by Greg Iles
“Flip down your visor as we pass,” Walt said, “and don’t even look in that direction. The NSA has facial recognition software, and the FBI can run checks through their system if they want. Since Nine-Eleven, every agency is connected.”
Tom kept his face forward, looking at the fallow fields in the glow of the station’s floodlights. “Why would a state trooper be hunting for Sonny Thornfield, Walt? Was Thornfield a fugitive?”
Walt squawked a laugh. “Man, you’re thinking ass backwards. I told you, that trooper was working with the Double Eagles.”
“A state cop?” Tom said skeptically.
“State, federal, local—don’t make a spit’s worth of difference. There’s always been a thin line between the black hats and the white in this state. Do you know of any connections between the Double Eagles and the state police? Think of the Eagles you know about, one by one.”
The first thing that came into Tom’s mind was Ray Presley, dead seven years now. Ray had been a crooked cop in both New Orleans and Natchez, and he’d had shady dealings with the Double Eagles—with Brody Royal, too. Tom also seemed to remember Ray telling him something about one of the Knoxes’ sons and the state police. Frank’s son, if he remembered right. Tom only recalled this because the boy had been named after a talented Confederate general.
“I believe Frank Knox’s son may have been a state trooper at one time,” Tom said. “Ray Presley told me that.”
Walt didn’t react immediately, but after a few seconds, he turned to Tom and spoke in a taut voice. “What’s his name?”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest, believe it or not.”
“His last name is Forrest? Or Knox?”
“Knox. Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox.”
“Forrest Knox?” Walt’s jaw hung slack.
“I think so, yeah. What is it?”
“Christ, man! There’s a Forrest Knox way up in the Louisiana State Police. I think he might even be chief of the CIB now.”
“What’s the CIB?”
“The Criminal Investigations Bureau. That trooper I shot mentioned that he worked for the CIB sometimes. Remember?” Walt shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense, though. I know the head of the whole damned outfit—Colonel Griffith Mackiever. Griff spent fifteen years in the Texas Rangers before he took a job with the LSP. No way would he have a dirty cop that high in his organization.”
Tom shrugged. “It sure would explain some things, though.”
Walt was silent for a few seconds. “I guess it could. Damn. I should have made that connection before.”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest was the founder of the original Ku Klux Klan,” Tom thought aloud. “Up in Tennessee. That sure sounds like Frank Knox, naming his son that way.”
“I’ve been in Texas too long,” Walt muttered. “That, or I’m getting Alzheimer’s.”
“Do you know this Mackiever well enough to call him?”
“And say what, genius? Hey, Griff, I just shot one of your troopers, and I’m trying to find out whether he was straight or bent?”
Tom didn’t respond. Instead, he fiddled with the satellite radio dial until he got it tuned to the 1940s station: Lena Horne was singing “Stormy Weather.”
“We’ve got to get this van under cover,” Walt said. “Not to mention getting your shoulder squared away.”
“That trooper couldn’t have reported our license plate, could he?”
“No, but he could have called in the make and model. And this van’s pretty rare in these parts. Once they find his corpse, they’ll do everything but call out the National Guard to find us.”
“How are we supposed to get this elephant under cover? What is it, ten feet tall?”
“Right at ten. And the LSP’s got six choppers in their Air Support Unit. We need some damned thick woods or a warehouse. Boat garage, maybe. You know of anything like that around here?”
Tom shook his head out of reflex, but a moment later a possible answer came to him. “You know, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone. But I need a safe telephone.”
“If a call can get us off the road and under cover, I say we go ahead and use my last burn phone.” Walt dug a black mobile phone out of his pocket and jabbed it at Tom. “Get on the horn. If we’re not under cover by the time the APB goes out, we’re going out like Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.”
The old Ranger hadn’t a trace of humor in his voice.
CHAPTER 54
CAITLIN SAT ALONE in her office at the Natchez Examiner, feverishly studying the notes she’d made over the past hour. Since leaving Penn’s house, she’d interviewed Sheriff Walker Dennis; Lou Ann Whittington; Hugh Fraser, the publisher of the Concordia Beacon; and Sherry Harden, Henry Sexton’s girlfriend. Her anger at Penn for failing to trust her had driven those interviews, and her success had left her in a state of excitement that rivaled sexual arousal.
The most thrilling revelation had come from Lou Ann, who (after giving a modest account of saving Henry’s life) had confided that Henry had told her he intended to begin writing for the Examiner. Henry had asked Lou Ann to keep this quiet for one day, but Henry’s decision had been the reason he’d been moving his files out of the Beacon building. Hugh Fraser confirmed that Henry had asked his permission to write for her, and that he’d given his blessing. The publisher added that Henry had been planning to write a front-page story for Thursday’s edition of the Beacon, covering his theories about at least five of the cold cases he’d been investigating for so long.
