by Greg Iles
“Look over there,” Lincoln says, pointing across a mile of open water at Natchez Under-the-Hill, and the great bluff above it. “Looks like a storybook, doesn’t it? The big antebellum mansions on the hill and the bars below, the lumber mill south of town and the Victorian palaces to the north. The cemetery and the Devil’s Punchbowl beyond them. But just a few streets back from all that, there are houses with holes as big as car tires in the floor. Shotgun shacks that look like they’re in some third-world country. And you’re the mayor of all that. How does that make you feel?”
“Tired. What’s your proposition, Lincoln? What are you selling?”
“I’ll let my product speak for itself.”
He reaches out one big hand and presses a button near the center of the dash. The truck’s cab fills with hissing static. Then I hear an old woman’s voice, cracked and reedy.
“I ain’t scared of you two,” Viola says. “You want to do what you done before, go ahead. I’ll bet you can’t do it anymore, anyway. You’re too old, like me.”
“You don’t want to test us,” says a strangely familiar male voice. “I promise you that.”
“I ain’t scared of you, Snake Knox. Or you either, Mr. Sonny Thornfield. That’s right, I recognize the both of you. I can call you by name. And I will, any time I feel like it. Your kind don’t rule this world anymore, not even down here in Mississippi.”
“You keep talking to that reporter,” growls Sonny, “you’ll find out what we can do around here.”
“Any damn thing we want,” says Snake. “Same as it always was.”
“I talk to who I please,” Viola says bravely, but then she coughs herself into a fit that lasts half a minute. Lincoln’s eyes probe mine as I wait for the voices to resume, but I give him nothing. “You’ll have to kill me to stop me from telling what I know,” Viola goes on, “and you can’t do worse to me than God’s doing already. I’m getting my punishment. I only wish I’d live to see you get yours. There’s a fearsome reckoning coming for you two. Yes, Lord.”
“Listen here, nigger,” says Snake. “You can die easy or you can die hard, like your brother.”
“Don’t call me that, scum. That’s not even a word. You show me where it says ‘nigger’ in the Bible.”
Viola starts to wheeze, and both men laugh. “What if I just come over there and pinch that oxygen hose shut?” Snake asks. “Probably wouldn’t take more’n a minute to shut off the lights, shape you’re in. Your days of jawin’ with liberal reporters would be over.”
“Go on, if you want another stain on your soul. Do it. That’s the only way you’re going to shut me up.”
“Just keep on,” Sonny says, sounding like a nervous grade-school bully, “and one of these nights, we will.”
I don’t realize how hypnotized I am until Lincoln ejects the tape with a mechanical click and whir. I grab for the tape, but by the time my fingers jam against the empty slot, Lincoln is holding the old-style cassette outside his open window, smiling with confidence.
“I’m waiting,” he says.
“For what?”
“Your offer.”
Acid has flooded my stomach. “That’s evidence, goddamn it. You’re obligated to give that to the police.”
Lincoln belly laughs at this. “Is that your considered legal opinion, Mr. Mayor? That redneck sheriff you got over in Natchez might just misplace something like this. He’d love to see your daddy go down for killing my mother.”
“He’s your father, too.”
As the words leave my lips, Lincoln’s face lightens a shade—his blood is draining from it.
“Where did you get that tape?” I ask. “Who made it?”
“You heard Henry Sexton’s mother. Henry left Mama an audio recorder a week before he set up that video camera. He wanted her to put down her memories of the 1960s, and especially anything she remembered about her brother, Jimmy. She had it in the bed with her when them two come in. She just hit the button and taped what they said.”
This I can believe. “Okay. What do you want for it?”
“Look in the glove box.”
I do. Lying atop the truck’s owner’s manual is a white notecard. Typed on the card is a series of numbers and the name of a bank: Cayman West Holdings, Limited.
“I’m going to check the balance of that account in one hour,” Lincoln says, looking out over the river. “And if I feel happy after the call, the tape you just heard will turn up in time to be used as evidence in the trial. If I’m not happy—”
Lincoln flicks his wrist, and the cassette goes sailing out over the brown water of the Mississippi. It stays afloat, swirling gently, but it’s moving south fast. “Just a copy, of course. What you’re paying for is the original.”
“Goddamn it,” I mutter. “If you’ve had that tape all along, why are you pushing to have your own father convicted?”
“Is that a trick question?”
When I don’t reply, Lincoln sighs and looks into his lap. “That tape doesn’t prove he’s innocent. Not by a long shot. Not to me, and probably not to a lot of jurors. But does it sound like reasonable doubt? I’d say so. You need to decide what that’s worth, and you don’t have much time.”
Staring through the windshield, I can no longer discern the tape on the water rolling southward. Without further discussion, Lincoln cranks the truck, backs carefully up the boat ramp, then executes a three-point turn and drives over the levee. Soon we’re on the westbound bridge, and as we follow its arc over the river, I finally ask the question he wants to hear.
“What’s the magic number?”
