Natchez Burning (74 page)

He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. If I’d manned up this morning, Henry might not have gotten stabbed. Brody Royal and the Knoxes have had their way in my parish for too damn long. It’s time to shut ’em down.”

After a grim salute, he climbs into his cruiser and pulls away, following the invisible tracks of Lincoln Turner. The memory of that white truck sends a rush of anxiety through me. Where did the man who believes himself my half brother run to? Where is my father at this moment? How long have the two of them known about each other? Have they spoken before? Have they embraced? If so, who brought them together? Who could have, other than Viola Turner? With an exhausted sigh, I turn and walk toward my front steps, praying I can get my mother and daughter to safety without being seen.

TOM HAD BEEN
watching the fluorescent glow of the Sidney A. Murray Jr. Hydroelectric Station from a great distance as the Roadtrek hummed over the empty croplands of the Louisiana Delta. Over Walt’s protests, he’d deposited Sonny Thornfield in the ambulance bay of Mercy Hospital, and once Walt had got them safely out of town, Tom had come forward and sat in the passenger seat. There was zero risk of a cop pulling them over. They were following the levee road that paralleled the river southward, and it felt like they were driving on the dark side of the moon. No streetlamps, no service stations, not even billboards broke the black monotony that enveloped them. Only the occasional glimmer of moonlight on the borrow pits at the foot of the levee reassured Tom that they were still on Earth.

Walt was so angry that he’d hardly spoken since they left the dead trooper behind. Tom understood, and didn’t try to force conversation. He knew his decision might have doomed them both. He also knew he had no right to put Walt into further jeopardy. Yet he didn’t regret what he’d done. No matter what Walt believed, another murder wasn’t going to save them.

Tom’s shoulder still throbbed relentlessly, but he’d endured worse in Korea, and with adequate treatment the bullet wound wouldn’t kill him. His angina, however, still lingered high between his shoulder blades like a harbinger of death. He didn’t want to take any more nitro until more time had passed, but as soon as they found a safe phone, he would call Drew Elliott and arrange for some clandestine trauma treatment.

Tom had hopes for the hydroelectric station, which was a major installation. Sited at the Old River Control Structure, it harnessed the power of the Mississippi by diverting part of the river through a dammed offshoot channel and converting that inexorable momentum into electricity. The station had a public reception area, and that seemed as good a place as any to find a pay phone.

“We can’t risk the power station,” Walt said, as though reading Tom’s mind.

Tom’s shoulder throbbed in reply. “Why not? We haven’t heard a thing on your police radio.”

“Don’t mean they ain’t looking for us. And that station’s a level-one terrorist target. There’re probably fifty cameras around it, and every one wired to the NSA.”

“Why?”

“If somebody blew that that dam at high water, it would change the course of the Mississippi by a hundred miles. In ninety days, New Orleans would be a useless marsh and Baton Rouge would be screwed as a port. The stock market would crash a lot quicker than that.”

Tom looked at one of the tall control towers and realized Walt was right. Every time the Mississippi flooded, engineers worried that the river would divert through the Atchafalaya Basin and find the Gulf of Mexico by that much shorter route. Once it did, it would never return to its present course.

“Flip down your visor as we pass,” Walt said, “and don’t even look in that direction. The NSA has facial recognition software, and the FBI can run checks through their system if they want. Since Nine-Eleven, every agency is connected.”

Tom kept his face forward, looking at the fallow fields in the glow of the station’s floodlights. “Why would a state trooper be hunting for Sonny Thornfield, Walt? Was Thornfield a fugitive?”

Walt squawked a laugh. “Man, you’re thinking ass backwards. I told you, that trooper was working
with
the Double Eagles.”

“A state cop?” Tom said skeptically.

“State, federal, local—don’t make a spit’s worth of difference. There’s always been a thin line between the black hats and the white in this state. Do you know of any connections between the Double Eagles and the state police? Think of the Eagles you know about, one by one.”

