Natchez Burning (56 page)

Caitlin smiles, sensing victory. “Absolutely.”

Henry looks to me again.

“She’s never broken a promise that I know about,” I tell him. “You don’t have any worries on that score.”

“Let me talk to Mr. Fraser, my publisher. Then I’ll get back to you. But even if you meet his conditions, I’ll still have one of my own.”

“Anything you want,” Caitlin insists.

“The deaths of Viola and Glenn Morehouse have convinced me the danger is very real. I’ve been thinking about publishing most of what I have this Thursday, as a kind of neutralizing attack.”

My senses sharpen at this, and Caitlin gulps audibly.

“If I did that,” he goes on, “then the Double Eagles would have nothing to gain by killing me or my loved ones, because the information would already be public. And the FBI would have the information, too, which I’m going to have to give them pretty soon anyway.”

“That’s a damn good idea, Henry,” I say, knowing I’ll pay a domestic price for this later.

“It’s also a very big step,” Caitlin says cautiously. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t do that. But if you fire at the Eagles and miss, you’ve told them what you have and what you don’t, and maybe made yourself look foolish in the process. You might also risk a libel suit.”

Henry nods soberly. “I’ve considered that.”

“There are other ways to handle the security issue. Penn and I have dealt with death threats more than once.”

The reporter takes off his glasses and carefully wipes the lenses with his shirt. “I’m not bending on that point. Too many people have died already.”

Caitlin’s triumph quickly vanishes into concern over the next skirmish in her crusade. “Can you call your publisher from here? I’d like us to get started right away.”

Henry holds up his hands. “Oh, no. Mr. Fraser lives right across the river in Vidalia. I need to speak to him about this in person. He’s gone way out on a limb for me, letting me upset folks like I have. He’s gotten a lot of nasty remarks these past years, and a few threats besides. But he’s stuck to his guns and backed me all the way. He’s a good Christian man, and he did some brave reporting back in his day. I owe him a personal visit.”

“Go see your publisher, Henry,” I tell him. “Caitlin will be waiting for you with open arms if you decide to share your talents with the
Examiner
.”

Henry gives me an uncertain nod, then moves toward the door.

“And make her pay you like you’re Bob Woodward!” I call as he turns the handle. “Her father can afford it.”

I expect Caitlin to cuss me when the door closes, but after waiting a few seconds, she whoops and pumps her fist in the air. “I thought you’d screwed me,” she says. “But then you sold him for me!”

“I gave him my honest opinion. You’re right about the weekly paper issue. He can’t cover this story week to week, not like he could with a whole media group behind him. This thing is going to unfold by the minute.”

She walks up and lays a cool hand on my cheek. “I haven’t forgotten about your father. If for some reason Shad doesn’t cave because of the photo, I’ll take his case apart piece by piece in the paper.”

“That sounds a little biased.”

“This is war,” she says. “And he started it.”

I sigh heavily. “I’d better call Dad and tell him about the grand jury, before anyone else does.”

“Do you mind if I stay?”

“No,” I reply, but part of me is angry. If Henry had been willing to leave with her a few moments ago, Caitlin would not be staying for this.

I try Dad’s private office line first, but Melba picks up and tells me he came in for an hour, then went home to lie down after lunch. When I call home, Mom says he hasn’t been there since he left for the office after his court hearing. With my pulse accelerating, I try Dad’s cell phone, knowing that he almost never answers it. This time, though, he picks up on the fourth ring.

“Hello, Penn,” he says in an almost buoyant voice.

I look at Caitlin and shrug. “Dad? Where are you?”

“Just taking a drive. I couldn’t concentrate at the office, and I didn’t want to sit at home with your mother asking me questions all day. I needed some time to think.”

I’ll bet.
“Are you okay? You having chest pains or anything?”

“I took a nitro earlier, but I’m fine now. Really.”

“Exactly where are you?”

“Sitting in the mall parking lot. I went to the bookstore, just looking. They didn’t have anything. You know me.”

“You probably spent a hundred bucks.”

“Close,” he says with a chuckle. “What is it, son? You must have some news.”

“All bad, I’m afraid. Shad Johnson took your case to the grand jury a couple of hours ago. They indicted you for murder.”

