The Bone Tree (63 page)

“I won’t. I promise.”

The photographer smiled and then hugged her. “
Have babies and be happy,
” she whispered fiercely in Caitlin’s ear. “There’s plenty of time for work.”

Jordan’s urgency sent a shock through her, but before she could analyze the feeling, Jordan hiked her camera bag higher on her shoulder and walked toward her car the way Caitlin had dreamed of walking since she was a girl. Like she’d been everywhere in the world at least twice and was on her way to one of the few places she hadn’t seen yet. But the truth was, Jordan had already been to Cuba. She’d flirted with Castro, for God’s sake. And what she wanted more than anything now was what Caitlin already had.

So why can’t I be content?
Caitlin wondered.

Jordan didn’t look back as she drove out of the parking lot and turned onto 24, headed back toward Highway 61 South, the black Suburban on her tail.

Terry Foreman walked up to Caitlin and shook her head. “Those guys were pretty cool. Are we heading back now?”

Caitlin looked down at the multi-tool in her hand, wondering what kind of crazy jams it had gotten Jordan out of over the years.

“Caitlin?”

Caitlin looked up at Terry. Actually, she saw no reason to go home just yet. Natchez was filled with reporters, all working the same story, and all hunting for a lead like the one she had folded in her back pocket. Penn and John were still interrogating the jailed Double Eagles, trying to force a confession out of one of them, like stonecutters looking for a crack in the face of a rock. And worst of all, Tom was still missing.

But I still have the map,
she thought.

Mose Tyler might have fled the area, but somewhere in Athens Point or Woodville had to be someone who knew the location of the Bone Tree. There were probably quite a few. Most would be white—ex-Klansmen or Double Eagles who’d been there for god-knows-what rituals that made widows out of wives. Those men would never show Caitlin where that tree was. But there must also be black men who knew the tree’s location, as Toby Rambin had claimed he had.

She just needed to find one of them.

“What’s that?” Terry asked, pointing at the multi-tool.

“Just something Jordan gave me to remember her.”

“Huh. Wow.”

Caitlin shoved the tool into the pocket of her jeans.

“Hey,” Terry said, sounding worried. “Don’t look now, but there’s a black guy staring at us. He’s creeping me out.”

“Where?”

“Behind you, at the gas pumps, gassing up a truck.”

“Let’s go in the café, then.”

“Shouldn’t we just head back to Natchez?”

“Not yet,” Caitlin said. “He might follow us down the road.”

Terry’s eyes widened. “God, you’re right.”

Caitlin wasn’t worried about any black guy following them to Natchez. She just wanted to buy some time to think. It would be abnormal if men gassing up their vehicles
didn’t
stare at two reasonably attractive young women standing outside a combination bait shop/café. She simply wasn’t ready to leave Athens Point yet. In fact, if she had an extra vehicle, she would send Terry back without her, then search for a reliable guide to take her back into the swamp.

“Order me a cheeseburger,” Caitlin said, nodding at the quick-service counter. “And get yourself something. I need to run to the bathroom.”

“Okay.”

Caitlin walked toward the restroom but didn’t go in. The dining area was a collection of booths with bright orange plastic seats and wood-topped tables. The smell of hot grease and onions permeated the air. Most people probably bought food from the counter, but there was a waitress who would come to your booth and take your order if you wanted to sit for a while. Three booths were occupied, all by groups of men. Two groups were black, one white. The black men were older and drank coffee as they pored over racing forms. The white men looked like truckers. She wondered what would happen if she approached one of the black men and struck up a conversation.

Jordan wouldn’t think twice about doing that,
she thought, trying to work up her nerve.

PEGGY HAD LAID
out a platter of roast beef, cheese, lettuce, and tomatoes in the kitchen. She and Annie were making sandwiches for themselves and for Officer Ervin. The iron skillet crackled and popped with melted butter as Ervin’s grilled cheese crisped up. (He’d seen Kirk Boisseau’s earlier and decided he wanted to try one himself.) Annie had the den television tuned to the Baton Rouge station and turned up loud, so that she could hear any relevant news that might break in on regular programming. Earlier she’d heard on the Jackson, Mississippi, station that an interview with Caitlin would be broadcast on WJTV during tonight’s six o’clock report.

