Mississippi Blood

by Greg Iles

  This, I have no facile answer for. “Can you tell me?”

  “I’m afraid not, my young brother.”

  “Do you know?”

  “I do not.”

  “Good God, Quentin. What is he playing at? Is he really on some self-sacrifice trip?”

  “For the last time, Penn . . . I can’t discuss it.”

  “What about change of venue? Surely you can tell me about that. Have you made your motion?”

  Quentin shakes his head.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because Judge Elder let me know in no uncertain terms that he would deny it.”

  “Without even considering it?”

  This earns me a sober nod. “Joe’s being surprisingly difficult. Like backing up Billy Byrd on not letting Tom attend Caitlin’s funeral. If I didn’t know him pretty well, I’d be worried about judicial bias going forward.”

  “So you know Elder?”

  Quentin chuckles. “He’s a black Mississippi judge, ain’t he? Joe worked for me one summer when he was in law school.”

  “Well, surely he’s cut from better cloth than Shad or Billy Byrd.”

  Quentin clucks his tongue. “Joe’s a good boy. We’ll get a better idea of where he stands when he starts ruling on pretrial motions.”

  “But you can’t afford to wait on the change-of-venue motion. You should at least file and make him deny it.”

  “I know that. My problem is my client. Tom actually believes that Natchez is where this case needs to be tried. Natchezians are the people most affected by the case, and he’s content to put his fate in their hands.”

  More suicidal logic. “Then why did you discuss moving the case with Elder at all?”

  Quentin’s eyes harden. “Because I’m worried about Tom’s safety once he’s moved to the Adams County jail.”

  “No shit. That alone ought to be grounds for a change of venue.”

  “Joe Elder promised me Tom would be at no risk while in Billy Byrd’s custody.”

  “He can’t guarantee that!”

  Quentin shrugs, then touches his joystick and spins his wheelchair ninety degrees left. “Listen,” he says, his face in profile, “your father’s gonna be escorted through that door in a minute. You’ve had a lot of experience in the criminal courts. You’ve seen a lot of men and women in jail. Put a lot of them there yourself. But seeing your father in jail is a whole different thing.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, you don’t. This would be like Tom having to operate on you in an emergency. He might think he could handle it, but once he stuck that scalpel into your body, I promise you, his hands would be shaking. This kind of situation hits you in a soft place, where you ain’t ready for it. And I want you to be ready when Tom comes in here.”

  “I can handle it, Quentin.”

  The old man’s eyes soften, but the look in them is not comforting. “It’s not you I’m worried about. I don’t want Tom thinking you’re coming apart because of this situation. While he’s locked in this place, he sees you as the head of his family. And if he’s going to last until the trial, he’s got to know you can hold everybody together. Keep them safe.”

  “He knows that.”

  “Reinforce it.”

  There’s so much gravity in Quentin’s voice that I find myself peering deep into his eyes for some clue to his thoughts. Rather than endure my gaze, the lawyer looks down at the comforter draped over his knees.

  “I had to go see my daddy in jail once,” he says softly. “He was a sharecropper, you remember?”

  This tale has long been a staple of Quentin’s courtroom repertoire, and I’m not sure I have the patience to listen to it today. “I know this story, Q.”

  “Not all of it, you don’t. The landowner claimed Daddy had stole something, so the sheriff jailed him for a month. Bread and water, just like the old saying. The strap, too.” Quentin taps the right arm of the chair with his long fingers. “Seeing Daddy locked in that jailhouse cut me to the bone, Penn. I’ve never felt more helpless than I did then. That’s probably the reason I’m a lawyer today.”

  “Quentin—”

  He reaches out and grabs the sleeve of my jacket. “I know I’ve told that story to juries before—milked it when I had to—but I always held something back.”

  Something in his voice catches my attention. “What’s that?”

  “Daddy didn’t go to jail just once, Penn. And most times, when they took him . . . he was guilty.”

  “What?”

