by Greg Iles
Ike puts both hands under the corpse and rolls it over. Below the dead man’s left eye is a small black hole. Small but obviously fatal.
“I’ve seen a hundred shitkickers just like him,” says Ike. “But I don’t know this one.”
As I stare, the slack features suddenly coalesce into a coherent whole, and a feverish heat shoots through me. The dead man is a nightmare made flesh, a physical echo of the most terrifying night of my life.
“I know him,” I say, grabbing Ike’s arm.
“Who is he?”
“His name’s Hanratty. I convicted his brother of capital murder. He was just executed.”
“I’ll be damned. That Aryan Brotherhood bastard?”
“Right. I also shot his other brother four years ago.”
“No shit,” says Kelly, with respect mingled with surprise.
“This one was the last.” The fever heat has disappeared, leaving a chill in its wake. “The youngest.”
Ike kicks the corpse’s leg. “No more boom-boom for this Aryan papasan.”
He kneels and starts going through the dead man’s pockets, quickly turning up a wallet. “Hanratty, Clovis Dee,” he says, reading the driver’s license.
“Brother of Arthur Lee,” I say absurdly.
“And white people make fun of African names,” Ike mutters, getting to his feet. “ ’Least we know what happened now. This shitkicker was out for revenge, and he picked the wrong night to try it. He was crowding that ninja assassin up on the levee, and he paid for it. The question is, who sent the assassin?”
“Portman?” I suggest. “The hardware looked pretty sophisticated.”
“John Portman would definitely have access to people like that,” Kelly says quietly. “Retired Bureau. Agency. Former CT operators.” He looks at Ike. “In any case, I hope you appreciate this enough to take care of any problems that might arise.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Ike replies. “We’re in the county here. Me and the sheriff understand each other. Although three killings in one day is big-time trouble for this town.”
“The district attorney could be a problem,” I tell them, thinking of Austin Mackey.
“Fuck that tightass,” Ike mutters. “We got three witnesses telling it one way, dead guys got nobody. Mackey got no choice.”
“I was thinking of Kelly’s submachine gun. It’s illegal.”
Kelly smiles and draws a pistol from his holster.
“What you gonna do with that?” Ike asks, dropping his hand to his own gun.
Kelly fires three quick rounds into the night sky, then holsters the pistol. “Browning Hi-Power,” he says with a smile. “Chambers the same nine-millimeter cartridge as the MP-5. Very convenient, as long as they don’t do a ballistics analysis.”
Ike nods as if noting this for future use. “Well, let’s get this over with. Let me call the sheriff.”
He starts back toward the warehouse, but I take his arm and stop him. “Who sent the sniper, Ike? Who’s trying to kill me?”
He looks back, his face indignant. “How you know he was shooting at you?”
He pulls his arm free and walks on, but I stay where I am, breathing the cooler air blowing off the river. The stars are bright here, the water close. A few minutes ago a silent bullet passed within inches of my face. But I am still alive. And the last Hanratty brother is finally dead. My daughter is a lot safer than she was before Daniel Kelly did something not many men could have done.
“Thanks, Kelly,” I say softly.
He gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Just doing my job, boss.”
Right.
CHAPTER 28
The sheriff’s office looks like an armed camp when we arrive. It’s a modern, fortress-like building, with a state-of-the-art jail occupying its upper floors. Uniformed deputies swagger through the halls like cowboys in a western, stoked by the air of incipient violence blowing through the city. Ike disappears for a few moments, leaving Kelly and me in the entrance hall.
Five minutes later, he returns and escorts us into the sheriff’s office. I sense immediately that we’re going to benefit from the jurisdictional rivalry that exists between the police department and the sheriff’s office. Had we reported the levee shootings to the police, the chief would have kept Kelly and me all night, mercilessly grilling me as payback for the constitutional lesson I gave him earlier in the day.
The sheriff is tan and fit-looking, with the watchful eyes of a hunter. He seems to view the death of the youngest Hanratty as a fortuitous event, though the timing could have been better.
“When those black kids shot Billy Earl Whitestone,” he says, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his neck, “they turned this town into a powder keg. The Sports Center sold out of ammunition at four o’clock. They sold mostly to whites. Wal-Mart sold out of everything but paintball rounds. They sold mostly to blacks. We may have a world of trouble coming down on our heads tonight. And all because of that newspaper story.” He looks at me like a wise poker player. “You think going after Leo Marston is worth all this trouble?”
“The built-up resentment in this town is none of my doing, Sheriff. What’s happening now would have happened eventually, whatever the cause.”
“Maybe,” he allows. “I sure hope you’ve got some evidence, though. Messing with Judge Leo ain’t generally good for your health.”
“Any leads on the Whitestone shooters?” Ike asks.
“The P.D. has an informer working it. They’re not telling me squat, of course, but the word is, it’s some kids from the Concord Apartments. Nobody’s been arrested yet, though. And we need an arrest. Jailing those two might go a long way toward calming people down. Maybe you ought to take a ride over to those apartments, Ike. See if you can shake something loose.”
“I’ll do it.”
The sheriff smooths his thinning hair. “Think you can give me some overtime tonight?”