Peggy scooped the heavy grilled cheese out of the skillet with a spatula, then cut it in half and poured some potato chips onto the plate from a bag.

“You take that to Mr. Ervin,” she said.

As Annie disappeared through the back door, Kirk Boisseau entered the kitchen from the den and asked if there was any coffee.

“I can make you some,” Peggy offered. “Or I can offer you iced tea. I just made a pitcher.”

Kirk looked suspiciously at the pitcher by the kitchen window, then walked over to it and tapped its glass rim. “It’s not that syrupy sweet stuff like we drank when I was a kid, is it?”

Peggy laughed. “The kind you can pour over pancakes? No, these days even my tea has Sweet’N Low in it.”

Kirk laughed and said he’d try a glass after he made one more round of the house.

Peggy fixed two roast beef sandwiches and set them on the counter for herself and Annie, then poured the tea and walked to the front door to find Boisseau. Her former student was just walking up the steps, and he accepted the glass with a grateful smile. Over his shoulder Peggy
watched a blue pickup truck roll up Duncan Avenue, then slow as though its driver was watching the foursome playing on the eighteenth fairway. Seeing her sight line change, Kirk turned toward the street. As she looked past him, the face in the driver’s window caught her attention. Oddly, it didn’t look human, but almost like a cartoon. Then she recognized the character:
Spider-Man . . .

As she registered a flicker of flame in the truck, Kirk shoved her back through the door. Falling backward, she saw an arm hook over the truck’s roof and throw something toward the house, the way one of her newspaper deliverymen used to heave the
Examiner
at her old house. A gun appeared in Kirk’s hand, but before he could fire, a whirling object smashed against the steps and the air burst into flame.

Peggy smelled kerosene, and then the truck tires screamed.

Kirk Boisseau fired a fusillade of shots at the departing truck, then grabbed his leg and started to yell for Officer Ervin. With the unreality of a nightmare, Peggy saw fire run up Kirk’s pant leg and gather around his waist. The floor vibrated like a drum beneath her, and then James Ervin ran past her, dragged Kirk down the steps, and rolled him onto the ground. Then he wrapped his jacket around Kirk’s leg and smothered the fire. Peggy scrambled to her feet, her mind on one thing:
Annie
—

“
Gram, what happened?
” the girl yelled from behind Peggy. “Something’s burning!”

Her frightened voice filled Peggy with relief, but instead of wasting time with conversation, Peggy pulled Annie into the kitchen, opened her purse, and took out the .38 that Tom had bought her long ago. Then she led Annie into the den and made her crouch behind a big club chair.

Heavy footsteps hammered on the hardwood, and then Officer Ervin came pounding back into the den, his beagle-like face animated with anxiety.

“You all right, Miz Cage?”

“We’re fine, James. Was that a Molotov cocktail?”

Ervin nodded. “I b’lieve it was. Call 911 and tell them we need the fire department. I’m going back outside.”

Peggy’s phone was stored in her purse and powered down, as Penn had insisted. She started to get to her feet, but Annie already had her cell phone in hand and was entering the numbers while it searched for a signal.

As Officer Ervin went back out the front door, two explosions sounded behind the house. Then Peggy heard a roar and crackle that could only be fire. She leaped to her feet and pulled Annie up with her.

“We’ve got to get out!”

Annie was speaking into her cell phone, but she let Peggy lead her toward the front door. Halfway there, Peggy stopped. What if the fire was meant to drive her and Annie into the open, where they could be shot or taken? She thought frantically. The best solution she could come up with was to hunker down just inside the front door, protected from gunfire but near an escape route.

“We need a fire truck!” Annie cried into her phone. “Two hundred Duncan Avenue! A bomb just blew up at our house. . . . Yes, a bomb!”

Through the open door Peggy heard a man roar in anger and pain. She knew it was Kirk Boisseau. Pulling Annie down to the floor, she took the phone from her granddaughter and tried to remember the last number Penn had given her.

I’M PARKED IN THE
drive-through lane of the Vidalia Burger King when my BlackBerry rings. It’s Kaiser.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Did Sonny get Snake to tell him about Dad?”

