by Greg Iles
Caitlin’s articles had upset my mother, but Marston’s lawsuit terrified her. I tried to reassure her by explaining that my intent had been to force just such a lawsuit, but she refused to be mollified. Like most people who have lived any length of time in Natchez, my mother believes that Leo Marston is untouchable, and that anyone who tries to hurt him is doomed to failure or worse.
I kept the good news of the day to myself. Just after noon Special Agent Peter Lutjens had called the motel from a pay phone in McLean, Virginia, and asked me to call him back from a pay phone. When I did, he told me he’d been stewing about the Payton case and had decided to try to photocopy the sealed FBI file. He still had his security pass to the proper archive. The problem was the staff. The “friend” who had reported his initial inquiry to Portman worked every day but Sunday, so Sunday was Lutjens’s only shot. And he was due to report in Fargo on Monday. I thanked him profusely and tried to reassure him that what he was doing would ultimately serve the Bureau, not undermine it. He told me he’d call me Sunday if he wasn’t in jail, and hung up.
When we got back to the motel after supper, I found two old-fashioned handwritten messages waiting: “Call Livy” and “Call Ike.” I had no idea what Livy could want, other than to curse me for vilifying her father in the newspaper, but I called Tuscany anyway. The number of the Marston mansion hadn’t changed since we were kids, but the fact that it had remained in my memory for twenty years probably said something about my buried feelings for Livy. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as the phone rang, but I resolved to tell Leo to kiss my ass if he answered.
“Marston residence.” A maid.
“Yes, could I speak to Liv, please?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Her husband.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Sutter.”
After a few moments Livy came on the line and said, “John?”
“It’s Penn.”
“Oh. Just a minute.” Her voice was under tight control. I heard the clacking of heels on hardwood, then her voice again, more relaxed. “I’m glad you called back. How’s Annie doing?”
“Better. Look, I know you must be upset about the paper.”
A strange laugh. “Things are pretty crazy around here. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. But I know why you’re doing it.”
I said nothing.
“Penn . . . hurting my father won’t make up for the years we lost.”
“I know that.”
“I hope so. Because I called to tell you that, as bad as all this is, I don’t want to let him come between us again.”
We both waited in the vacuum of the open line, each hoping the other could somehow bridge the chasm my accusations had opened between us. I imagined her sitting alone in the Italianate palace that had sheltered her throughout her childhood. She had often portrayed it to me as a prison, but I never bought into this. She wouldn’t have traded Tuscany for anything.
“Livy?”
“I’m here.”
“You haven’t asked where I got my information about your father. You haven’t protested his innocence.”
“Of course I haven’t. It’s ridiculous. My father murdering a black man? He’s probably the least prejudiced man in this town.”
“Del Payton’s death may not have been a race murder. Tell me something, Livy. What would you do if you found out your father had ordered the burning of my parents’ house?”
“That’s insane.”
“Just pretend it was true. What would you do?”
“Well, obviously, I’d be the first one to call the police.”
Maybe she didn’t even know she was lying. “I need to go, Livy.”
“Can we see each other tonight?”
I couldn’t believe she wanted to be within ten miles of me after the newspaper story. “Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
Images from the day before filled my mind: Livy floating naked in the pool, kissing me passionately as we sank slowly through the green water, her thigh pressing against me. “We’d better play it by ear. There’s a lot going on right now.”
“That’s all the more reason to stay close. Just remember what I said about my father. I meant it.”
“I will.”
I hung up and dialed Ike’s cell phone before thoughts of Livy could overwhelm me. I wanted to call her back and say, “Pick me up in twenty minutes.” But the past had finally caught up with us, and Ike the Spike was growling in my ear.
“Meet me where I wanted to last night,” he said, meaning the warehouse in the industrial park by the river. “One hour.”
“What about?”
“What about? About whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing, man. This town’s going crazy. One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Damn straight you will.”
* * *
I’ve been sweating in the dark warehouse for twenty minutes, breathing the stink of fertilizer and wondering what could be keeping Ike. It’s fully dark now, and the spotlight of a tugboat pushing barges upriver arcs through the night like a Hollywood klieg light, searching for sandbars and unexpected traffic. A slight breeze off the Mississippi penetrates the twenty-foot-wide warehouse door, where I stand watching the dark line of the levee, waiting for the headlights of Ike’s cruiser.
I am unarmed but not unprotected. Daniel Kelly is covering me. After asking four times if I really trust Ike Ransom, Kelly parked his rental car behind the warehouse and told me to forget he was there. I parked the BMW out front so that Ike would see it when he drove up.
What I take for the sound of another tugboat suddenly resolves into a car engine. A set of headlights descends the levee, pulls into the parking lot of the warehouse, and stops beside my car.
It’s Ike’s cruiser.
He gets out, his brown uniform looking black under the single security light, and walks toward the warehouse door. Halfway there he stops, turns, and watches the levee for nearly a minute. Maybe he senses Kelly’s presence. Whatever the reason, he resumes walking toward me. When he’s ten yards away, I step into the light, holding both hands in plain view.
