by Greg Iles
eighteen, and shes missed him every day since. So many times shes needed him, or someone. God, how different everything would have been had he lived. And how different will life be for her baby? His childhood will be a struggle against want, his mother always away, struggling in vain to keep ahead of the bills. This dark foreknowledge is like a festering mass in her stomach. Tim left nothing behind him but a mortgage. It wasn't his fault, really. He had nothing to leave
Now, now, I hear that baby cryin, sings a chiding voice. He just a bawlin, and you lyin in bed like Miss Astor.
Daisy is close to eighty now, but she still gets around like a woman of sixty-five, despite her arthritis. Her flower-print dress crinkles as she sits on the bed and gives the baby a bottle to suck. Tim juniors eyes go wide and blue as urgency changes into bliss, and he grips the bottle with one strong hand. Daisy tries to take the other in hers, but the child will not be led.
I used to look at you like that, Daisy says wistfully.
I know, Julia whispers. I wish I was back there again.
Daisy shakes her head, her eyes on the baby. Everybody wish that sometime. But there aint no going back.
Julia closes her eyes. The smell of her own breath sickens her. She ran out of the house without even a toothbrush.
You hungry yet? Daisy asks.
No.
You gotta eat sometime. Cant take care of no baby without getting something down yourself.
Theres a sound of horsehair rope being stretched, and Julia knows thats Daisy turning her head. She looks up into the yellowed eyes and says, Thanks for letting me stay here. I didn't have anywhere else to go.
Daisy smiles. Well, I think you gon be here a while yet.
Julia goes still. Why is that?
Well, there was something in the newspaper this morning. I hate to say nothing about it, but I guess theres no point hiding it.
What was it? Something about Tim?
Daisys crinkled lips curl around her dentures like dark papier-mâché. Julias glad Daisy put her teeth in. Last night, the old woman looked one step away from the grave. I cant read too good no more, she says, but it didn't sound good.
Where is it? Julia asks, sitting up in alarm. What did they say?
On the kitchen table.
Julia bounds out of bed and runs for the kitchen.
CHAPTER
18
The guard at the gatehouse of Jonathan Sandss home stands gaping at the two bound men in the backseat of my Saab.
I said I want to see Mr. Sands.
Does he know youre coming?
No. I have a trespassing problem Id like to discuss with him.
Just a minute. The guard vanishes into his hut. Like the men in the backseat, he is American, not Irish, but the brief look he gave my passengers told them all they need to know about the trouble coming their way.
Are you armed? the guard asks, reappearing at my window.
I point down at my waistband, where the butts of three handguns jut from my waistband.
You need to leave those with me.
I go in like this, or I drive away now.
The guard vanishes again. I check my watch. The first balloons should be taking off any minute. Judging from the treetops, the wind looks to be gusting seven to ten miles per hour, which is enough to stop many pilots from launching. During the drive over from Washington Street, I received a text from Paul Labry, informing me that the balloons would be taking off from a vacant lot just off Highway 61 South. The destination of this mornings race is predetermined, but the launch point varies according to the direction of the
wind, with various pilots making complex calculations and jockeying for takeoff positions in spaces just big enough to accommodate a launch without hitting power lines or other lethal obstacles. I texted Paul that a family emergency would prevent me making the launch in time and that he should fly in my place. Labry has already sent four anxious text messages in reply, asking what the problem is. I've responded by begging him to trust me and to try to keep Hans Necker from getting too upset.
I'm receiving yet another message from Labry when a black Jeep thunders up behind my Saab and skids to a stop. In my side mirror, I see Seamus Quinn jump out and march toward my car. The Irishman must have driven all the way over from the
Magnolia Queen.
I roll down my window, allowing an endless stream of curses into the car.
What the fuck do you want, just? he growls. Quinn is a darkly handsome man with bad teeth and eyes that glint like polished metal.
I want to talk to your boss. It won't take long.
Quinn plants both hands on the side of my car and glares into the backseat. You fuckers banjaxed it, did you?
In my rearview mirror the two bruisers hunch in the backseat like toddlers dreading a spanking. Quinn stares in amazement as I take two Glocks from my waistband and hand them to him butt-first. I'm already late for something, and if I don't show, people are going to come looking.
The glinting eyes narrow, but Quinn finally waves me forward with a guarded smile. I'll follow you in, your lordship.
As he walks away, the gate rattles open on its electric chain, and I drive through under the watchful eye of a video camera mounted on a pole to my right. Is Sands watching from his bedroom? I wonder as my car tops a low rise, and I see the casino managers house for the first time. In a city famed for Greek Revival, Spanish, and Italianate mansions dating to before the Civil War, Sands has chosen the closest thing to a Miami drug lords palace as his residence. The linked boxes of white stucco may overlook the river, but they look like alien spacecraft that landed in the antebellum South by mistake, crushing an acre of pink azaleas when they set down.
Why does Sands live here? I ask the guys in the backseat.
Why not? one says sullenly.