“No. Where are you, Penn?”

“Getting food.”

“Okay, stay calm. Your mother and daughter are fine, but there was some kind of attack on the house where you have them staying. A Molotov cocktail, it sounds like.”

“
What?
” A blast of adrenaline brings me straight up in my seat. “How the hell did they find it?”

“I don’t know that yet. Your mother called the sheriff’s office looking for you. Whatever number she has for you didn’t get answered, so she got me instead.”

I take out my burn phone, which I set on silent before meeting Forrest and neglected to switch back on after hearing Sonny’s JFK story.

“They just hit our satellite dish, too,” Kaiser says, “at the hotel. This was a coordinated attack, Penn. Nobody was hurt at the hotel, but our secure communications with Washington have been knocked out. The Natchez PD and fire department are over at Duncan Avenue now, and
they’re covering your mother and daughter. I’m going to head over myself, because my guys can handle the hotel scene.”

“I’m on my way, John. I’ll talk to you there.”

I honk my horn, but the cars in front of me don’t move. Rather than wait for a response, I wrench the wheel right and drive over the concrete curb, then squeal out of the parking lot.

Once I’m on Highway 84, I speed-dial Walt’s burn phone.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“The Knoxes just hit the house where I was hiding Mom and Annie. They’re okay, but the war has definitely started. Where’s Forrest?”

“I’m following him south on Highway 61. He could be headed back to Baton Rouge, or he could turn east for Athens Point and head back to Valhalla. I’m hoping that’s his plan.”

“Is Ozan still with him?”

“Yep. They could easily have ordered the attack over the phone, though.”

“Don’t lose them, Walt. We can’t afford to now.”

“I won’t. You take care of Peggy and your baby. I got these bastards covered.”

“Thanks.” As my front wheels hit the eastbound Mississippi bridge, I push the gas pedal close to the floor.

SPANKY FORD WAS SITTING
at his desk when the dispatcher informed him that the courthouse had received a bomb threat. Even though he’d known it was coming, his stomach flipped and his mind went blank for a few seconds.
What’s the protocol?
Sheriff Dennis wasn’t in the building (and hadn’t been since he’d stormed out and Agent Kaiser had announced that the FBI was taking over the department). Since the sheriff’s department occupied much of the western end of the courthouse building, a bomb threat meant a twofold crisis, and Spanky set down the phone in a kind of daze.

“What’s the matter?” asked the FBI agent sitting at the desk with him, a man named Wilson.

“We just got a bomb threat. Apparently it has something to do with JoJo Menteur.”

“Who the hell’s that?” Wilson asked.

“One of the meth prisoners. He’s downstairs in the holding pen.”

“He’s not one of the specials, is he?”

“No. He’s nobody. A Cajun who moved up here about five years ago.”

“What’s the protocol? Do you guys have an EOD squad?”

“Not really,” said Spanky. “We’re supposed to evacuate, both the department and the courthouse.”

“For every phoner? Or only credible threats?”

“How the hell do you know what’s credible? JoJo’s got some crazy-ass cousins. We’ve got to evacuate!”

Wilson thought for a moment. “Well, we can’t move the special prisoners out of the cellblock.”

“Why not? Sheriff Dennis left me in charge, and I’m not going to have deputies
or
prisoners blown to pieces on my watch. We already lost two men raiding these meth dealers.”

Wilson’s face had colored. “Agent Kaiser will shit a brick if we let those prisoners out of there. Did the threat come with a time frame?”

“Right now! How’s that?” Spanky showed some temper. “What do you think your boss’ll do if those assholes get blown up or die of smoke inhalation?”

“Good point. I’d better call him.”

“You do that. I’m calling an evac.”

Spanky hit the panic button at the front desk, and a loud alarm began blaring through the building. As deputies scattered to perform pre-assigned tasks, Agent Wilson stood and peered at the exterior windows as though some answer lay outside the building. “Who the hell would bomb a courthouse over some low-level Cajun meth dealer?” he asked. “A meth charge might get you a stretch in the pen, but bombing a courthouse is a ticket to death row.”

