by Greg Iles
Forrest nodded. “I’m digging into Kaiser right now. I’ve got a funny feeling about him. It may be that even if I do a deal to spare the Cages, Kaiser will need to have an accident. But until I know, you play it my way. Agreed?”
The wild light Billy knew so well flickered in his father’s eyes.
“Deal,” Snake said. Then he went out. Sonny pulled the door shut behind then, and then Billy was alone with Forrest.
Billy had no idea what was coming, but he knew it was serious when Forrest motioned for Ozan to leave the room and refilled Billy’s whiskey glass himself. Forrest poured himself a straight vodka, then turned the big wooden chair around and sat with his legs crossed, his eyes on Billy’s.
“How you doing, William?” he asked.
“Ah, I’m good,” Billy almost stammered.
“Do you think I was too rough on your old man?”
Fuck yeah, Billy thought. But in his calmest voice he said, “Nah, I get it. It ain’t easy keeping him calm, and we damn sure got enough heat on us already.”
“That’s right. And for that reason, I need to make sure you and I are on the same page.”
Billy’s eyes strayed to the windows that faced the deck. He worried about his father and Sonny trying to eavesdrop.
“Alphonse will make sure nobody hears us,” Forrest said. “Here’s the deal, Billy. I told them the truth. I’m moving up to the next level, where the kind of money and power your father never dreamed about is everywhere. There’s room at that table for you, brother, right next to me. You’ve done a good job of straddling the line between the legitimate and criminal worlds. And you’re good with money, especially cleaning it.”
Billy swelled with pride. His cousin never gave compliments.
“At the same time, thanks to the actions of . . . the past generation, we’re in more danger than we’ve ever faced. I told the truth about the drug business, too. It only ends one of two places, prison or the cemetery.”
Billy took a gulp of bourbon. He’d served time in Raiford Penitentiary in Florida, and the term “prison rape” was not academic to him. He hadn’t watched a prison movie since.
“In some ways,” Forrest went on, “we’re our father’s sons, you and me. We got some good qualities from them. But they had some bad ones, too. Your father’s is his temper. Agreed?”
Billy nodded soberly.
“We can’t let that temper put us at risk, William.”
Billy shook his head. What else could he do?
Forrest leaned toward him, and Billy felt as though the temperature in the room had risen five degrees. “I’m going to do all I can to keep us all out of prison,” Forrest said. “But it’s not a perfect world. The day may come when we have to make a choice, you and me. Between our father’s generation and ours. You understand?”
Billy felt the blood drain from his face. This was the point of the whole conversation. “I do, yeah.”
Forrest let the silence stretch until Billy felt he could hear himself sweating. Then he said, “I need to know that if that day comes, you’ll be ready to cut loose anybody who’s a liability. And that includes your father.”
Billy could no longer speak. It was all he could do not to start shivering on the spot.
“I know that’s a tough thing to contemplate,” Forrest said. “But we may face that choice a lot sooner than we’d like.”
Billy tried to think of something appropriate to say, but his mind had gone blank with fear. Forrest seemed to understand this, and he said, “One more thing. If things should go tits up, we might have to pull the ripcord on our escape chute. We need to make sure our Andorra option is ready to go. Do you feel everything’s good on that front?”
“Absolutely,” Billy said, thankful for the reprieve.
“Good. Well, what about that choice I was talking about?”
Billy got up and walked a few steps away from Forrest. He hated the eyes of all the dead animals staring down at him; he always had. He wasn’t a born killer like his father or Forrest. In fact, if it wasn’t for the TV show, he’d probably have quit hunting game a long time ago.
“When you say cut them loose,” Billy said, “do you mean let them go to jail? Or . . .” His voice died in his throat.
“You know the answer to that. In spite of all their talk about blood oaths, those old men aren’t going to sit in Angola while nigger gangs torment them. One of them will talk. Glenn Morehouse proved that.”