Theres concrete and steel under that stucco, says the other. He won't sleep in a house that won't stop a bullet. I think its an Irish thing.
Must be.
You are
sooo
fucked, the second guy says for the tenth time. I cant believe youre driving into this place. If I had the keys, Id be halfway to Mexico by now.
I'm not the one who banjaxed it is my reply. Whatever that means.
Sandss driveway is a long ellipse, and the river shows to great advantage, for the bluff is lower here than in town and steps down gently to the water. As I brake to a stop behind an Aston Martin Vanquishan automobile beyond the reach of any honest casino managerit occurs to me that the best way to go after these guys might be to put the IRS on their tails.
Quinn skids to a stop behind me, jumps out, and opens my door. Here we are, guvnor, he says, his voice dripping mockery. Lets go see the man.
If youre waitin on me, youre walkin backwards.
Quinns eyes become slits. Eh?
Never mind.
The Irishman opens the back door and motions for his two thugs to get out. After some effort one of the guys manages to work his way out of the small backseat with his bound hands. Quinn regards him silently for about ten seconds. Then he takes something out of his pocket and fits it over his right hand. I catch the gleam of brass just as Quinn swings, a powerful uppercut delivered with such speed that it would have taken a stop-action camera to capture it. The snap of bone shatters whatever illusions of security I might have had.
That's battery, I say stupidly.
Quinn gives me a grin thats close to a leer. Youre seeing things, Mr. Mayor. He fell down. He extends a hand toward the mansion. After you.
Jonathan Sands awaits me at his kitchen table in a white terry-cloth robe, a steaming cup of coffee and the
Natchez Examiner
laid out before him. The kitchen looks like an ope
rating theater: The cabinets
are white, the appliances steel, the countertops architectural concrete. The only raw touch in the room is the owners unshaven face. Sandss snipers eyes rake left and right as he scans the
Examiner,
but he says nothing.
Before entering the front door of the house, I was hand-searched, scanned by two electronic wands, and had my gun and personal cell phone taken away, along with the BlackBerrys belonging to the unfortunate men sent to watch me.
I'm told you have a message for me, Sands says in his artificial accent, not lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
Why,
I wonder,
does he preserve the illusion of Englishness here?
That's right. I sent my mother and daughter away this morning. I wanted you to know that.
Sands sniffs, sips from the steaming cup, then looks up, his eyes devoid of everything but irritation. That wasn't part of our agreement.
We have no agreement,
I think. I realize that. But you need to understand something about me. I've come close to losing my daughter before, and I cant function if I have to worry about her safety. So I took her off the board. I'm still clear about what you want. I don't care about the money you left with me, so you might as well take it back. But I will try to locate what Tim stole from you, and I will give it back to you if I find it.
After a long silence Sands says, I find that difficult to believe, Mr. Cage.
Which part?
That youll return my property to me.
You shouldnt. I might look to you like some Dudley Do-Right with a savior complexand maybe I used to be that way, a bitbut I'm cured of that. When I first took this job, I was full of fire. My priority was to fix the school system, because all progress flows from that. It took about a year to realize that was never going to happen. I wanted to bring industrial jobs back to this town, and I lost my best chance of that when Toyota pulled out. I got your boat instead. The truth is, I've been thinking about stepping down for some time. My priority is my little girl, not this town. So, if you want to rake a little extra money out of the local yokels pockets, its fine by me. I'm ready to get out, and I mean
out.
A lopsided smile has lightened Sandss face. His teeth are perfectly straight and startlingly white; much too perfect for a working-class Irishman.
He wears dentures,
I realize.
Before he can reply, a door to my left opens, and I go rigid, half-expecting the eerie white dog to enter the kitchen. Instead, a brown-skinned Asian woman of startling beauty glides into the room with grace so effortless the most cultured belle would be hard put to match it. Scarcely five feet tall, she radiates a self-possession that seems to affect Sands as profoundly as it does me. When she takes the chair nearest me and gazes up at me, her eyes take my breath away. They are aquamarine, but they shine from the perfect archetype of a Chinese face. I'm put in mind of some English smuggler who spread his seed during the Opium Wars or the Boxer Rebellion and left half-caste beauties like this one behind to suffer the fate of mixed-blood children.
We have not yet been introduced, she says, and in those six words I hear the pure source of the English accent Sands mimics so well. The woman looks no more than twenty, but she must be older.
I'm Penn Cage.
She grants me the slightest of smiles. I've seen your photograph in the newspaper. I am Jiao. I did not mean to interrupt. Please continue.
Jiaos unexpected appearance has jarred my sense of purpose. I've already said what I came to say, I say awkwardly. My only concern is the safety of my family.
Sandss lopsided grin has returned. And your friend? Jessup? What about him?
Whatever Tim did to you, he was on his own. I'm sorry hes dead, but I warned him not to do anything stupid. When you stick your nose in other peoples business, you get hurt sometimes.
Just so, Jiao says gravely. In business and politics, casualties are a fact of life.
I incline my head toward her.
Its rare for an American to understand this, she says.