  Quentin nods soberly. “He stole things from the boss man. Pilferage, you know? Some tack here, a hog there. Sharecropping was practically slavery back then. I think it was Daddy’s way of fighting the system—a corrupt, dehumanizing system. Usually they only kept him in the pokey a couple of weeks. But one time they kept him ninety days. We nearly lost everything that year. Truth be told, we damn near starved. Me and my brother couldn’t hardly get the crop in. We ate our animals and our seed corn. You’d think the neighbors would help out, but they had too damn little themselves, and nobody wanted to risk helping somebody who’d upset the boss man.”

  Quentin lets out a bitter chuckle. “Daddy had an attitude, now. Mama was always scared he’d backtalk some gunbull and they’d shoot him. ‘Shot trying to escape.’ You know how it went in those days.”

  I nod. “The Ray Presley solution.”

  “You got it. I was about twelve when he went in that time. I was so mad I wanted to kill somebody, and so scared I wanted to hide in my mama’s skirts. But no matter how I felt, I couldn’t change how things were.”

  There’s a note in his voice that puzzles me. “Why are you telling me this? Are you saying Dad’s guilty?”

  “No, goddamn it.” Quentin glares at me like an impatient father himself. “I’m saying you’ve been doing all you can to keep your distance from your father, and I know why. He’s hurt you. Bad. But when you see him in here, something’s gonna break in you. You’re gonna revert back to Penn Cage, crusader for justice. But boy . . . in this situation, you can’t do anything to save your father. This time, that’s my job. Your job is to give him the strength to get through the month we have until the trial. Can you do that?”

  Because Quentin seems so upset, I give his question some real thought. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how I’ll react until he walks through that door.”

  After a while, Quentin says, “Just leave the past alone. If you still blame your father for Caitlin’s death, you’re way behind Tom himself. It damn near killed him when he heard that girl died.”

  I fold my hands on the scarred table. “Yeah, well. That’s between him and me.”

  Quentin reaches out and catches my sleeve again. “Just remember one thing. We’re all mortal. We all sin. We’re all guilty. That’s why I could never be a prosecutor.”

  “Unlike me, you mean.”

  “Just don’t be too quick to judge, that’s all I’m saying. Or too harsh.”

  He releases my sleeve. “By the way, I want you to know it was me who leaked the DNA test proving Tom’s paternity of Lincoln Turner.”

  A sudden numbness comes into my face.

  “You know why I did that, right?” he asks.

  My answer is automatic, a law student’s reply. “You didn’t want Shad dropping a big revelation on the jury. Goes to motive. If Shad had sprung that during the trial, the effect would have been explosive. You wanted the shock to dissipate during the months of lead-up.”

  Quentin gives me a grateful nod, as if I’ve absolved him. “I know the publicity couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  “I hope you gave Mom some warning, at least.”

  “Tom spoke to Peggy before I let it out.”

  “Small mercy.” Suddenly, I’m almost boiling with exasperation. “Do you two really plan to keep up this closemouthed, blood-brothers act all the way to the trial?”

  Quentin shrugs. “Tom’s my client. I have to be guided by his wishes. If you can change h
is mind, I’m happy to have you on the team.”

  “Screw it. I’m through trying to convince him to do the right thing. Or anything. I’m here because Annie is at risk—end of story.”

  Quentin studies me a few moments with deep sadness in his eyes. Then he says, “I love you, Penn. Don’t ever forget that.”

  He touches the joystick on his chair arm, whirs to the door, and knocks twice on it. A corrections officer opens the door and holds it for him to exit.

  After Quentin disappears, the officer continues holding the door for a tall, emaciated man with white hair and a beard who shuffles unsteadily into the room, his hollow eyes squinting at me.

  My father.

  Chapter 5

  “You’ve lost weight,” my father says, shuffling to the table where I sit. “A lot of weight.”

  “About twenty pounds,” I say awkwardly. “Don’t have any appetite.”

  “Me either.”