The silence that follows seems to roar like an approaching wind. “Dad? Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” More silence, but this time it doesn’t last as long. “I guess I knew this would happen. I figured it would take a few days, though. If not weeks.”

“Me, too. I know it seems bad, but we’ll deal with it. I just didn’t want you to hear it anywhere else.”

“Thanks. Will the news be all over town?”

“It’s not supposed to be, and grand juries are usually pretty tight-lipped. It probably depends on what Shad said in there. If he brought up any paternity issues … there’s just no telling.” While Dad digests this, I add, “I think it’s time I give Quentin Avery a call.”

Now the silence is so profound that I wonder whether the connection has gone dead. “Quentin’s having a pretty bad time,” Dad says finally. “He’s lost both legs, and he’s having trouble with infections. He’s even had pneumonia. Then there’s his retinopathy, neuropathy, and just about everything else that can go wrong with diabetes.”

“Dad, this is the rest of your life we’re talking about.”

“Yes, but it’s early days yet, even if the DA is moving fast. You can easily handle this phase of things. Let’s give it a day or two and see what develops. Then we’ll call Quentin, if you still think we need to.”

“We don’t have that luxury. If Quentin’s too sick to handle a big-league murder trial, I need to know now. You’re going to need a big gun for this case. The best criminal lawyer money can buy.”

“As far as I’m concerned, that’s you.”

“You’re wrong. Seriously. We also need to get that DNA test done. That’s probably the best chance we have at defusing this prosecution, but Shad is delaying things. We’re going have to use an out-of-town lab.”

He grunts in surprise. “All right. Well … you schedule it and let me know where I need to be.”

“I will. There’s one more thing. Now that you’ve been indicted, you’re on Judge Joe Elder’s docket. He won’t be the judge who tries you down the road, because he’s resigning soon. But if Shad can persuade him, Judge Elder could revoke your bail.”

“How soon?”

“He could actually do it today from the Mayo Clinic, which is where he is now. But I doubt Joe would do that without an arraignment. I’m thinking Monday at the earliest.”

“All right, then. Don’t worry about me, son. Hey, did you turn up anything out of the Jericho Hole?”

“We did, in fact. I think we found Luther Davis’s bones, wired to the steering wheel of his car.”

“My God. I remember that boy. You keep after the bastards, Penn. Just remember what I told you last night. The Knoxes are bad, but Brody Royal is no one to mess with. You protect yourself. Henry, too.”

“I will.”

As he clicks off, I feel a strange presentiment that the real danger is to my father, not to Henry and me.

“How did he take it?” Caitlin asks.

“Remarkably well, considering.”

“When Shad went before the grand jury, could he have told them that Tom is Lincoln’s father?”

“He shouldn’t, but a DA can do pretty much anything he likes in that room. It’s a one-man show. A Natchez grand jury would have been damned reluctant to indict a respected physician for murder. To sway them, Shad probably had to play at least one ace from his sleeve.”

Caitlin paces across the room, tapping the groove between her upper lip and nose. This habit, a stagy gesture she makes when thinking purposefully, is so distinctive that I actually looked up the anatomy one day. That groove is called the philtrum.

“Do you have any pictures of Luther Davis’s bones?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In a safe place. Patience, please.”

Her eyes flash with anticipation.
“Where?”

I look down at my hands for a few seconds, then meet her gaze again.

“Not here.” I touch the page button on my desk phone. “Rose, please find Quentin Avery’s home number for me.”

“Washington, D.C., or Jefferson County?”

“I’ve been trying both his cell and his D.C. number without any luck. Try his Jefferson County place.”

“Tom doesn’t want to hire Quentin?” Caitlin asks, as I mute the intercom.

“Not yet. But we can’t wait for reality to sink in. You said it: this is war. Shad needs to be reminded that actions have consequences, and that we’re not without resources.” Opening my desk drawer, I lift out a Baggie that contains a small USB flash drive and press my intercom again. “Rose, get me Shad Johnson, too, please.”

“Will do. Just a sec.”

“Are you going to hit him with the photo now?” Caitlin asks.

I nod once, my jaw tightening.

“God, I wish I could go with you.” She sits on my desk and touches my wrist. “Tell me one thing. Are we going to treat this case like every other? In terms of the wall we keep between our jobs?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“With your father’s life at stake? No way. But I suppose we might need to keep some things compartmentalized. I guess we can negotiate each development as it comes up.”