He lets the truck roll all the way down to the Mississippi shore before answering. The tires thunk onto asphalt with good dirt under it, and Lincoln switches the heater on full blast, fogging the lower half of the windshield. While I watch in confusion, he reaches out and writes some numbers in the moisture on the glass. Leaning sideways to change the angle of the light, I see a one followed by six zeros.
A million dollars? For that tape?
The empty feeling in the pit of my belly tells me how serious he is. I already put fifty thousand dollars into the grubby little hands of Nita Devine this morning—or the hands of her sister—through my friend Kirk Boisseau. Lincoln’s request proves just how bush league the Devines are when it comes to larceny.
“One hour,” Lincoln says, driving past the Natchez Welcome Center and pulling into the turn lane for Canal Street.
“That’s impossible,” I tell him, switching off the heater. “Even if the answer was yes.”
“Don’t insult me. I know you’ve got the money.”
He turns left, heading back into the heart of downtown.
“Did you have someone call in that bomb threat so you could make this offer?”
He chuckles softly. “Don’t get paranoid, man.”
“You’re the one who’s scared. Quentin Avery is about to crawl right up your ass, isn’t he? You can feel him warming up the proctoscope, and you don’t like it. That’s why you’re going to plan B. You want to split town with a sackful of money. What’s he got on you? Did you really destroy a second will?”
“That’s got nothing to do with the price of freedom in Mississippi, brother.” Lincoln rolls right past the turn for the jail and the courthouse, but he speaks before I can question his driving. “Look at it this way, Mayor. If Daddy was lying in an intensive care unit, about to die—”
“Last October, he was.”
“Okay, so think about that. If he was lying in the ICU, and a doctor told you he could save his life for one million dollars, would you pay it?” Lincoln turns to me with his eyebrows raised.
I don’t answer.
“’Course you would. Even if he only had another few months to live, you’d pay it. What’s six months with your father worth? His last six months on earth? But that’s not even the bottom question. The bottom question is, what would those months be like with him behind bars? And how many months would he lose by being there? I w
atched Junius Jelks get old in jail, and it happens fast. He was in and out several times, but he aged three years for every year he spent inside.”
“I know what prison does to people. I’ve put enough people there.”
“I guess you have, at that.”
“Do you have any other tapes?”
“I told you that was a copy.”
“No, I’m talking about videotapes.”
Lincoln looks puzzled. “Ain’t no other tapes, man. Big Daddy had the one Mama made Sexton in that Texas Ranger’s van. He erased it. And he fried the other one in that MRI machine. The one they found in the Dumpster.” Lincoln laughs softly. “I never said he was stupid.”
The truck suddenly veers right and stops beside the curb on Main Street.
“Why are you dropping me here? I need to get back to City Hall.”
Lincoln smiles. “This is your bank, isn’t it?”
“Jesus. I need to talk to Quentin first. And to Dad.”
“You don’t have time for that. This is one of those decisions you make yourself. Don’t call my cell, because I won’t answer. Don’t try to discuss this in person or via any type of media. There won’t be any sting operation. This conversation never happened, and we’re never discussing it again. Either the money is there in an hour, or it’s not. After that, I destroy the original and we all take our chances with the jury.”
I look at my watch. “A million dollars in an hour? That’s impossible.”
“For you, maybe. Not for you and your mama. Tell her to crack open that retirement account.”
You son of a bitch, I curse silently.
I open the door and slide one foot down to the concrete. “If you get your money, how soon will that audiotape be miraculously discovered?”
“Immediately. I’ll take it to Shad myself and tell him I just found it hidden in Mama’s house.” Lincoln’s eyes glint with a con man’s infectious excitement. “Reasonable doubt on a silver platter, my brother.”
“Shad won’t thank you for it.”
Lincoln’s expression goes sour. “Fuck that negro. Now get out of my truck.”
As soon as I close the door, he leans over and raps on the window. Then he lowers it and says, “If court resumes before the money’s been transferred, old Quentin better steer well clear of the track he’s been on.”
This is his confession: Quentin has him by the balls, and he senses a knife is being sharpened.
“You know, I’ve actually felt sorry for you during this whole process. But I see now that you’ve got no honor at all.”
“You don’t see shit,” Lincoln grumbles. “And you don’t know shit. Especially about me. And you never will.”
“I know you’d tell any lie in the world to get money and revenge. I don’t care what the DNA test said . . . you’re not my father’s son.”
His white teeth slowly disappear, and his eyes take on a lethal cast. “That’s where you’re dead wrong. I’m his true son—not you. You’re what he wishes he could have been. That’s one thing you’ll learn for sure before I leave this town.” Lincoln laughs with harsh pleasure, then yanks the gearshift. “Nice doing business with you, Mayor.”
As his truck rumbles away, I enter the bank, count to ten, then exit onto Commerce Street and sprint toward City Hall.
Chapter 53
By the time I reach City Hall, I’ve learned from Doris Avery that she and Quentin are back down at Edelweiss. With the traffic around the courthouse still snarled from TV trucks, I decide to run the five blocks to the river. I draw a lot of looks from people on the street; they’re not used to seeing their mayor pound the pavement in a sport coat and tie. But then most of them remember that my father is on trial for murder and figure it must make sense at some level.