  His progress toward me is shockingly slow. The arthritis in his feet must be worsening. Despite aging rapidly over the past few years, due to various comorbid conditions, my father has always projected a deep vitality that patients sensed and drew on for comfort. But now he seems shrunken, gray and desiccated, like a monk emerging from a solitary cell, unused to human contact.

  “Jewel Washington’s been bringing me casseroles about every other day,” I tell him. “Melba, too. Annie and Mia and the security team have been living off them.”

  “At least the food’s not going to waste. Jewel and Melba are good women.”

  He grips the back of the empty chair with his clawlike right hand, then slowly lowers himself toward the seat. With ten inches to go, his knees give out and he drops into the chair with an explosive grunt.

  “A lot has happened since we last saw each other,” he says.

  “There’s no need to get into all that.”

  His eyes find mine and peer deeply into me. “Maybe not. But I want you to know something about Caitlin.”

  I hold up my hand in the universal sign for STOP. I cannot bear to talk about Caitlin’s death with my father.

  “Son,” he goes on, “I need you to know I did everything I could to save her. I had no instruments, my hands were cuffed, but still we came close, working together. Caitlin did things some soldiers couldn’t have done—”

  “I know all that,” I cut in, my voice cracking. “Look—I’m sure you did everything you could. But that’s not the point, okay? She shouldn’t have been there in the first place. It was the choices you made early on—refusing to speak about Viola’s death, jumping bail—that’s what killed Caitlin. Not failing to drain her goddamn pericardium.”

  Dad stares back at me, his mouth and chin quivering. “All right,” he says finally. “You’re right. But no matter how you feel about me, we have to talk. For the family’s sake.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Yes. And I’m glad. Also surprised.”

  “Snake Knox sent you a message. Through me.”

  “John Kaiser told me that. But he said you never got the message.”

  “Huh.” I give Dad a subtle wink. “He must have forgotten.”

  Dad blinks slowly, then motions for me to come closer and whisper. Leaning forward, I tell him exactly what I told Quentin.

  Dad looks perplexed by the words. “Wives and children?” he echoes. “No immunity?”

  “That’s what the biker said. And he seemed especially concerned that I get the exact words. I figured you might get more out of the message than a simple warning.”

  “No. That’s what it sounds like to me. A threat.”

  “Yeah. Except when did the Double Eagles ever shy away from hurting wives? They raped and beat women as a standard tactic.”

  “Black women,” Dad says. “Maybe that’s the difference. He’s talking about our wives. White women.”

  I watch him in silence for several seconds. “Maybe.”

  “What did you and Quentin talk about?” he asks.

  The change of subject irritates me. “Not his damn trial strategy, that’s for sure.”

  Dad makes a sound of contempt. “Don’t worry about the trial. The trial isn’t important.”

  This statement is so patently absurd that it takes me a few seconds to respond. “If you’re convicted, you will die in the Parchman penitentiary. How is that not important?”

  My father winces, then begins scratching at a scaly patch of psoriasis on his arm.

  “Penn, what if the charges against me were dismissed today? What would that accomplish?”

  “You’d be free.”

  “True enough. But as long as Snake Knox is breathing and roaming loose, we live under threat. All of us.”

  “Why is that, Dad? Because you and Viola killed his brother?”

  For the first time, he looks surprised.

  “Yes, I know about that. Caitlin mentioned it in the phone recording she left behind at the Bone Tree.”

  He sighs, then shakes his head. “Snake doesn’t know about Frank. He couldn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Because if he did, he wouldn’t have simply left me at the Bone Tree to die. He would have put a bullet in me. Or worse. Torture is his specialty, remember.”

  Dad’s mention of the Bone Tree forces me to think of Caitlin’s last hour on earth. “Then why does Snake want you dead?”

  “I don’t know. He’s afraid of me, for some reason.” Dad jabs a crooked finger at me. “But you’re a target, too. Don’t forget that. You killed Forrest Knox. And Snake knows that. That means anybody and everybody you hold dear is in Snake’s sights. Annie, Peggy, Jenny—even Mia Burke.”