The first thing that came into Tom’s mind was Ray Presley, dead seven years now. Ray had been a crooked cop in both New Orleans and Natchez, and he’d had shady dealings with the Double Eagles—with Brody Royal, too. Tom also seemed to remember Ray telling him something about one of the Knoxes’ sons and the state police. Frank’s son, if he remembered right. Tom only recalled this because the boy had been named after a talented Confederate general.

“I believe Frank Knox’s son may have been a state trooper at one time,” Tom said. “Ray Presley told me that.”

Walt didn’t react immediately, but after a few seconds, he turned to Tom and spoke in a taut voice. “What’s his name?”

“Nathan Bedford Forrest, believe it or not.”

“His
last
name is Forrest? Or Knox?”

“Knox. Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox.”

“Forrest
Knox?”
Walt’s jaw hung slack.

“I think so, yeah. What is it?”

“Christ, man! There’s a Forrest Knox
way
up in the Louisiana State Police. I think he might even be chief of the CIB now.”

“What’s the CIB?”

“The Criminal Investigations Bureau. That trooper I shot mentioned that he worked for the CIB sometimes. Remember?” Walt shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense, though. I know the head of the whole damned outfit—Colonel Griffith Mackiever. Griff spent fifteen years in the Texas Rangers before he took a job with the LSP. No way would he have a dirty cop that high in his organization.”

Tom shrugged. “It sure would explain some things, though.”

Walt was silent for a few seconds. “I guess it could. Damn. I should have made that connection before.”

“Nathan Bedford Forrest was the founder of the original Ku Klux Klan,” Tom thought aloud. “Up in Tennessee. That sure sounds like Frank Knox, naming his son that way.”

“I’ve been in Texas too long,” Walt muttered. “That, or I’m getting Alzheimer’s.”

“Do you know this Mackiever well enough to call him?”

“And say what, genius? Hey, Griff, I just shot one of your troopers, and I’m trying to find out whether he was straight or bent?”

Tom didn’t respond. Instead, he fiddled with the satellite radio dial until he got it tuned to the 1940s station: Lena Horne was singing “Stormy Weather.”

“We’ve got to get this van under cover,” Walt said. “Not to mention getting your shoulder squared away.”

“That trooper couldn’t have reported our license plate, could he?”

“No, but he could have called in the make and model. And this van’s pretty rare in these parts. Once they find his corpse, they’ll do everything but call out the National Guard to find us.”

“How are we supposed to get this elephant under cover? What is it, ten feet tall?”

“Right at ten. And the LSP’s got six choppers in their Air Support Unit. We need some damned thick woods or a warehouse. Boat garage, maybe. You know of anything like that around here?”

Tom shook his head out of reflex, but a moment later a possible answer came to him. “You know, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone. But I need a safe telephone.”

“If a call can get us off the road and under cover, I say we go ahead and use my last burn phone.” Walt dug a black mobile phone out of his pocket and jabbed it at Tom. “Get on the horn. If we’re not under cover by the time the APB goes out, we’re going out like Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.”

The old Ranger hadn’t a trace of humor in his voice.

CAITLIN SAT ALONE
in her office at the Natchez
Examiner,
feverishly studying the notes she’d made over the past hour. Since leaving Penn’s house, she’d interviewed Sheriff Walker Dennis; Lou Ann Whittington; Hugh Fraser, the publisher of the
Concordia Beacon;
and Sherry Harden, Henry Sexton’s girlfriend. Her anger at Penn for failing to trust her had driven those interviews, and her success had left her in a state of excitement that rivaled sexual arousal.

The most thrilling revelation had come from Lou Ann, who (after giving a modest account of saving Henry’s life) had confided that Henry had told her he intended to begin writing for the
Examiner
. Henry had asked Lou Ann to keep this quiet for one day, but Henry’s decision
had
been the reason he’d been moving his files out of the
Beacon
building. Hugh Fraser confirmed that Henry had asked his permission to write for her, and that he’d given his blessing. The publisher added that Henry had been planning to write a front-page story for Thursday’s edition of the
Beacon,
covering his theories about at least five of the cold cases he’d been investigating for so long.

“Now that story might never be written,” the publisher had said in a voice freighted with grief. “If I had his files, I’d try it myself, but what those lowlifes didn’t steal is going to take weeks to get organized into some kind of order. I think I’m too old for that now.”

