by Greg Iles
As Reverend Herrick prays, I turn my head and scan the gravestones on Jewish Hill, then the mausoleums on the high ground above the superintendent’s office. I have a feeling that someone else is here today. But who? Cyrus White, maybe? Marko Bakic? Or could Drew be here? Some part of me can’t quite accept that Drew will not see his paramour lowered into the ground. How difficult would it be for him to slip out of the fence behind the city jail and make his way here? Prisoners with half his intelligence and strength have done it. But I see no one hiding among the stones. Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s no one there.
Reverend Herrick is reminiscing about Kate. As I look around the cemetery, I recall many memories of this place: sneaking into it as a twelve-year-old with friends to ride madly through the dark lanes on our banana bikes; walking through the stones in the heat of summer with a lovely girl, then lying on the soft grass beneath a wall to explore each other; meeting the love of my life on Jewish Hill in the dead of night, twenty years after I lost her, hoping to learn the secret truth of our lost lives—
“Excuse me.”
A woman I don’t know brushes past me. The crowd is dispersing. Car engines start in the lanes and idle softly, while figures in black recede from my vision. I recede with them. I see Mia looking for me, but I turn away and walk toward the concrete steps in the wake of some people who parked where they could avoid the long funeral cortege.
Breaking away, I climb to the top of Jewish Hill and turn back toward the river, watching the last of the living depart. Kate’s gleaming casket lies suspended above her open grave. Soon all evidence that she lived will be buried forever. Jenny Townsend still stands beside the tent, alone with Reverend Herrick. The minister reaches out and lays a comforting arm on her shoulder. As they speak, a lone figure appears from beneath the tent. Ellen Elliott. Reverend Herrick hesitates, then moves away from the two women. What can Ellen be saying? And how is Jenny responding? Jenny knew about the affair between her daughter and Drew for some time, yet she didn’t try to stop it, nor did she inform Ellen about it. Thank God, Ellen doesn’t know any of that.
Watching Ellen offer her condolences, I realize that she’s adhering to a code of Southern womanhood that demands precisely what she is doing now: maintaining composure and grace through all trials, however difficult. The women do not embrace, but they do shake hands. Then Ellen walks toward the last two cars in the lane with quiet dignity.
“You fucked up, Drew,” I say softly. “You couldn’t see what you had.”
Of course, I’ve never known Ellen as a wife. The gracious figure that gave her sympathy to Jenny Townsend is a far cry from the drug-crazed addict Drew has probably faced more nights than I would have been able to endure. Conjuring that image, it’s not hard to see how appealing Kate Townsend must have looked to him.
Christ, what do I really think about Drew? Quentin Avery is willing to believe that he committed brutal rape and murder. But the mother of the victim is not. Of course, Jenny doesn’t have all the facts of the case. I do. Most of them, anyway. Is there a dark corner of my heart where I admit that Drew might have blown a gasket and murdered the teenager he’d fallen in love with? That he got her pregnant, panicked, and then—terrified of losing the family he’d worked so hard to build and sustain—erased her from the world?
No. The boy I grew up with, had he committed such a heinous act, would have owned up to it and taken his punishment like a man, as the archaic phrase goes. That may be a quaint and sexist notion these days, but some of what is best about the South is archaic. The tragedy is that it should be so.
If Drew didn’t kill her, says a voice in my head, then why didn’t he call for help when he found Kate’s body?
“He’s a doctor,” I say aloud. “He knew she was already dead. All he would have accomplished by reporting the body was the destruction of his family.”
But what if he didn’t mean to kill her? What if they were playing a sex game, and it simply got out of hand?
“He would have told me that,” I mutter. “He would have.”
When you start talking to yourself in a graveyard, it’s time to go home.
As I turn toward my car, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Caitlin, calling from the newspaper. I haven’t spoken to her since last night. My phone showed a missed call from her when I woke up this morning, but she’d called from the paper and hadn’t left a message, so I didn’t call her back. She must be desperate to question me about all the murders, but she’s trying hard to preserve the illusion that she won’t exploit our relationship in order to write a better story.
“Hey,” I answer, looking down the hill toward Jenny Townsend and Reverend Herrick.
“Where are you?” Caitlin asks.
“The cemetery.”
“Oh. Can you talk?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
“I’ve got bad news and bad news.”
No mention of last night, just straight into our old banter. “Give me the bad first.”
“The cops just located the spot where Kate Townsend died. The actual crime scene.”
“Where?” I ask, almost afraid to hear the answer.
“They’ve been searching St. Catherine’s Creek ever since they found Kate’s cell phone. About two hours ago, they found human blood and hair on the edge of a wheel rim that was half buried in the sand. They say it’s where the edge of the creek would have been on the day she was killed. It was flooded, apparently.”
“Yes. I think the rain slacked up about an hour before Kate died.”
“The blood they found is the same type as Kate’s. They’re going to send it for a DNA test, of course. But the hair is a perfect match.”