I’m soaked with sweat when I near the back of the chalet, approaching it from Washington Street, just as I did two days ago. Once again I trot through my neighbor’s backyard and steal through the rear gate of the fence that borders my property.
Looking up, I cry out in surprise and nearly collide with a man trying to exit through the same gate. At first I assume it’s a trespassing reporter, but then I see that it’s John Kaiser. Kaiser looks at me rather sheepishly, an expression I’ve never seen on his face.
“John? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I needed to talk to Avery.”
Kaiser talking to Quentin? “What about? Will Devine?”
“I can’t tell you. And you know I don’t say that easily.”
I take hold of his upper arm. “You’re kidding, right? This case means my father’s life. What would you hold back from me?”
The pain in his eyes is clear, but so is his commitment to silence. “I’m sorry, Penn. All I can tell you is talk to Quentin.”
“He’s not going to tell me anything. Look, the Devines promised me they would testify for Dad. Are they going to come through on that?”
His face tightens again. “I’m working to make that happen.”
“Have you got the plea deal signed or not? Is the U.S. attorney cooperating?”
Kaiser closes his eyes as though wrestling with a desire to come clean. When he opens them, though, I still see his professional shield in place. “Penn, I want your father to be acquitted. But in the end, I’m here representing the Bureau. That’s all I can tell you right now. I know it sucks, but a lot of things about this job suck. Same as being a prosecutor or a mayor. Now, I need to go. Court’s going to start back up soon.”
“What about the bomb at Judge Elder’s house?”
“A hoax, apparently.”
Again I wonder if Lincoln Turner called in the threat to empty the courtroom and get access to me.
“What are you doing here?” Kaiser asks, suddenly realizing that my being here makes little sense.
For an instant I’m tempted to tell him about Lincoln and the tape, but the impulse passes. “Doris is having a problem with the security system. I promised her I’d come down and fix it.”
After a couple of seconds’ steady gaze, Kaiser grips my shoulder. “Keep the faith, man.”
“Faith? Do we still believe in the same things?”
After a single nod, the FBI agent turns and disappears through the back gate.
“We don’t need his damned tape,” Quentin says with finality. “And certainly not for no million bucks. Jesus. Do you even have that kind of money?”
His wheelchair sits just inside the back door to the kitchen of Edelweiss. A cup of coffee stands on the creamy marble counter behind him, an insulin syringe lying beside it. Doris is upstairs, supposedly taking a shower, though it’s midday.
“Don’t you think you should talk to Dad before you make that decision?” I ask.
“I don’t need to. I know what his answer would be. We’re damn sure not going to break the law to buy anything Lincoln Turner is selling. Under other circumstances, a sting operation might be appealing, but I’m not going to play those games with that boy.”
“You’d better be sure, Quentin. I heard the tape, and I recognized both Sonny Thornfield’s and Snake Knox’s voices. They threatened to kill Viola, and they did it between the time Viola returned to Natchez to die and the day of her death. You should have heard her, man. She taunted those bastards. She practically dared them to kill her. That tape is reasonable doubt on a silver platter, just like Lincoln said.”
“For one million dollars, paid in advance,” Quentin says skeptically.
“The money’s not the point. When you cross-examined Cora Revels, you asked her if any Klansmen or Double Eagles threatened Viola in those last weeks. I’m telling you now that there’s proof. Hard evidence. And you’re blowing me off?”
Quentin at last gives me his full attention. “What guarantee do you have that as soon as Lincoln gets the money, the original tape won’t go into the river, just like the copy did?”
“None.”
“But you’re still willing to pay?”
“I don’t know. A s
ting operation is probably the way to go, but we’d have to put it together fast.”
“They can’t do it in an hour. And Lincoln told you he wouldn’t talk to you anymore. Hell, that tape you saw go into the water was probably the original.”
“No. A guy like that isn’t going to dump his ace in the hole.”
“You have no idea what kind of guy he is. What you do know is that he just made his play. Now he’s at risk, so long as he has that tape.”
“Wrong. If the cops stopped him right now, he could claim he just found the tape. Only when he exchanges it for the money does he commit a crime, and even then, he could say he was just bringing it to me out of a sense of obligation.”
Quentin ponders what I’ve told him.
“We don’t need it,” he says finally. “Lincoln’s already hung himself.”
“How? You scared him, all right, but what’s the other shoe?”
“You’ll find out soon. You just have to trust me until then.”
“How am I supposed to do that? You’ve been giving me the mushroom treatment from the beginning.”
“I’m sorry. You know that wasn’t my choice. Let me just say this: if Lincoln Turner knew what I have, he’d fill that big truck of his with gas and hightail it back to Chicago.”
“Are you talking about Will Devine? I saw Kaiser leaving here.”
The owlish eyes flash. “You talked to him?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Kaiser didn’t tell you anything.”
“No. But you should.”
“I’ll tell you this: you’d be crazy to pay Lincoln Turner a dime. If you want to pay somebody a million dollars for an acquittal, pay me. I’ll guarantee it—even if I have to confess to killing Viola myself.”
Quentin’s grin does nothing to ease my anxiety.