In Forrest’s dark eyes Billy saw not a shred of doubt or mercy. He might as well have been looking into the eyes of his uncle Frank, who despite being long dead, still dominated the family like an unquiet ghost.
“Do we understand each other?” Forrest asked.
“Yeah,” Billy said, knowing further hesitation could be fatal. “I’m not going back to prison. I can’t.”
“I’m glad to hear that, brother.”
Billy felt some of the nauseating tension drain away. “Since I’m not turning myself in, can I go back to Texas now?”
Forrest got to his feet. “Sorry, no. I need you to ride herd on the old men until tomorrow. You speak for me, William. I’ll make that clear. Everything depends on them going to Walker Dennis’s office in the morning.”
“I got it. Where will you be?”
“Concordia Parish. Out of sight, but close enough to take over if things spin out of control tomorrow. I’m going to leave Traveller out here tonight. I may not be able to take him everywhere I’ll need to go. You look out for him?”
“Sure,” Billy said, adding the dog to his endless list of responsibilities. He took another slug of bourbon. “Do you really think you can cut a deal? I mean . . . is there a real chance?”
“A good chance. Tomorrow Walker Dennis is going to get the surprise of his life. And with luck, by then my deal will be in place.” Forrest walked over and patted Billy on the shoulder. “Okay?”
Billy felt the drink shaking in his hand. “Okay, Forrest. I’m with you.”
WALT LAY BENEATH A bed in one of the second-floor rooms, his heart thundering in his chest. He’d scarcely reached the second-story landing when the front door of the lodge opened and booted feet marched into the great room. As he’d turned to slip down the hallway, he’d peered back around the corner and caught sight of the last man into the room: a uniformed state trooper with dark hair, a hard jawline, and a mutilated ear. Forrest Knox. And trailing at Knox’s heel was the large pit bull Walt had seen back in Baton Rouge.
Once Walt reached his present hiding place, he’d heard muted voices below, yet as hard as he strained to hear, he couldn’t make out the words. Any hope that the conversation would be short faded as the minutes dragged on. Eventually, the helicopter outside spooled up again and noisily departed, but after the beating of its rotors faded, at least two voices droned on below. More disturbing still, when Walt checked his cell phone, he found he had no service. This puzzled him, since he’d checked his phone several times during the walk in and seen three bars of reception.
As carefully as he could, he slid out from under the bed, tiptoed to the window, and peered through a crack in the curtains. A dog that appeared to be Knox’s pit bull was sitting in the yard, alert as a hungry wolf. The sight chilled Walt’s blood. He’d worked with K-9 units enough to know that the canine sense of smell was a truly fearsome thing. He had no chance at escape while that dog patrolled the yard.
Walt took out his burn phone and checked it again, but being near the window hadn’t improved his reception. At least I know Tom’s okay, he thought. Even if I don’t know where he is.
As he tiptoed back across the floor, he realized that, depending on what the men below did next, he might have to spend quite a while in this place. Lowering himself to his knees, he rolled onto his back and slid slowly under the bed.
CHAPTER 30
“THIS HOUSE LOOKS just like it did twenty-seven years ago,” Mom says, looking around the living room of Sam Abrams’s parents’ Duncan Avenue home. “I remember com
ing to one of your senior parties here. My god, you and Sam were just boys.”
“How come I’ve never been here before?” Annie asks, looking wide-eyed around the unfamiliar house. “If you’re such good friends with Mr. Sam?”
“His parents are older than Gram and Papa, punkin. That’s why they moved to Florida.”
“But they kept this house? And the furniture?”
“That’s right. So they can come visit their kids during holidays.”
“Jewish holidays?”
“I imagine so. Why don’t you run upstairs and check out the bedrooms? That’s where they all are.”
Annie looks toward the ceiling, then sniffs suspiciously. “It smells like old people.”
“Well, they lived here fifty years, at least.”
As Annie wraps her mind around this, I know my mother must be thinking of the house she and my father lost to arson seven years ago.