My shoulders sag. “Was this anywhere close to where they found Kate’s cell phone?”
“About fifty yards away. Right between Pinehaven and Sherwood Estates.”
Right between Drew’s house and Kate’s house, and exactly where he told me he discovered her body. If Kate bled heavily there, she probably died there—which means she did not die far upstream at Brightside Manor. Cyrus White suddenly looks a lot less guilty than he did thirty seconds ago. And the chances that the police will tie Drew to the actual murder scene with physical evidence just went up astronomically.
“I know that’s bad for Drew,” Caitlin says in a careful tone.
“He’ll be okay. Who found the blood? The sheriff’s department or the police?”
“The police.”
Thank God for small favors. “Hm.”
“The FBI is in town now, though. DEA, too. They’re setting up a multi-jurisdictional task force in the old Sears store at Tracetown Shopping Center.”
“Good.”
“So maybe all the evidence will be shared from now on.”
“I wouldn’t assume that.”
Caitlin is silent. She wants more information about Drew, but she’s not going to push for it.
“What’s the other bad news?” I ask.
“Ten minutes ago, Mayor Jones officially resigned. He’s no longer the mayor of Natchez.”
I close my eyes and reach behind me for somewhere to sit down.
“Jones issued his statement to me personally. The Wilson murders were the last straw. This poor guy was trying to do chemotherapy and run the city at the same time. It might have been possible during normal times, but now…it’s sad, really.”
I can’t quite get my mind around this. A decision I’d thought I had at least a month to ponder will now have to be made within days, and maybe within hours.
“Are you there, Penn?”
“Here.”
“Are you picking up Annie today?”
“Mia’s bringing her home.”
“Oh.” A little coldness in the voice? “Penn, now that Jones has stepped down, there’s going to be a special election in less than forty-five days. That’s the law.”
“I know.”
“Well, you’ve made some oblique comments about pursuing that job yourself in the
past month.”
“I know.”
“Well…if you’re going to run, you’ll have to announce in a matter of days.”
“I know that, too, Caitlin.”
I hear her breathing, slow and steady. “Are you going to do that?”
This isn’t the time or place to reveal anything, but I can’t deceive her. “I’m not sure. But right now, I’m leaning in that direction.”
More silence. Then she speaks in a falsely chipper voice. “If Mia’s keeping Annie after school, let’s try to get some early dinner. We can spend some time with Annie later at your house.”
“That sounds good.”
“Good. Planet Thailand?”
“Ah…no privacy. How about the Castle?”
“Okay. Call me.”
“I will.”
I put the phone back in my pocket, then turn and sit on the brick wall behind me. I’ve come to the proverbial fork in the road. I began my adult life as a private practice lawyer. Then I became a prosecutor. When I could tolerate that life no longer, I started writing about it instead of living it. That career has been good to me. But has the time come to leave it behind and take up yet another profession? Or would I necessarily have to leave writing behind? Would running this city require every waking hour of my days and nights? Of course it would, says my inner censor. You’re not talking about taking on a new job. You’re talking about a cause, a mission, a crusade—trying to save the town that bore you, to lift it out of a paralysis caused by economic stagnation and persistent racism. And no one’s going to thank you for the effort. You’re going to pay a price, and losing Caitlin may be part of it. And the biggest joke of all? You could spend every ounce of time and energy you have and not make a bit of difference—
A slamming car door snaps me back to reality. Down in the Zurhellen Addition, Jenny Townsend and Reverend Herrick are finally leaving. It’s time for me to go, too. But something holds me here. For the first time, Kate Townsend and I are completely alone. I wish she could speak to me. If she could describe her last minutes, a lot of people’s lives would be simplified, and justice might actually be served. But she can’t speak, and in her muteness she will become the center of a political storm that will be a trial only in name.
After a silent prayer for Kate, I jog down the hill to my car, then pull onto Cemetery Road. An overloaded log truck is rumbling toward me. Last week I might have tried to squeeze around it, but after Chief Logan’s tale of drivers who drink beer in the cab all day, I pull onto the grass beside the cemetery wall to let it pass. The ground shudders as the big truck roars by me, but after it does, I pull back onto the road and head toward town.
On my right, the Mississippi River cuts inexorably through the continent, rolling down toward Baton Rouge and New Orleans like Time Incarnate. As I clear the steep slope of Jewish Hill on my left, the Turning Angel comes into sight. The serene face watches my approach, as though waiting only for me. Of course, the angel only seems to be watching me; I know it’s actually facing away from the road and the river. Nevertheless, I drive slowly as I pass the monument, trying absurdly to catch the angel in the act of turning.