Ike draws his pistol faster than I would have believed possible, recognizing me just as the barrel lines up with my chest. He quickens his step and shoves me back into the shadows.
“You ought to know better than that,” he mutters.
“Why are you so jumpy?”
The whites of his eyes flick left and right in the darkness. “You ain’t jumpy? After somebody burned down your house and took your kid?”
“Who set that fire, Ike? Who took my daughter? Ray Presley?”
“Could have been.” He holsters his pistol. “But I don’t know for sure. Not yet.”
“Why are we here?”
“So you can tell me what the hell you think you’re doing in the paper. You crazy? Making statements like that?”
“You’re the one who told me Marston was guilty.”
“Jesus. Is that the way you did it in Houston? Shoutin’ shit in the papers before you got any proof?”
“Take it easy. Everything’s under control.”
“Under control? Shooting your mouth off about local law enforcement coming forward?”
“I’m pursuing this the way I think best. As far as the newspaper story goes, I wanted Marston to sue me, and the story accomplished that.”
“You what?”
“I wanted the right to request everything from personal papers to phone records from Marston under the rules of discovery.”
A gleam of recognition. “That lawsuit means you can ask for Marston’s personal shit? And get it?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay . . . maybe you ain’t crazy. You get the judge’s legal files, you’re liable to find all kinds of illegal shit.”
“Marston’s legal files are protected under client confidentiality rules. But everything else is fair game.”
“How long you got to answer his suit?
At least thirty days, right? That should give you plenty of time for fishing.”
“I’m going to file my answer tomorrow.”
His mouth drops open. “Why you gonna do that?”
“By proceeding aggressively, I force Marston to conclude that I either have evidence in my possession, or that I know people willing to come forward and testify against him.”
“But you don’t.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’m building a case.”
Ike’s eyes narrow to slits. “What you talking about? What kind of case? You holding back on me?”
“What if I am? You’ve been holding back on me from the start.”
He raises a warning finger but says nothing, and instead begins a staring contest. His bloodshot eyes are so jerky that he can’t focus in one direction long, and he soon looks away.
“What are you taking, Ike? Speed? What?”
“I take me a drink now and then. So what? Have you talked to Stone again?”
“Yes, but he’s just like you. Scared to tell what he knows.”
“I told you, man, I know Marston done it, but I don’t know why.”
“How do you know, Ike? How can you know he did it if you don’t know why?”
He grunts in the dark. “I know what I know. Why’d you slam Portman in the paper? You go pissing off the head of the FBI, you’re asking for some serious payback.”
“I did it to protect myself and my family. That newspaper story threw a lot of light on Portman. On me too. It makes it harder for him to retaliate.”
“Yeah? I heard somebody tried to poison Ray Presley. Who the hell you think did that?”
“I figured Marston ordered it. You think it was Portman?”
“Sure as hell wasn’t the tooth fairy.” Ike scrapes the tip of a boot along the cement floor of the warehouse. “Stone say anything about surveillance?”
“Why?”
“There’s somebody watching me.”
A shiver runs along my forearms. “How long?”
“I picked him up today, but he could have been there longer.”
“Stone’s under FBI surveillance himself. He thinks Caitlin and I are too. Phones, the works. But why would the FBI be watching you?”
“Maybe ’cause of your damn newspaper article.”
“I didn’t mention your name. Why did you warn me away from the FBI, Ike? Have you tried to talk to them about the Payton case before?”
“Say what?” He takes out a cigarette and taps it against his palm but does not light it. “Why don’t you focus on some shit that’ll get you somewhere? Like Marston’s papers. There’s bound to be something in there to prosecute him on. He’s had his hands in all kinds of shit for years. I mean, who cares what he goes down for, ’long as he rots in Parchman.”
“I care. To get out from under this slander charge, I’ve got to prove Marston guilty of murder. Not campaign finance fraud or any other bullshit. Murder. Do you comprehend that?”
Instead of answering, Ike flips open his lighter, ignites it, and puts the flame to the tip of his cigarette. As the orange glow illuminates his face, something incomprehensible happens. The flame reaches toward me as though sucked by a wind, and Ike slams his shoulder into my chest, punching the air out of my lungs and knocking me to the cement floor.
As he lands on top of me, gunfire erupts outside the warehouse and echoes through the metal building. Two shots, I think. Then a third, the sound quick and flat.
“Get off,” I grunt, unable to draw breath with Ike on top of me.
He rolls off and up into a kneeling position, his pistol pointed through the warehouse door.
“What happened?” I ask.
“There’s two guns out there. One silenced.”
“I’ve got a man out there, Ike. Maybe one of the guns was his.”
He whips his head around. “What man?”
“A private security guy. From Houston.”
He peers into the darkness the way he must have done in Vietnam, with absolute concentration. “I can’t see shit,” he hisses. “But some lardass ex-cop ain’t gonna help us one bit, I know that.”
“He’s not what you think.”