“Glad to get it.”
“I want you to stick to the north side, try to keep everybody indoors.”
The sheriff is telling Ike to keep the black population inside their houses.
“I’ve given the white deputies the same orders for their parts of town,” he adds for my benefit. “It’s fear that drives all this nonsense. If we can get through this first night, we might just make it okay.”
The sheriff’s phone starts ringing, and he leans forward to shake our hands. “You boys try not to shoot anybody else, okay?”
Ike leads us out to the front steps of the building, where he takes a pack of Kool Menthols from the pocket of his uniform. He offers Kelly one, but Kelly declines. As Ike holds his lighter flame to the tip of his cigarette, his hand trembles, and Kelly shoots me a quick glance.
“You sleep with this boy if you have to,” Ike tells Kelly, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “He’s doing some good, even if he is doing it the hard way.”
Kelly winks at Ike. “No sweat, Sergeant.”
“How’d you know I was a sergeant?”
“It’s like a sign around your neck, brother.”
Ike’s laugh is good to hear, but as we move down the steps toward our cars, Kelly leans toward me and says, “He’s speeding like a racehorse, with bourbon underneath. Something’s eating him. Bad. None of my business, of course.”
I slap him on the shoulder. “You say whatever pops into your head, Kelly.”
“Will do.”
Since my mother’s computer was destroyed in the fire, I planned to draft my answer to Marston’s suit at the offices of the Examiner. They occupy an entire building in an old section of downtown, a long one-story structure with inadequate parking.
Even at this late hour the door is open, and we find Caitlin in the newsroom, sitting before a twenty-one-inch monitor, commanding her staff with a cell phone in one hand and a computer trackball in the other. She’s dressed in jeans and a teal pinpoint button-down, which gives her the look of a college yearbook editor. She waves when she sees me but continu
es her phone conversation. The newsroom is forty feet long and twenty wide, with a half dozen computer workstations—all in use—and photos of distinguished Natchezians decorating the walls.
“Who’s this?” Caitlin asks, sliding her cell phone into a belt holster as we approach.
“Daniel Kelly. Part of the security from Houston. Kelly, this is Caitlin Masters, fledgling muckraker.”
Caitlin sizes Kelly up as she leads us down a hall, noting his average size and easy demeanor. Falling back beside me, she whispers, “Is he qualified?”
Kelly chuckles softly.
“He just saved my life,” I say in a normal voice. “I’m sold. Have you put tomorrow’s issue to bed?”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “Are you kidding? This town’s about to pop.”
She pushes us into a glass-walled conference room screened with venetian blinds for privacy. “We’re pushing back the deadline as far as we can. Two in the morning if we have to.”
“Can you do that?”
“With computers we can reformat the whole paper and go to plate in thirty minutes. There’s a rumor that the police are close to an arrest in the Whitestone killing. And we must have gotten a dozen calls about people carrying guns in and out of their houses. They’re saying it’s just like it was before the riot in sixty-eight.”
“That wasn’t much of a riot. Everybody was scared to death, but nobody got killed. Just a bunch of broken store windows.”
“Let’s hope that’s all that happens this time.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
She gives me an icy look. “You think I want the town to explode so I can sell papers?”
“No.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Three hours ago a CNN crew yelled a question at John Portman as he was leaving the Hoover Building. He walked over and told them on camera that the Del Payton case involved matters of national security, and that the FBI was looking into the question of whether you or I had violated any laws in our pursuit of the case.”
“The best defense is a good offense, I guess. Anything else I should know?”
“Leo Marston’s attorney gave me a phone interview. He said your charges are ridiculous and they’re going to cost both of us seven figures. I’m running it tomorrow.”
“I expected that.”
Caitlin smiles like a child hiding a cookie. “I also have some good news. My father called back and told me that if I was sticking by my story, there must be something to it. He’s going to help.”
“How?”
“By committing the full resources of the media group to investigating Marston and Portman. He’s already spoken to Senator Harris from Virginia. Tomorrow, Harris is going to the Senate Intelligence Committee to ask for a special resolution authorizing the opening of the Payton file. Failing that, he’ll ask that it be moved from FBI custody to a place where it can’t be tampered with, at least until Director Portman’s involvement in the case can be clarified. If that doesn’t work, he’ll stand up on the Senate floor and ask the same things on C-Span.”
I feel the relief of a man trying to push a car uphill when four strong backs join him in his effort. But the feeling vanishes quickly. “Asking that the file be opened is good. But if he can’t get that, it’s best that the file stay where it is. At least until Sunday.”
For a moment Caitlin looks confused. Then she grabs my wrist. “Lutjens is going to try for the file?”
“Sunday.”
“I’ll tell my dad to call the senator back.”
“It’s nice to have powerful friends.”
Her eyes twinkle with irony. “Isn’t it?”
Kelly laughs. He’s not sure what he’s gotten into, but he’s clearly enjoying it.
“How did Mr. Kelly here save your life?” Caitlin asks.
“He killed two guys who were trying to kill me. One was Arthur Lee Hanratty’s brother.”
“Jesus. Did this happen near the river? We heard some kind of call on the scanner, but it was coded.”