“Come on, Gram,” Annie says. “Let’s see where we’re going to be living this time.”
Mom waves her toward the front foyer and stairs. “You go on, honey. I’ll be up in a minute.”
Annie rolls her eyes, then takes my mother’s suitcase from her. “I’ll carry your bag up.”
“Thank you, muffin.”
At age eleven, Annie must be pretty tired of being addressed as punkin and muffin, but she rarely protests so long as none of her friends are around. She disappears in search of the stairs, and then I hear the clunk-clunk-clunk of a heavy case being dragged up carpeted steps.
My mother gives me a look that communicates many things: guilt and regret most of all. “I hate losing the Abramses. But we’ve lost most of Natchez’s Jewish families over the last twenty years. All their children settled elsewhere.”
“Like most of my classmates.”
“Won’t the neighbors think George and Bernice have come back to town?”
I can’t help but chuckle at this. “Sam called the nosiest one and told her he’s rented the house to a visiting professor from Alcorn State University.”
“That was smart.”
“The only question the neighbor asked was whether the professor was white or black.”
Mom smiles and shakes her head. “The closed garage is nice. I was a little worried people would recognize your car downtown, even tucked back behind the fence and bushes.”
“This is a better safe house by every measure. It’s totally untraceable, so long as you and Annie stay inside and keep the curtains closed.”
I walk into the kitchen and pull the curtains almost shut. The Abramses’ house stands on Duncan Avenue, facing a park donated to the city in the nineteenth century by one of the “nabobs of Natchez.” It’s one of the most peaceful streets in the city, since it faces the back nine of the golf course and thus has houses only on one side. Beyond the links, I can make out the Little League ball fields where Drew Elliott and I played Dixie Youth baseball.
Mom walks up behind me and squeezes my upper arm. “It’s going to be all right, Penn. I really believe that.”
Before I can answer, my new BlackBerry rings. After seeing Caitlin’s Treo earlier, I realized I couldn’t live without at least occasional access to my e-mail accounts. As soon as I set up the phone, I gave the number to Caitlin and Walker Dennis, telling them to use it only if they couldn’t reach me on one of my new TracFones.
“Who’s calling?” Mom asks anxiously.
“Sheriff Dennis, from Vidalia.”
She looks grave, and I realize she must fear the worst every time the phone rings.
“What you got, Walker?” I ask. “How are your deputies doing?”
“The second one just died. Terry Stamper was about to go into the OR over in Alexandria. Turns out his aorta was torn, and he bled out while he was on the gurney.”
“Jesus, Walker. I’m sorry.”
“Three kids, Penn. Oldest is six.”
“Is it about Tom?” my mother whispers, probably terrified by my expression.
I shake my head and cover the microphone hole. “Nothing to do with Dad. I may be a while. Why don’t you check on Annie?”
Mom nods and heads for the staircase.
“I’m so sorry, man,” I repeat, sitting at the banquette in the corner of the kitchen. “I wish we hadn’t gone to that warehouse.”
“That’s the job,” Dennis says stoically. “My men knew that. And we’re gonna finish this particular job.”
“I’m with you.”
“Good. I finally got ahold of Claude Devereux. I told him I wanted the Double Eagles in my office at seven A.M. tomorrow. All of them I could get, but for sure Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield.”
“What did he say?”
“That he’d pass on my request—if he could find them.”
“He’ll pass it on, all right. He probably called Forrest Knox two seconds after you hung up. But Kaiser’s right. I wouldn’t expect to see the Eagles tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m going to question them one way or another, even if I have to extradite them from Texas. You could probably help me with that, huh?”
“Yes, but that’s a slow process. Have you found anything useful in what you confiscated during the busts?”
“Nothing against the Double Eagles. Going through the computers is slow work. But if we find something, it’s gonna be there.”
“What about your interrogations of the people you busted this morning?”
“Not one of them’s talked yet. They’re scared to death, Penn.”
“That tells me they know their employers well.”
