The Bone Tree (75 page)

While Peggy snored, he’d put on his clothes, retrieved a flashlight, and climbed up to his attic to go through his old Triton Battery records. A steady current of fear ran through him as he breathed suffocating dust and flipped through yellowed files, but the thing he feared most he did not find. Frank Knox’s health file was not among his records.

Tom didn’t sleep much after that night. He worried constantly about Viola in Chicago, and also about the favor he’d done for Frank back in ’63. He lost weight, hair, and his peace of mind. Peggy begged him to have one of his partners check his health, but Tom knew the source of his problem. What he didn’t know was what to do about it. Eventually, he crafted a request based on fabricated medical grounds, which he sent to the Triton Battery Corporation. Tom claimed to need information on Frank Knox’s medical history, in order to better treat
one of his descendants. Though the Triton company had recently been sold, a clerk responded to Tom a month later, telling him that he’d been unable to locate Knox’s medical record. Tom initially felt relief, but then a second missive from the helpful clerk arrived, informing him that the bulk of Knox’s personnel file had been transferred to the FBI in 1965 and had never been returned to the company. The clerk forwarded a few photocopied sheets covering Frank’s employment from 1965 until his death in ’68, but this chronicle of suicidal alcoholism held no interest for Tom. The relevant year’s record was in the hands of the FBI, and this sent his paranoia into overdrive.

The first Saturday after receiving this letter, he drove down to the clinic’s rented storeroom, rolled up his sleeves, and began tearing through every box of extant medical records. It took him six hours, but he finally found the answer he had both sought and feared. It waited in a bellied old box containing the medical records of deceased patients from 1968. There, in the file of Frank Knox, was a notation in Tom’s scrawled hand recording a visit by Frank on November 18, 1963, during which Tom had ordered Knox to stay home from work for five days. The medical reason: chronic hepatitis. Tom sat alone in the storeroom, his heart pounding, his blurred eyes skimming the final page of Knox’s file, where he’d recorded Frank’s “accidental” death by industrial mishap. As terrible as that lie had always seemed, it paled in comparison to the implication of freeing Frank Knox from work during the week of the Kennedy assassination.

Tom returned home that evening a changed man. He had satisfied his curiosity, but the price had been a piece of his soul. He told no one about his discovery. After all, Carlos Marcello was still alive, and the FBI already had its own copy of Frank Knox’s absentee record. Though Tom lived in constant dread of being contacted by the Bureau about Frank, he never was. And while he half expected to receive tragic news about Viola any day, he never did. Eventually, the demands of his practice and the passage of time drove his anxiety into the background, and three years passed before he was forced to confront his fears once more.

On March 3, 1993, Carlos Marcello finally died.

Naturally, the first Tom heard of it was when his nurse ushered Ray Presley into his office at the end of a workday. The rawboned former
detective held a brown paper bag in his hands. In that bag was a bottle of expensive bourbon, which Ray took out, set on Tom’s desk, and said, “The king is dead. Long live the king.”

“What are you talking about?” Tom asked.

“The Little Man passed.”

A cold shudder went through Tom: it was fear that Viola’s days were now numbered—possibly in single digits.

Ray opened the bourbon and poured shots, and Tom drank three in a row. After Ray waxed poetic for a few minutes about the old days in New Orleans, he fell silent and looked into Tom’s eyes. Then he asked whether Tom was still confused about who’d killed JFK.

Tom shook his head and said, “Frank, right?”

“Good old Frank,” Ray confirmed, nodding.

“So what happens now?” Tom asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well . . . Frank’s been dead for a quarter century. Now Marcello’s dead. Kennedy’s been dead thirty years. Are you going to carry the secret to the grave? Or are you going to do something else with it?”

Presley’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Like what?”

“You know what. You’re a history buff, like me. We’re talking about the biggest murder case in American history. You can set the record straight, let the world know what really happened. Hell, that story’s probably worth millions of dollars.”

Ray thought about this for a while. Then he said, “I’d never live to spend it.”

“But you told me his family had lost most of its power, that his brothers were going straight. Where’s the danger?”

Presley chuckled softly. “Not from his brothers. I’m thinking about the Corsican.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Another guy who was involved in that hit.”

“Another shooter?”

“No, no. He was the cleanup man. If anything went wrong, he would have cleaned it up.”

“Meaning?”

Ray laughed at Tom’s ignorance. “Meaning kill everybody involved. Oswald, Frank, Ferrie . . . everybody.”

“Who was he?”

“Shit, I don’t know. He was Corsican, a CIA contract man. He worked as an instructor at one of the Mongoose camps, like Frank did. Hell, you met him yourself.”

Tom blinked in disbelief. “What? When?”

“On the fishing boat, remember? That time down on the coast. With Brody Royal and Devereux?”

A wave of heat rolled across Tom’s face. “That Frenchman who got so drunk and ranted about Dallas?”