“That was it.”
“Can I print this story?”
“Absolutely. The more public this thing gets, the safer we are.”
“We ought to be very safe, then. I’m getting nonstop calls from the major papers, the networks, everybody.”
There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Caitlin walks into the hall for a hurried conference. When she returns, her face is flushed pink with excitement. “The police just trapped the Whitestone suspects in the Concord Apartments. I’m going over to cover the arrest.”
The Concord Apartments are a low-income housing development, and a center of drug and gang activity in Natchez. “The residents over there aren’t big fans of the police,” I warn her. “They’re probably as volatile as old dynamite right now.”
“That’s why I’m going. You want to come along?”
“I can’t take the time. I’ve got to file my interrogatories and requests for production along with my answer. That’ll keep Marston off balance, make him think I’m ready to go to court on a moment’s notice.”
“Speaking of Marston, where’s your other friend?”
“My other friend?”
She gives me a sidelong glance. She means Livy.
“Oh. I have no idea. With her father, I guess.”
Caitlin obviously wants to say more, but she’s unwilling to do so in front of Kelly. “I’ve got to get going, guys.”
“Wait. Go with her, Kelly.”
Kelly looks at Caitlin, then back at me. “I think you’re the one who needs protection, boss.”
“I’ll have a photographer with me,” she protests. “I’ll be fine.”
“Kelly’s worth ten photographers. I’ll be here for at least two hours, then I’m going straight back to the motel. He can tell you how he saved my life on the way.”
Caitlin is wavering.
Kelly bends over, lifts a cuff of his jeans, and pulls out a small automatic, which he passes to me. “Safety’s on.”
I slip the gun into my pocket and look at Caitlin. “Satisfied?”
“Okay, I’ll take him. But you go straight to the motel from here. No side trips.”
“I need a computer. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
“We’ve got plenty of both.”
Kelly and Caitlin still haven’t returned when I leave for the motel. While typing my discovery requests, I overheard enough newsroom conversation to follow the situation unfolding at the Concord Apartments. The two teenagers who allegedly shot Billy Earl Whitestone had holed up in the apartment of their grandmother. Somehow, Caitlin managed to get them on the telephone, and during that conversation one of the boys admitted to the shooting. He claimed he’d shot Whitestone because Ruby Flowers’s death had so upset his grandmother that he had to do something. He chose Whitestone as his victim because he’d often heard an uncle talk about how Whitestone had run the Klan during the “bad times.” An hour after this confession, the grandmother talked the boys into giving themselves up, on the condition that Caitlin be allowed to accompany them to the police station to ensure their safety. I assume Caitlin is still at the station now, running the police crazy and keeping Kelly jumping.
Kelly’s pistol is on my lap as I drive toward the motel. There’s no traffic on the streets, or even the highway. Fear has worked its way into the fabric of the town.
A police car screams out of the empty darkness, siren blaring, going in the opposite direction. Halfway to the motel, a jacked-up pickup filled with white teenagers roars alongside me, pauses as its occupants peer in at me, then roars off again. Night riders looking for a fight? Or kids trying to figure out what all the excitement’s about? I won’t know until I read tomorrow’s paper.
The single-story buildings of the Prentiss Motel remind me of the motor courts of my childhood vacations. But viewed without the kaleidoscopic lens of wonder, they are a mean and depressing sight. The thought of my parents forced to live here because of my actions is hard to bear. Yet
they have not uttered one word of complaint since the fire, not even my mother, who urged me to avoid the Payton case from the beginning. Now that events have proved her right, what is she doing? Making the best of things. I feel like dragging some realtor out of bed and buying her the biggest goddamn house in the city.
Orienting myself by the greenish glow of the swimming pool, I park and start walking toward our rooms with Kelly’s gun held along my leg. Halfway there, I feel a sudden chill.
There’s someone sitting in one of the pool chairs. Fifty feet away, a dark silhouette against the wavering light of the water. As I walk down the long row of doors, the figure rises from the chair. I put my finger on the trigger of the pistol and quicken my steps.
“Penn?”
The voice stops me cold. It’s Livy.
I slip Kelly’s gun into my waistband and jog toward the pool fence. Livy opens the gate and waits just beyond it. She’s wearing a strapless white evening dress that looks strangely formal beside the deserted swimming pool. The moonlight falls lustrous upon her shoulders but is somehow lost in her eyes, which look more gray than blue tonight.
“What are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
“I wanted to see you,” she says. “That’s all. I had to see you.”
“Is everything all right?”
“That depends on what you mean by all right. Things are a bit tense at our house. More than a bit, really. But I’m sure your house was like that when my father went after yours.”
She has no idea how bad things got at our house during the year leading up to that trial. But soon she might. Before she can say anything else, I ask what I’ve been wanting to ask since I saw her at the airport in Baton Rouge.
“Livy, a few nights ago, at a party . . . your mother threw a drink in my face.”
“She what?”
“She told me I’d ruined your life.”
Livy’s expression does not change. She holds her eyes on mine, attentive as a spectator at the opera. But I sense that she’s expending tremendous effort to maintain this illusion of normalcy.
“What was she talking about?” I ask.