I can’t do it. Only when I pass and look back over my shoulder do I see the ageless visage staring after me again. Stepping on the brake, I make a three-point turn and pull alongside the cemetery wall. The Turning Angel is trying to tell me something. Not with words, perhaps, but there’s a message here. What? What is the message of the marble angel? What you see isn’t always the reality. We look at one thing but see another. Why? With a marble statue, because of a change in perspective or a trick of light. But with human beings, the reasons are more complex. People project only what they want others to see, or at least they try to. And even when unintended clues to the being behind the mask are exposed, we often refuse to see them. Our perception of others is always distorted by our own prejudices, hopes, and fears. And sometimes, as Quentin Avery suggested, we look at others and see ourselves.
“Appearance versus reality,” I say softly. That sounds like the title of an essay I was forced to write in high school English class.
As I stare over the gravestones at the angel’s androgynous features, several faces seem to project themselves onto the white stone, slowly morphing from one into another like the faces in the classic Sinéad O’Connor video. Mia first. The angel most resembles her, with its oval face and Madonna-like serenity. Yet as I stare, Mia somehow becomes Drew—not Drew as I know him now, but as the beautiful boy he was when he scorched across the firmament at St. Stephen’s more than twenty years ago. I blink my eyes and Drew becomes Ellen, and then Ellen, Kate, until I lose my sense of balance though I’m sitting in my own car on terra firma. Throwing the Saab into gear, I spin onto Cemetery Road and race toward town. But one glance in the rearview mirror tells me what I already know: the Turning Angel is watching me go.
Chapter
28
Caitlin and I are sitting in a small private dining room in the Castle, the finest restaurant in Natchez. The building is a restored carriage house behind Dunleith, the city’s premier antebellum mansion. One of more than eighty such mansions, Dunleith is a colossal Greek Revival palace that dwarfs even the mythic mansions from Gone With the Wind. Sited on forty pristine acres in the middle of the city, Dunleith functions as a high-end bed-and-breakfast, while the Castle, named for two Gothic outbuildings on the grounds, exists to feed the guests and, incidentally, the people of the town.
Caitlin and I didn’t drive over together; we met here. She came from the newspaper office, while I left Annie with Mia at my house. We still haven’t spoken face-to-face since she left my house last night.
I was surprised to find the main room of the restaurant crowded when we arrived, so I asked the maître’d to seat us in the private dining room. The owner of Dunleith is a fan of my novels, so my request was granted.
“Do you get that kind of treatment in New York?” Caitlin asks with a smile.
“Not a chance. They’d seat me by the bathroom.”
We order crab cakes as an appetizer, then set aside our menus and simply look at each other for a while. Just as they did last night, her luminous green eyes exert a hypnotic effect on me. Set in her pale face framed by night black hair, they seem almost independently alive.
“Small talk or big issues?” she asks.
“I think we owe it to ourselves and Annie to go ahead and deal with some things.”
Caitlin nods in agreement. “Annie called me when she got out of school today. She asked if I’d watch a movie with her tonight.”
“She told me you said yes.”
“I’ve missed her.”
Then why haven’t you called her? “Why don’t we lay some ground rules for this conversation?”
Caitlin looks puzzled.
“Absolute honesty,” I tell her. “No sugarcoating anything.”
“We’ve always been good at that.”
“Have we?”
“I think so.”
The waiter appears and pours two glasses of chilled white wine. I wait for him to depart. “We’ve been together for five years now,” I reflect. “It seems unbelievable, but we have.”
“It seems more like two.”
“I know. It’s easy to let time slip past. Too easy. I guess the question I want to ask you first is, do you still want to spend the rest of your life with me?”
She looks incredulous. “Of course I do. I can’t imagine being with anyone else.”
“If that’s true, it’s hard for me to understand why you’ve been spending so much time away.”
“Is it?”
“Well, you’ve basically been like a mother to Annie for the past five years—when you’re here, at least. But she’s getting older now, Caitlin. She’s nine. She needs more than you’ve been giving her. And I honestly don’t know if you’re ready to give her more.”
I see traces of moisture in Caitlin’s eyes, but she doesn’t speak.
“I’m not sayin
g it’s your duty to give more. I know you want to. But there’s a difference between wanting to do something and actually committing the time and effort to do it.” God, I sound like my parents. Caitlin is watching me intently, but still she doesn’t speak. “I mean, you’re actually getting to the age where if you want to have kids of your own, it’s time to get started.”
She closes her eyes, and a tear slides down her left cheek.
“Am I crazy?” I ask her. “Tell me. How do you feel about all this?”
She opens her eyes, then reaches across the table and takes my hand. “I love you, Penn. And I love Annie.” She looks as though she’s about to continue, but then she stops. I’ve never known Caitlin to be at a loss for words.
“I know you love us,” I say softly. “But you’re gone for very long periods. I mean, you’re the publisher of the Examiner, but you’re working as a reporter fifteen hundred miles away. And not even for your father’s chain. I don’t understand it.”
“I’m not sure I do either. I never really thought about it, but maybe it’s because I’m not working for my father that I enjoy these assignments so much.”