I look hard into her eyes. “I made Henry a promise.”

She smiles. “You won’t have to keep it long. He’ll be working for me by tonight.” She looks pointedly at her watch, then slides off my desk. “I need to get back to the paper.”

“You’re going to wait until you hear from Henry before you publish anything, right?” I’m thinking of the Web edition. “Even online?”

While Caitlin glares, my intercom clicks. “Shad Johnson on One, Mayor.”

With a quick surge of adrenaline, I put Shad on the speakerphone.

“I’m accepting your earlier invitation,” I tell him. “I need a couple of minutes of your time.”

“You’ll have to wait forty-five minutes. I’ve got somebody coming in.”

“Not a campaign consultant, I hope?”

The DA chuckles, and his voice doesn’t sound even slightly anxious. “Still got your sense of humor, I see. That’s good, considering. Later, Mayor.”

Shad’s confident tone unsettles me, but when I hang up, Caitlin gives me the pitiless stare of a warrior’s wife. “No mercy,” she intones. “I mean it. You show that arrogant prick a future working as a goddamn paralegal.”

“I intend to.”

She gives my hand one last squeeze, her eyes burning into mine. “You know what’s thicker than water.”

I nod once.

After a light kiss on my forehead, she’s gone.

I look down at the nearly weightless stub of plastic and metal in my hand. Can this harmless-looking object keep my father out of jail? For two months I’ve believed that the digital image stored within this USB flash drive represented Shad Johnson’s career. But today I have an unsettling feeling that my old nemesis is a step ahead of me.

TOM CAGE STOOD
over his office desk, packing a leather weekend bag with necessities. After a brief stop at home, and a not-so-brief disagreement with Peggy, he’d returned to the office and seen quite a few patients. He’d worked on his records through lunch, trying not to dwell on the possibility that he might be making the last written notes of his medical career. Then he’d driven to the mall bookstore, a minor rebellion against the strictures of his bail agreement, and also a journey meant to gain time alone, where he could reflect one last time on his plan. After returning to the office and seeing a few more patients, he’d retired to his private office and begun packing the things he’d secretly brought from home.

Melba knew not to disturb him when the door was closed. Already in the bag were two changes of clothes, a Ziploc containing a month’s worth of prescription drugs, a prescription pad, and a short-barreled Magnum .357. To these Tom added a plastic case containing diabetic syringes, two packs of insulin vials, and his first edition of
The Killer Angels,
which contained the fading Polaroid of Viola he’d shot in 1968. After compulsively looking up to be sure the door was closed, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and removed another Ziploc bag. This one contained two vials of adrenaline, a syringe exactly like the one stored in the evidence room at the sheriff’s department, some powerful narcotics, a vial of local anesthetic, and six pairs of latex gloves. It also held a small pewter box that concealed three baby teeth belonging to Lincoln Turner. Tom tucked this Ziploc carefully into the weekend bag, then closed his desk drawer.

On impulse, he turned to the shelf behind his desk and picked up a framed family photo. A neighbor had taken it in 1988, before Jenny left for her teaching job in England. In it, Tom, Peggy, Jenny, Penn, and Sarah stood before their old house—the one the kids had grown up in, the one that had held Tom’s beloved library. That library was gone now, up in smoke, just like Penn’s first wife. Annie had not yet been conceived when this picture was shot; nor had the first malfunctioning cell in Sarah’s breast begun to fulfill its terrible destiny. Tom closed his eyes and thought of his daughter-in-law for a few moments, a penance for the relief he’d felt when Penn finally proposed to Caitlin Masters.

For some years, Tom had worried that part of his son had died with Sarah, the way part of Tom had perished when Viola left for Chicago. But Caitlin had not only proved stronger than Penn’s grief; she’d also brought some light back into Tom’s life. The medical books on Tom’s shelves described no clinically measurable “life-force,” but after more than forty years of practicing medicine, he was certain that some people were born with an extra ration of it. Caitlin certainly had been, as had Viola Turner. A few boys in Korea had possessed this special quality, the ones who’d survived wounds that would have killed any ordinary soldier. Viola’s thirty-seven years in Chicago had all but killed her unique vitality, and Tom knew now that he’d had more to do with that premature death than he ever suspected.