadness in his eyes.
“Call Penn, Tom. Nobody in the world will work harder to get you out of whatever trouble you’re in. Your son is your best hope. You know that.”
“He may be, Drew. But I can’t call him. Not this time.”
The young doctor’s face remained hard. “You could die. Right here in my lake house. What do I tell Peggy, if you do? What do I tell Penn?”
Tom looked over at Walt, then back up at Drew, his eyes suddenly wet. “If that happens … tell them I was protecting our family. They may not understand it right away. Penn might never understand. But that’s what you tell him. One day I think he’ll figure it out. Now … get going, before the cops show up and arrest you.”
Drew stared down at his mentor for a few moments longer; then he snapped his head up, walked to the door, and left his house without looking back.
Tom looked up at Walt, his eyes blurred with tears. “I’m tired, buddy. And I’m so sorry I got you into this.”
Walt sat beside Tom, then laid a hand on his forehead with the gentleness he’d always displayed as a combat medic.
“Get some rest, soldier. Tomorrow’s another day.”
CHAPTER 56
SIX BLOCKS FROM my house on Washington Street, ten blocks from the Natchez Examiner, and two hundred feet above the Mississippi River, I kiss my daughter’s sleeping face, then roll carefully out of the bed and move to the central staircase. This house, this unexpected sanctuary, is called Edelweiss. I bought the place two months ago as a surprise wedding present for Caitlin, and I’ve had contractors working practically around the clock to get it ready by the date of our wedding. Three stories high and covered with gingerbread, this authentic German chalet was built on the edge of the Natchez bluff in 1883. You can see fourteen miles of river from its wraparound gallery, and more from its third-floor windows. Rumors have swirled for weeks about the possible new owner: some wags say it’s a Hollywood actor who wants to remain anonymous; others claim the owner of one of the casino boats beneath the bluff bought it as a weekend retreat from Las Vegas. Had Viola not been murdered two days ago, the truth would have been revealed two Saturdays hence, when the horse and carriage leaving the gazebo on the bluff carried Caitlin and me only a hundred yards to the steps of our new home. Now it’s become a safe house in the middle of a town where almost every citizen knows my face.
At the bottom of the stairs, I turn and go into the kitchen, where my mother waits, her face haggard with exhaustio
n and guilt. Peggy Cage is remarkably beautiful for a woman of seventy-one, but the past two days have taken a toll, and for once she looks her age. Sitting on the stool beside her, I lay my right hand over hers.
“Annie’s finally asleep. Mom, you’ve got to tell me what’s happening.”
She nods, but her expression doesn’t inspire much hope.
“I simply can’t believe Dad would leave you without some way of reaching him.”
“But he did, Penn.” Her eyes look sincere, but I’ve had so little experience of deception in my mother, how would I recognize it? “I don’t think Tom wanted me to be in a position where I would have to lie to the police.”
I give her a few seconds’ grace. “Still. I don’t believe he’d leave you to face all this alone.”
She turns her hand over and squeezes mine. “But I’m not alone. You’re here. Tom knew that he could count on you to take care of me.”
“The last time you saw him was midday today?”
“Yes. An hour after I drove him home from the hearing, he drove himself to the office. I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“Did he say anything when he left?”
“No more than usual. But there was something in his face that told me he wasn’t coming back. Not for a while, anyway.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him?”
She gives me a look that says, Are you serious? “You know your father.”
I nod. “I thought I did. After these past two days, I’m not so sure.”
“Oh, hush. This is going to come out all right. You’ll see.”
Is she really that naïve? “Mom … I don’t want you to panic, but you have to know how things stand. Now that Dad has jumped bail on a murder charge, any cop can shoot him down with impunity and say he resisted arrest. I suspect that Sheriff Byrd and some Louisiana State Police officials will quietly give orders to do just that, once they know he’s gone.”
At last I see fear in her eyes.
“If Dad contacts you in any way, you’ve got to do everything in your power to persuade him to come home.”
“I realize that.”
As her voice finally cracks, I voice one of my deepest fears. “Dad’s not running for real, is he? I mean, leaving the country.”
She looks up at the ceiling and blinks back tears. “You know better than that. Tom’s never run from anything in his life. Judge Noyes said as much from the bench yesterday.”
“So what the hell is he doing?”
“Keep your voice down. Remember Annie.”
“You’d tell me if he was setting up house for you guys in Brazil or something, right?”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She flips her free hand as she might at any absurdity. “We’re not leaving our home because some ambitious DA has got it into his head to put Tom in jail. I can’t pretend I understand all this. I just have to have faith that what Tom’s doing is necessary.”
“Mom, don’t you think the time for blind faith has passed? Dad’s not only risking his own life. Good people are getting hurt. Henry Sexton may die. You and Annie are scared to death. I think we’re safe here for the time being, but I honestly don’t know. And Dad’s leaving us hanging out here without one word of explanation!”
She wipes her cheeks, then takes both my hands in hers. “I’ve been married to your father for fifty-three years,” she says in a voice edged with iron. “Tom has always done right by this family, and I’m not going to start second-guessing him now.”
Has he? I ask silently. Has he always done right by us? But I won’t force my mother to the edge of her faith, where a black maw of disillusionment must surely await. Not at this hour. I may have the strength to choose the truth over my father, but after fifty-three years, perhaps my mother must choose her husband over the truth. At least tonight.
“Where should I sleep?” she asks.
“There’s a twin bed in the room that connects to the master suite upstairs, where Annie is. You take that.”