After a minute of silence, he works his way toward the edge of the door.
“What do you see?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
A boom like a cannon shot shatters the silence, reverberating through the warehouse for at least four seconds. Ike hits the floor with his pistol still aimed at the door.
“That’s a deer gun,” he says. “Stay down. We got serious shit going down out there, and it ain’t all got to do with us.”
“How do you know?”
“Ain’t but one bullet come into this warehouse.”
As I lie facedown on the floor, breathing accumulated dust and oil, the seconds drag past. There are no more shots, but the instinctual voice that warned me during the fire that killed Ruby is not comforted by this fact. It knows that silence is the cloak of the approaching enemy.
“How long we gonna lie here?” I whisper.
“Till I tell you to get up.”
Another five minutes pass.
“Penn Cage!” yells a man from beyond the warehouse door. “It’s Kelly! Daniel Kelly.”
“That your guy?” asks Ike.
“It’s Kelly,” shouts the voice again. “Come out! And bring your friend. We need some law out here.”
I scramble to my feet and trot to the edge of the door.
Daniel Kelly stands forty feet away, an MP-5 submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
“What happened?” I ask, walking into the parking lot.
“Somebody tried to whack you. Or the cop. I couldn’t tell which.”
Ike steps into the light, his pistol aimed at Kelly. “Who shot who out here?”
Kelly holds up his hands. “Take it easy, Deputy. I’m a friendly. I was out here covering your meeting when I saw a muzzle flash from over there.” He points at the levee, a dark silhouette fifty yards away. “It was a silenced rifle, and it was firing subsonic rounds, because I didn’t hear the bullet crack. I started running toward the flash, whipping out a spotter scope as I ran, trying to get within range and see at the same time. The shooter was firing from the prone position, already setting up for his second shot. I yelled just as he pulled the trigger, and as he swung around to deal with me, I double-tapped him on the run.”
“Is he dead?” Ike asks.
“Definitely. I put one through his head to be sure, and it’s a good thing, because he was wearing a vest.”
“What about that deer gun I heard?”
Kelly points into the darkness south of the warehouse. “The deer gun belonged to the guy over there. Who is also dead. The shooter on the levee took him out. That was the first muzzle flash I saw. He fired across my line of sight, at a right angle to you guys. The other guy must have fired off that deer slug as he was dying. Pure reflex, probably.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why would they shoot at each other? A falling-out among hit men?”
Kelly shakes his head. “I don’t think these guys were together. They’re dressed different, and their equipment’s different. I think the guy with the deer gun was just in the way.”
“Who knew you were coming to this meeting?” Ike asks.
“My father and Kelly. That’s it.”
“What about you?” Kelly asks Ike.
“Nobody knows where I’m at. How did these guys get so close if you were covering the meeting?”
Kelly scratches the side of his nose, as though to emphasize his calmness. “First of all, they’re not that close. Second, the curve of the levee blocked my line of sight to the guy with the deer gun, but not his line to you. Third, the sniper on the levee followed you in. He probably drove with his lights off and parked well back, then moved up on foot.” Kelly pauses, his cool blue eyes level with Ike’s. “And fourth, if I was in with those guys, you’d be bagged and tagged right now.”
I
ke snorts and turns toward the levee. “Show me the dead guys.”
Kelly unslings his MP-5 and starts jogging toward the levee. We follow him across the lot, trying to stay with him as he pounds up the spongy grass on the side of the levee. The odors of cow manure and bush-hogged grass weight the humid air. At the crest, Kelly points at a black shape lying at the edge of the gravel road that runs atop the levee.
“No wallet,” he says. “No ID at all. Car’s clean too. A rental.”
“That’s risky,” Ike remarks. “He gets stopped at random without ID, he’s gonna get run in.”
“Unless he’s willing to do the cop.”
Ike walks to the corpse, bends over, and takes a long look. “Never seen him. Take a look, Cage.”
I walk over and glance at the dead sniper. He’s dressed from head to toe in black, and looks like he stepped off a film set. His face is pale and placid in the dark, as though he were shot while sleeping. A dead face can be difficult to identify, so I give it long enough to be sure.
“I don’t know him.”
“Here’s his weapon.” Kelly holds out a long, bolt-action rifle to Ike. “Rank-Pullin starlight scope. Fourth-generation passive amplification. Expensive toy.”
“Guy’s definitely out of town,” Ike declares. “Nobody around here uses shit like this. Caliber looks awful small.”
“It’s a special twenty-two magnum. Chambers subsonic rounds. An assassin’s gun.”
“Christ,” I whisper. “Where’s the other guy?”
Kelly points into the darkness south of the warehouse, then starts down the slope.
The second corpse is lying facedown in a thicket of weeds, dressed in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. There’s a red bandanna knotted around its head.
Ike bends down and pulls a rifle from the dead hand. “An old Remington thirty-aught-six. Seen better days too.”
Kelly says, “The shooter on the levee probably saw him moving up to get a shot. Poor bastard didn’t have a chance.”