“Yeah. But I’ve never seen anything like this. I feel like I could walk in there with a blowtorch and they wouldn’t say a word.”
This takes me back to my days as an ADA in Houston. “Have you checked out their families?”
“What do you mean?”
“I was thinking about hostages. Sometimes you see that in the drug trade. The Double Eagles might be holding some wives or kids, to ensure silence.”
“Oh. I get it. But tracing these families could be tough. Quite a few of these folks are illegals.”
“Do what you can. What about Leo Spivey’s death? Anything come from that?”
“It was probably murder, but there’s nothing pointing to anybody in particular. I’ll tell you something peculiar, though. I noticed it when I talked to Claude Devereux.”
“What’s that?”
“Claude sounded scared, too. Especially for a cocky old lawyer.”
I remember Pithy Nolan telling me that calling Claude Devereux a snake would be a slander to the serpent. “Lawyers who walk the line between both sides of the law tend to build up liabilities over the years. Maybe Devereux’s afraid that his note’s about to come due.”
“It is, if I have anything to do with it.”
“Are you going to tell John Kaiser you called Devereux?”
“I will if I hear the Eagles are coming in. Short of that, I got no use for Kaiser.”
“The FBI could help you with those computers you confiscated.”
Walker pauses for a moment. “I’ll think about it. What’s your plan?”
“I need to sleep, like you said. I’m about to pass out. But I can come over to the station if I can help you with anything.”
“Nah. Get some rest. If the Eagles do come in tomorrow, it’s gonna be a long day, and I want you there.”
“Thanks. And again . . . I’m sorry about your deputy.”
“Tough times, bud.”
Sheriff Dennis hangs up.
The sound of Annie’s footsteps comes through the ceiling. As I walk back into the den, television voices float down from the upstairs. Then my TracFone rings as I’m walking to the garage door to be sure it’s locked.
This time it’s Jewel Washington, the coroner. For a second I wonder if the final toxicology report has come in on Viola Turner, but that process usually takes weeks.
“Hey, Jewel,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Are you close
to a radio?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know. Hang on. What’s happening?”
“Just tune in to WMPR in Jackson. 90.1 on the FM dial.”
Walking back into the kitchen, I find no radio. But in the den stands an ancient console sound system, the kind where you lift the heavy wooden lid and find a turntable and radio. I switch on the system and wait for the tubes to warm up.
“I’ll have it in a few seconds, Jewel. Won’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
A crazy thought hits me. “It’s not Dad, is it?”
“God, no. The opposite.”
Turning the big dial to 90.1, I hear a disc jockey’s voice, rich with the rhythms of black Mississippi.
“. . . folks will tell you times have changed down here, but no sooner do the movers and shakers get that out of their mouths than something happens to give the lie to their words. To illustrate my point, we’ve got Mr. Lincoln Turner with us. Mr. Turner is the son of the victim in that doctor murder down in Natchez. He was born in Chicago, but his family goes way back in this town. And it’s a good thing he came back home to Mississippi when he did, because otherwise the powers that be would have swept his mother’s death right under the rug. Yes, sir, that big white rug they spread out to cover anything they don’t want the world to see. Well, it’s out again, my brothers and sisters. So let’s hear firsthand what’s going on down there in the old slave capital of the Magnolia State. . . .”
“Has Lincoln been on the air yet?” I ask Jewel.
“Oh, yeah, baby. They’re running it in a continuous loop. I just caught the end of it, but they said they were going to run it again.”
“How bad is it?”
“It’s not good. He’s saying there’s a huge cover-up to protect your father, and he aims a lot of his anger at your better half.”
“Great. Does Caitlin know?”
“I texted her a minute ago.”
Lincoln Turner’s voice rises from the old speakers.
“The problem down here,” he says, “is that the accused, Dr. Tom Cage, is the father of the mayor. And the mayor is set to marry the publisher of the newspaper. So even though the Natchez DA is supporting this prosecution, the citizens know almost nothing about it.”