“Where will you be?”
“Down here. I’ve got a lot to think about before tomorrow.”
My mother slips off the stool, gives me a long hug, then pads into the hall. Soon I hear the stairs creaking.
Alone in the kitchen, I open a Corona Extra and sit at the counter, wondering what in God’s name my father thinks he’s playing at. If Billy Byrd or Forrest Knox finds out that he’s jumped bail, he might not live until John Kaiser and the FBI reach Natchez tomorrow. Even if he does, I can’t be sure Kaiser will agree to protect him. By making himself a fugitive, Dad has placed himself outside the pale of the law.
Forcing this insanity from my mind, I remind myself that all I can do in the short run is prove that someone else killed Viola Turner. Putting pressure on Brody Royal and the Double Eagles seems the best way to do that, since they almost certainly planned and executed that crime. And if Walker Dennis can get a warrant to tap Royal’s telephones, then all I need to do is find a way to “shake the tree” of Brody Royal.
Last night, Henry Sexton gave me a lot of detail about 1960s-vintage Double Eagle murders and plots, but I don’t think those would worry Royal much. Too many witnesses have died in the decades since. But the nightmare Glenn Morehouse recounted about the murder of the two female whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance is another matter. Royal’s son-in-law, Randall Regan, is obviously as sadistic a killer as any Double Eagle from the Jim Crow era. And an investigation that threatens not only the existence of one of Royal’s companies, but also Brody himself, would be something Royal simply couldn’t ignore. With the horrific details Morehouse gave Henry, I ought to be able to scare the living hell out of Randall Regan, and by extension, Brody himself. I’ll just have to make sure that when I do, neither man is in a position to make me suffer for it.
CHAPTER 57
BRODY ROYAL HAD not been spoken to in anger by another man in more than twenty years. Claude Devereux had felt something close to panic as Forrest Knox lambasted the old man for authorizing Randall Regan’s abortive attempt to kill Henry Sexton. Claude had watched this confrontation from a club chair in the rear corner of Royal’s study, while Forrest stood before Brody’s desk, speaking with the cold fury of a field officer reprimanding a deskbound general who’d been insulated from battle for too long. Brody weathered the storm like a craggy rock face on a mountainside, making no excuses, saying nothing at all. Randall Regan and Alphonse Ozan stood behind their principals like seconds at a duel, and Claude had the feeling that each was itching to step in and settle the disagreement with knives or worse.
Claude had always known that Frank Knox’s son was tough—Forrest had more than proved himself in Vietnam—but he hadn’t known that the boy possessed his father’s temper. Seeing the state trooper challenge the silver-haired old multimillionaire had shaken Claude deeply. At bottom, he was watching a young wolf whose power was waxing try to establish his supremacy over an older one whose power, while still considerable, was on the wane. But if Forrest Knox believed Brody Royal would be easily dislodged from his alpha position, he wasn’t as astute as Claude believed he was.
Ensconced behind his heavy desk, Brody continued to display a forbearance that Claude had never known he possessed. But with each passing second, Devereux became more certain that this was like the quiet before a hurricane. Brody always kept at least one pistol in his desk drawer, and Claude worried that his old friend might simply shoot Knox out of hand, without even deigning to argue with him. Royal had been raised in a world where that kind of thing was still possible. The Redbone behind Forrest looked like he expected something of the sort; he reminded Claude of a guard dog waiting for an attack command.
“Your real problem,” Forrest went on, “is that you’re acting out of fear. That’s a reflex, Brody, and a stupid one.”
Royal’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time he spoke in answer. “You’re not your daddy, boy,” he said with venom. “Be careful.”
Forrest drew himself to his full hei
ght, then gave himself a few seconds before replying. “You’re right, I’m not. You and Pop were lions in your day. Everybody knows it. But we’re not living in the jungle anymore. You got scared of payback for something you did forty years ago, and you decided the best response was to kill somebody. Worse, you gave the job to this guy”—Forrest pointed at Randall Regan, who instantly went red—“and he fucked it up beyond belief.”
“Nobody knew that fat secretary had a gun,” Regan snapped. “And I want to know where those boys are now. One of ’em was my nephew.”
Forrest gave him a contemptuous look. “Then you shouldn’t have told him to make his own way when he called you for help.”
Before Regan could respond, Forrest stabbed a forefinger at Royal. “Do you sell all your stock when the market starts crashing? No. You buy. This is the same situation. The FBI has had forty years to prove these murders, and they couldn’t do it. They won’t prove ’em this year, either. So, what are you scared of?”
“Guilt,” said Brody, his gray eyes steady in the hawklike face. “Some born-again fool’s conscience. I wanted Sexton questioned properly, not killed in the street. I wanted to know the identity of every Eagle he’s talked to, everything he told Penn Cage last night, and whatever Viola Turner told him before she died. Then I wanted him to disappear. I still do.”
“Guilty consciences are a legitimate worry with old men,” Forrest conceded. “But let me worry about that from now on. You don’t see me trying to run a bank or an agribusiness, do you? Well, shutting people up is one of my specialties. When it has to be done, nobody does it better.”
Ozan chuckled ominously behind his master.
“That doesn’t reassure me,” Brody said. “You’ve let Henry Sexton write whatever he pleased for years now.”
“And what’s come of it? Nothing but talk. Not one prosecution. Not even an arrest.”
“That could change overnight, son.”
Forrest Knox smiled, probably at the idea of being seen as young. Devereux figured he was about fifty-five.