Spanky was about to reply when the floor rocked beneath his feet, a vibration that went into his bones. The sound only arrived afterward, a muted blast that triggered a combination of awe and fear in him.

“That was the near the courtrooms!” Spanky cried.

Two more explosions sounded from outside the building, reminding Spanky of transformers exploding during a thunderstorm. Then the sprinkler system unleashed a torrent of water upon them. The lights went dim, wavered, blacked out. Seven seconds later, they switched back on as the emergency generator came online. Spanky saw Special Agent Wilson standing with surprising coolness, holding his phone to his ear.

“Nobody would do this for some meth cooker,” he said, wiping water from his eyes. “They’re trying to get us to evacuate the cellblock. They want to break the old guys out.”

As the two men stared at each other, a second detonation rattled the building. This time the room went dark and silent, as all the computer drives and fans spun to a stop.

“They took out the backup generator,” said Spanky. “What do you think now?”

At that moment an FBI agent raced into the office from the hall that led to the courthouse. “Dan!” he cried, waving at Wilson. “Somebody just blew up two of our cars!”

“Son of a bitch,” Wilson said, raising his hand to point at Spanky. “This may be an escape attempt. Don’t let a soul in or out of the cellblock until I get back.”

“Don’t worry,” said Spanky, stunned by how perfectly Forrest’s predictions were being borne out. “You guys be careful out there.”

WHEN THE FIRST SHUDDER
rolled through the cellblock floor, all six Double Eagles came up off their cots. As the lights dimmed and came back on, a babble of questions bounced off the cinder-block walls. The fear in the voices was plain. After seven or eight seconds, Snake shouted everyone down, and the block fell silent.

“What the fuck, Snake?” whispered Gene Christian from his cell.

“That was a bomb,” said Skillet McCune.

“C4, sounded like,” said Snake. “Did you think Forrest was gonna leave us in here to rot?”

“Hot damn!” cried Skillet.

“Keep your yap shut. I want to listen.”

Sonny Thornfield had known it was a bomb within two seconds of the blast. During the war he’d been inside buildings that had taken direct hits from mortar rounds. That bone-rattling shudder of masonry and earth was unique to blast waves, at least in this part of the country.

Sonny sat frozen on his cot, wondering what Snake might know that Sonny didn’t. Would Forrest really try to stage a mass escape with FBI agents crawling all over the courthouse?

A second detonation rocked the building, and this time the lights
went out. Now the only illumination reaching the cells came from gray light spilling through the high slit windows.

“Jesus,” someone breathed. “Were you expecting that one, Snake?”

“Right on time, boys. This is it. Okay?”

As Sonny wondered what Snake meant, all eight cell doors slid open simultaneously.

“Holy shit,” Skillet marveled.

“
Go time,
” said Snake.

In the darkness Sonny heard the hiss of sock feet sliding across the floor. The sound seemed to come from all directions at once.

He was no longer alone in his cell.

The fear hit Sonny’s chest like the boot of that Texas Ranger who’d kicked him in the sternum three days ago. He prayed that the pain was only angina and not another heart attack.

“
Stand him up,
” ordered Snake. “Quick, now.”

Powerful hands seized Sonny’s arms below the shoulders, then hoisted him to his feet. In the dim haze he saw Snake’s slit-eyed face inches from his own, and then a pair of hands looped something thick and dark around his neck. A towel, maybe? He tried to pry his arms loose, but the hands that held them were far too strong, and the towel quickly choked off his air. He thought briefly of Glenn Morehouse’s giant hands twisting Jimmy Revels’s coffee-colored arm down to the workbench . . . but Glenn was dead now. Sonny blinked in confusion. Everything he saw and felt was distorted by the prism of agony in his chest.

“
Traitor
,” spat a venomous voice near his head.

The words that followed penetrated no deeper than Sonny’s eardrums. The terror he’d felt when the cell doors opened had yielded to an eerie sense of separateness—as though he were some Gemini spaceman whose tether had been cut, so that he drifted steadily away from his ship with its life-sustaining oxygen. Was this how Jimmy Revels had felt when he spoke the three words that had haunted Sonny every day of his life?