“Now that story might never be written,” the publisher had said in a voice freighted with grief. “If I had his files, I’d try it myself, but what those lowlifes didn’t steal is going to take weeks to get organized into some kind of order. I think I’m too old for that now.”
Caitlin couldn’t help wondering whether there might be a rough draft of Henry’s story on his office computer, but she hadn’t summoned the nerve to ask Mr. Fraser if he would check it. Maybe tomorrow.
Her interviews had yielded other nuggets, too. According to Lou Ann, as Henry slipped from consciousness, he’d been desperate to make sure that someone got certain “keys.” No one had any idea what keys he had been referring to, or even if they were physical keys at all. For all anyone knew, Henry might have been talking about digital keys, codes, or important clues to a particular case. From the moment Caitlin heard about those keys, she’d been hoping Sherry Harden would tell her that Henry kept backups of his stolen files somewhere. But the nurse had refused to tell Caitlin anything. She believed Penn’s failure to adequately protect Henry had allowed the attempt on his life, and she had no intention of helping Caitlin. Caitlin had tried to pour oil on the waters, but Sherry was having none of it (which was a shame, because what Caitlin most wanted was to go sit by Henry’s bed and wait for him to regain consciousness).
Her office door opened, and Jamie Lewis, her editor, stuck his head inside. Jamie had recently transferred down from their Charleston, South Carolina, paper, and he’d made an almost seamless transition into the small-town atmosphere of Natchez.
“I found a file photo of Lou Ann Whittington,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “She belongs to one of the local Mardi Gras krewes, and we have a shot of her riding a float. You want to run it with the story?”
“Is she in costume or anything?”
“No, it’s a decent shot.”
“Run it. She’s going to be a national hero by nine A.M. tomorrow, and people are going to want to see what she looks like.”
Jamie grinned. “Granny to punks: Make my day! We should change our name to the Natchez Enquirer.”
Caitlin grabbed a pen and threw it at him, but Jamie dodged the missile easily. Then he clucked his tongue three times and left.
Caitlin shoved her chair away from the desk and cursed under her breath. She hated playing catch-up. She was on the cusp of a story with national implications, yet she was almost powerless to move forward. She had no way to replicate Henry’s years of dogged i
nvestigation of the Double Eagle group. And while she did have Henry working for her, at least in theory, he was beyond her reach and might well die before morning.
She was sure of only one thing: Penn knew a lot more about Henry’s work than he’d told her so far. Last night he’d spent at least ninety minutes at the Beacon offices. Given Henry’s respect for Dr. Cage, the reporter had probably told Penn most of what he knew.
Knowing it wasn’t the best move she could make, Caitlin lifted her landline and dialed Penn’s cell phone. He was probably asleep by now, but she couldn’t restrain herself. If she waited until morning, she’d be even farther behind on the story.
“Caitlin?” he said, sounding surprisingly alert.
“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry I was such a bitch before.”
“It’s okay. This has been a crazy day.”
“Is Annie asleep?”
He hesitated. “Not yet.”
“You sound funny. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Penn swallowed something. Probably water beside his bed.
She let the silence drag for a couple of seconds. “I spoke to Lou Ann Whittington, the receptionist who saved Henry’s life. She told me that Henry had decided to accept my offer. That’s why he was moving his files.”
“Good for you. I figured that might be it, but that’s not what she told Sheriff Dennis.”
“Henry asked her not to tell anyone until he did. Penn, listen . . . I can understand you not wanting to break the promise you made to Henry last night. But the whole landscape has changed since then. Henry had decided to come work for me, but now he might not even survive the night. I want to help him, to carry on his work. But I can’t do that unless I know where to start.”
“I gave you quite a bit last night, and more today.”
“Yes, but Henry must have told you more than that. A lot more. His girlfriend has the idea that you two were working together. And you know what I can do if you give me something to work with. I’ve got people here just waiting to dive into this story.”
“Nothing you can do between now and tomorrow morning is going to affect Henry’s chances of survival—or Dad’s, for that matter. So why don’t you work with what you have? In the morning we’ll check on Henry and reassess where we are.”
She closed her eyes and forced herself not to argue. “What if he dies tonight?”
“If Henry dies, I’ll tell you everything I know.”
She knew this was all she could reasonably hope for, yet she couldn’t help pushing the limit. “Penn, with the right information, I might even crack Viola’s murder by tomorrow. I could go a long way toward the solution, anyway. You know that.”
When he answered, she heard a warning note in his voice. “Babe, let’s just leave it where we are tonight. Okay?”
She grimaced and started to snap at him, but Penn sounded seriously stressed, so in the end she just said, “All right. I’ll make do.”
“Get Jamie to follow you home, okay? And make him wait until you get inside.”
“Truthfully, I’m probably going to stay here all night.”