Caitlin couldn’t help wondering whether there might be a rough draft of Henry’s story on his office computer, but she hadn’t summoned the nerve to ask Mr. Fraser if he would check it. Maybe tomorrow.

Her interviews had yielded other nuggets, too. According to Lou Ann, as Henry slipped from consciousness, he’d been desperate to make sure that someone got certain “keys.” No one had any idea what keys he had been referring to, or even if they were physical keys at all. For all anyone knew, Henry might have been talking about digital keys, codes, or important clues to a particular case. From the moment Caitlin heard about those keys, she’d been hoping Sherry Harden would tell her that Henry kept backups of his stolen files somewhere. But the nurse had refused to tell Caitlin anything. She believed Penn’s failure to adequately protect Henry had allowed the attempt on his life, and she had no intention of helping Caitlin. Caitlin had tried to pour oil on the waters, but Sherry was having none of it (which was a shame, because what Caitlin most wanted was to go sit by Henry’s bed and wait for him to regain consciousness).

Her office door opened, and Jamie Lewis, her editor, stuck his head inside. Jamie had recently transferred down from their Charleston, South Carolina, paper, and he’d made an almost seamless transition into the small-town atmosphere of Natchez.

“I found a file photo of Lou Ann Whittington,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “She belongs to one of the local Mardi Gras krewes, and we have a shot of her riding a float. You want to run it with the story?”

“Is she in costume or anything?”

“No, it’s a decent shot.”

“Run it. She’s going to be a national hero by nine
A.M.
tomorrow, and people are going to want to see what she looks like.”

Jamie grinned. “Granny to punks:
Make my day!
We should change our name to the
Natchez Enquirer
.”

Caitlin grabbed a pen and threw it at him, but Jamie dodged the missile easily. Then he clucked his tongue three times and left.

Caitlin shoved her chair away from the desk and cursed under her breath. She hated playing catch-up. She was on the cusp of a story with national implications, yet she was almost powerless to move forward. She had no way to replicate Henry’s years of dogged investigation of the Double Eagle group. And while she did have Henry working for her, at least in theory, he was beyond her reach and might well die before morning.

She was sure of only one thing: Penn knew a lot more about Henry’s work than he’d told her so far. Last night he’d spent at least ninety minutes at the
Beacon
offices. Given Henry’s respect for Dr. Cage, the reporter had probably told Penn most of what he knew.

Knowing it wasn’t the best move she could make, Caitlin lifted her landline and dialed Penn’s cell phone. He was probably asleep by now, but she couldn’t restrain herself. If she waited until morning, she’d be even farther behind on the story.

“Caitlin?” he said, sounding surprisingly alert.

“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry I was such a bitch before.”

“It’s okay. This has been a crazy day.”

“Is Annie asleep?”

He hesitated. “Not yet.”

“You sound funny. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Penn swallowed something. Probably water beside his bed.

She let the silence drag for a couple of seconds. “I spoke to Lou Ann Whittington, the receptionist who saved Henry’s life. She told me that Henry
had
decided to accept my offer. That’s why he was moving his files.”

“Good for you. I figured that might be it, but that’s not what she told Sheriff Dennis.”

“Henry asked her not to tell anyone until he did. Penn, listen … I can understand you not wanting to break the promise you made to Henry last night. But the whole landscape has changed since then. Henry had decided to come work for me, but now he might not even survive the night. I want to help him, to carry on his work. But I can’t do that unless I know where to start.”

“I gave you quite a bit last night, and more today.”

“Yes, but Henry must have told you more than that. A lot more. His girlfriend has the idea that you two were working together. And you know what I can do if you give me something to work with. I’ve got people here just waiting to dive into this story.”

“Nothing you can do between now and tomorrow morning is going to affect Henry’s chances of survival—or Dad’s, for that matter. So why don’t you work with what you have? In the morning we’ll check on Henry and reassess where we are.”

She closed her eyes and forced herself not to argue. “What if he dies tonight?”

“If Henry dies, I’ll tell you everything I know.”