Oh, we understand it. We just don't like to admit it in public.
Sands laughs softly, but only the memory of a smile is on his lips. With almost affected care, he takes a cigarette and a gold lighter
from the deep pocket of his robe, touches a hissing jet of butane to the tobacco, and draws deeply. An acrid scent fills the room.
Mr. Mayor, he says, exhaling purplish blue smoke. Did you know that when you line people up in front of a pit to shoot them, ninety-nine out of a hundred kneel meekly and wait for the bullet?
Jiaos eyes remain on me; Sandss bizarre question seems not to have shocked her, or even registered at all.
Sands exhales the rest of the smoke, then leans his chair back on two legs, which creak under his weight. Down the line walks the executioner. The shots grow louder, the bodies fall, but still the prisoners wait their turn. Its beyond me, really, but thats human nature. Once in a while, though, you get a manor a womanwho won't wait. Sometimes they run, or leap into the pit after someone they knew. But rarest of all is the man who turns and fights. He hasn't a gun or a knife or even a club, but when he hears those shots getting closer, something in him knots tight and says, By God, I'll not go down like that, and he turns with his teeth bared and his nails raking and goes for the man come to kill him. Sands grins. I've cheered those bastards every time.
Jiao watches me with grave attention.
Is there a point to this story? I ask.
Smoke drifts up from the tip of Sandss cigarette, and his eyes smolder with apparent fascination. You know there is, mate. That's
you.
Youre the one in a hundred. Jessup was a fool, but youre a bloody scrapper.
Holding Annies face in my minds eye, I stare back with impassive eyes, as though Sands has shot far wide of the mark. I used to be that guy, I say with seeming reluctance. And in the right circumstancesgiven something worth fighting for, like my familyI still would be. But this is about money. I have all the money I need. If I lose it, I can earn more. I already lost my wife to cancer, okay? I cant replace my little girl.
Sandss eyes narrow, but he says nothing. Jiao turns to him as though for help in understanding some obscure mammal, but Sands suddenly slaps his knee and laughs out loud. Behind me, Quinn permits himself a chuckle. Still laughing, Sands points at me as if to say,
Listen to this guy. Isnt he something?
Why don't you let me in on the joke?
Sands is belly-laughing now, even though his laughter seems to annoy Jiao.
I too am confused, she says finally.
Sands wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his robe, then sets down the front legs of the chair, leans forward, and points a thick forefinger at me. You cant fool me, Cage. Go on! Youve made a career out of sticking your nose into other peoples business. Youre coming after me. Of course you are. I should have seen it last night. You never even had a choice. Its your nature.
Is this true? Jiao asks, her translucent eyes on me.
Course it is, says Sands. That's why he sent his kid out of town. And his sainted mother.
I told you why I did that.
Bollocks! Whoever picked up your kid blew through this town like the fuckin Secret Service. They iced Quinns men like they were corner boys. If you wanted out of this town, youd be
gone.
But youre still here, aren't you?
I shrug. This is the biggest weekend of the year for the city. I have obligations.
Sands pulls a mocking face. I thought you didn't care about the job.
I'm still a man of my word.
My point exactly. You must have taken an oath when they swore you i
n. I'll have to get a copy of that. Sandss levity disappears like bubbles in a tube of blood. Who got your women out of town, Mr. Mayor? The FBI?
I shake my head. No. Those men work for a private security company I've dealt with in the past. They have no government or law enforcement connection whatever. Theyll guard anybody for the right price. Even you.
Jiao rises silently and takes two steps toward me. A scent like warm caramel reaches my nostrils. Please do not involve yourself in our business. I can see that you care about your family. It would be unfortunate for everyone if you allowed your priorities to become confused.
I haven't, I tell her, trying to blot out the memory of Tims mutilated corpse. I promise you that.
We very much want our property back.
Yeah, I got that.
With her feline gaze still on my face, Jiao reaches out and takes hold of my hand. Then she looks down, turns my palm up, and traces out the lines that curve across my skin. Her exotic face becomes somber, as though a cloud has passed over a terra-cotta figure. She looks over her shoulder at Sands, then back at me. I try to penetrate the blue-green portals of her eyes, but I cant. At last she drops my hand, murmurs something softly in a foreign language, then leaves by the same door she entered through.
What was that about? I ask.
Sands raises his eyebrows. Who knows? I'm guessing she saw something linking the two of us. Or thinks she did, anyway.
What did she say?
I have no idea. Nor do I give a fuck. With his flint-hard eyes on me, the Irishman stubs out his cigarette, then lights another, drawing deeply. When he leans forward and speaks, exhaling smoke with every word, I'm reminded of how Tim characterized him in the cemetery. Listen to me, mate. I've done things for kicks you wouldn't do to save your own life. I've lived in places where nightmares are scenery, killed too many people to remember. Man, woman, childit makes no difference. After you've gone where I have, you understand: There are no civilians. Not on this stinking planet. Now, I gave you the rules last night. You cross me, I actimmediately and irrevocably.