“Even better. Don’t leave the building until daylight, all right?”
“Okay.” She started to say good-bye, but instinct told her something important remained unsaid. “Has something happened? Is everything okay? I mean, apart from the obvious?”
“Everything’s fine. We’ll talk face-to-face in the morning. Meanwhile, you don’t leave that newspaper building. I’m going to have Chief Logan put a cop outside.”
“Penn—”
“We’ll talk in the morning,” he said sharply. “I love you.”
And then he was gone.
Caitlin hung up and stared at the telephone. Something was wrong. Or maybe she’d just pushed Penn too hard. She rubbed her eyes to clear the sleep from them. The problem with loving a great guy was that when you needed to bend the rules, he didn’t always have the proper flexibility. Yet Penn had stretched his ethics last night, and even more today. She was thinking about driving over to Ferriday to sit in the waiting room on Henry’s floor (hopefully out of Sherry’s sight) when Jamie thrust her door open again.
“Guess what?” he said, his eyes bright with excitement.
“Tell me. I’m desperate here.”
“They just had a fire at the Concordia Beacon. We caught it on the police radio.”
“What?”
“It started in a file room. A flash fire took out a bunch of storage boxes and stuff, then spread to the rest of the building. But get this: their computers melted.”
Caitlin blinked in confusion. “So? Isn’t that what computers do during a fire?”
“Sometimes.” Jamie smiled strangely. “But when the firemen got to the Beacon fire, they could still get inside the building. Yet the computers looked like someone had turned a blowtorch on them.”
This detail raised the hair on the back of her neck. “Oh, man. This is crazy.”
“How do you want to handle it?”
Caitlin looked at the phone on her desk and thought about calling Penn back. Instead, she got up, grabbed her coat off her chair, and waved Jamie out the door.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“We’re going to Ferriday.”
“You and me?”
“You’re a quick study, aren’t you? Get your fucking coat.”
CHAPTER 55
“DO YOU HAVE the security code?” Walt asked, as the Roadtrek nosed along the road bordering Lake St. John. The oxbow lake looked black in December, and the mostly bare trees didn’t offer any sense of warmth or invitation.
“Written on my hand,” Tom replied, scanning the mailboxes that lined the road.
“Which one’s your partner’s?”
“You were here two months ago. You don’t remember?”
“It was dark. Just like now.”
Tom’s eyes were peeled for the tall storage shed that stood beside Drew Elliott’s lake house. The former owner hadn’t built a boathouse, preferring to keep his ski boat (with its wakeboarding tower) in a prefab storage shed. Drew had complained about the shed when he acquired the property, but he hadn’t yet got rid of it. Tom was sure the Roadtrek would fit inside the tall building, so long as they could clear enough floor space.
“This whole damned lake is lined with houses,” Walt grumbled. “How are we going to sneak this thing into a garage?”
“The houses on either side of Drew’s are empty in the winter. And nobody’s moving around this late.”
Walt grunted.
Tom had hated to ask Drew to put himself at risk by offering help, but he’d had no alternative. To his credit, Tom’s young partner had not only offered his lake house as a sanctuary but also insisted on driving over immediately to treat Tom’s wound.
“There!” Tom cried, wincing as he raised his hand to point at a giant shed a couple of hundred yards up the road on the right-hand side.
“I see it.”
Walt eased the Roadtrek back to forty miles per hour, then thirty. The turn was forty yards ahead now. He braked steadily, then swung out to the left so that he could fit the van between the mailbox and a post on the other side of the asphalt drive.
Thirty yards ahead, a gravel offshoot led to the tall storage shed. Walt drove straight up to the overhead door and stopped with a squeal. Tom read the code off his hand, and Walt climbed out and entered it in the keypad on the wall.
The overhead door began to rise, and white light flooded the ground.
Walt scrambled back into the driver’s seat, then pulled into the garage as soon as he had sufficient clearance. Then he jumped out and hit a button on the interior wall. Thirty seconds later, the door rattled down to the ground and they were enveloped in darkness.
“Not bad,” Walt said in a grudging tone. “About the best we could have hoped for. How’s your shoulder?”
“Bad enough. I could use another Lorcet.”
“Should you take it, with your ticker weak as it
is?”
“No. But if Drew has some Maker’s Mark in there, I’ll sure drink it.”
“Let’s find out.”
Tom felt dizzy as he sought the van’s running board with his foot.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Walt leaned over Tom’s bloody shoulder and studied Drew Elliott’s handiwork by the light of the reading lamp Drew had used to see while suturing the wound.
“You sewed a drain into it,” Walt observed, “just like we used to do in Korea.”
Drew stripped off his gloves as Melba Price sponged the skin around the rubber hose protruding from Tom’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have used a drain if we were in a hospital. But if Tom insists on staying out here, I want it in there.”
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.