  “Wives and children don’t have immunity,” I murmur.

  “Exactly. God, I wish Daniel Kelly were still around. You know what he would call Snake. Remember?”

  “A one-bullet problem.”

  “Damn right. Kelly’s still MIA in Afghanistan?”

  “Presumed dead.”

  “That is a tragedy on so many levels.”

  A thought from a dark place rises to the surface. “Since we’re talking about this kind of extremity . . . what about Walt Garrity?”

  A pensive look comes over Dad’s face. “On the morning of Caitlin’s funeral, I told Walt the time had come to kill Snake. I was certain that was our only option. Walt agreed, in principle, but he said he couldn’t risk the rest of his life to do it. I understood. He loves that Mexican wife of his, and he’s only been with her a little while.”

  My father’s eyes brighten a little. “That’s one reason I turned myself in. I half hoped that when I showed up at Henry’s funeral, Snake would raise his head and take a shot at me, and Kaiser and his team might get him. But Snake was too smart for that.”

  “He’s no fool. Snake had an old Double Eagle murdered after planting a ton of evidence in his house. Framed him for knocking down that FBI jet.”

  “I know. Silas Groom. He was one of my first patients in Natchez.”

  “Snake killed about a dozen birds with that stone. Now every other Eagle is scared to death of meeting the same fate.”

  Dad chews his bottom lip as though silently trying to work out a problem. “I’ve been over everything I ever knew about those bastards,” he says, “all the way back to my days as company physician for Triton Battery. Partly for Kaiser and the Bureau, but also for myself. I remembered one case I’d forgotten, a young woman from Athens Point. She was raped by some white men down in the Lusahatcha Swamp in the midsixties. They killed her husband in front of her. Lynched him. It was a terrible case, but it got very little attention. The young wife never really recovered. Her mother-in-law brought her to me for help, but I couldn’t break through her depression. Eventually, she left town and committed suicide. I always felt like the Double Eagles had been behind that. They had a strong presence in Lusahatcha County, even back then.”

  “Shit. When did this happen, exactly?”

  “Oh, 1965 or ’66. But I
can’t even remember the mother-in-law’s name. They wanted it kept quiet. They were afraid of retaliation, and rightfully so. All the law down there was Klan back then. Even now, I think the sheriff is in with the Knoxes. Or was, anyway.”

  “Billy Ray Ellis,” I mutter in agreement. “So, what are you thinking? You want me to kill Snake Knox?”

  Dad gives me a tired smile. “Hell, no. I wouldn’t ask that of you. What I would like you to do is go back over Henry Sexton’s footsteps. Go see the old Double Eagles—and not just them. Go see their wives, ex-wives, their children. Talk to them—really talk. If you’ll do that, I believe you’ll end up convincing one of them to testify against Snake.”

  His suggestion has stunned me. “Testify in open court? You’ve got to be kidding. The FBI has been working that angle all along.”

  “You’re not the FBI. You’re my son.”

  “Do you think that grants me some kind of superpower? These aren’t grateful black patients, Dad. These are pissed-off, defiant old rednecks.”

  Dad’s eyes flicker with conviction, even excitement. “I believe you can do it. You’ve got a gift with people.”

  “Hell, you couldn’t even do it! You got up at Henry Sexton’s funeral and asked everyone in the community to break their silence and tell what they knew about the Double Eagles. But nobody has come forward. Have they?”

  “They’re afraid, Penn. And rightly so. Afraid for their wives, their children, afraid for themselves. But they can be turned. I treated most of those people at one time or another. They’re human beings. They have consciences. And they have vulnerabilities, just like we do.”

  His request has jarred something deep within me. “Why do you want me to do this? Seriously. It’s a fool’s errand.”

  “I don’t believe that. It will be dangerous, though. I’ve heard you’re wearing a bulletproof vest when you go out, and that’s good. But you should take a bodyguard everywhere you go. Don’t relax your vigilance for even one second.”