“That’s right,
cher
. That’s him. They speak French in Corsica, don’t they? And I heard some real horror stories about that guy. Frank killed people, but that fucker
liked
it.”

“Christ.” The bourbon soured in Tom’s mouth and gut. “Is that guy still around?”

“Who knows? But you never leave a guy like that out of your calculations.”

“Hm. But . . . with Carlos dead, why would he take the risk of killing somebody who talked now?”

Presley laughed again. “Because he was involved in the hit. Because he’s a pro. Because he’s a sick fuck. Need I continue?” Presley threw back a shot and shrugged. “No, I’ll carry what I know to my grave, because I want that grave to be a long way off. I’d advise you to do the same, Doc.”

Later that night, Tom decided he would heed Ray’s advice. Keeping such knowledge secret went against every principle he believed in, but the logic seemed inescapable: If he contacted the authorities about what he “knew,” what would really happen? First, he had no objective proof of anything. There was the medical excuse, of course, but all that proved was that Frank Knox had lied about why he’d skipped work during the week in question. That didn’t place him in Dealey Plaza, or even in Texas. Second, Ray Presley would never corroborate anything Tom said, and he might well kill Tom for dragging him into the mess. Third, the Corsican assassin remained an enigma who might or might not be out there somewhere, ready to silence anyone who talked. If Ray was scared of the guy, that was sufficient for Tom. Finally, who would see Tom’s tale as anything more than just another crackpot conspiracy theory?

Ethically, his dilemma wasn’t as thorny as some. Unlike the Albert Norris case, the perpetrators in the JFK assassination were as dead as the victim. No one had been wrongfully imprisoned. Nothing would bring the victim back. At the empirical level, Tom would be risking his family’s lives in order to set the historical record straight—and with only the slimmest circumstantial evidence to back up his accusations. Tom was far more concerned that with Carlos Marcello physically gone, Snake Knox and his old Double Eagle comrades would take the opportunity to silence the one person who could send them to death row for murdering her brother and Luther Davis.

But that did not happen.

Tom’s original deal with Marcello had stipulated that so long as Viola did not return to Natchez, she would be left alone, and it seemed that the Double Eagles were content to abide by that arrangement. Maybe they figured that since Viola had held her silence for that long, she never intended to speak. And until a few weeks ago, history had proved them right. But at some point during her journey toward death, Viola
had
decided to return home. In so doing, she had attracted the attention of Henry Sexton. And through Henry, she’d drawn the notice of the other local men who knew that Viola possessed information that could alter not only the perception of the past, but the reality of their futures. The Double Eagles.

Through the chemical fog that held him in his suspended state, Tom heard a distant voice calling his name.
Tom? Tom . . . ?

“Tom,” said a voice in the dark. “Can you hear me?”

Someone shook him. Then Walt’s face appeared above his, eyes bleary in the weathered brown skin. “You were moaning something. Then you stopped breathing.”

“Did I?”

“Were you having a nightmare?”

“I don’t . . . Must be the drugs.”

Walt nodded, then took Tom’s pulse. “Not good,” he said. “But you can dance to it. Can I get you anything?”

Tom shook his head in exasperation. “I need the goddamn urinal again.”

“You and me both. Let me get enough light on to find it.”

While Walt searched the floor beside the bed, Tom lay back and
remembered Viola in the year he’d first gone to work at the clinic. But then, flowing through and over those memories, came images of Peggy during those summers in New Orleans when they’d been as poor as Viola and her husband would be later, when a meal in Mosca’s Italian Restaurant and a tableside visit from Carlos Marcello had made Tom feel like he was more than a penniless student, and when the smooth rumble of the Ford Fairlane carrying his wife and him back to their apartment with good wine and food in their stomachs was as solid and comforting as anything he’d ever known. For it was only later—much later—that Tom realized the three-hundred-dollar Fairlane was the costliest possession he would ever own.

JORDAN GLASS WALKED
slowly along the Malecón in Havana, watching young couples stroll down the promenade while old men fished the surf along the seawall. The night air was warm, and Jordan could hardly believe she’d been in the chilly swamp of Lusahatcha County only hours ago. Her Nikon hung around her neck, but she hadn’t taken a single photo since the afternoon, when she’d shot Raúl Castro in his office in El Capitolio. The president had been too ill to be photographed, and Jordan had done a poor job of hiding her disappointment at being passed to his younger brother. Before the session was done, however, she’d had a brief encounter that from her husband’s point of view had made the trip worthwhile.

Jordan couldn’t agree, since she felt certain that had she not left Caitlin alone in Athens Point, the young newspaper publisher would still be alive. Even if Caitlin had insisted on the two of them pushing on to find the Bone Tree using Rambin’s map, with two guns they might have driven off the young man who had killed her. In fact, Jordan thought, if she’d stayed in Athens Point, Harold Wallis might never have summoned the courage to approach them. But maybe she was flattering herself. She’d survived many combat zones, but even a seasoned veteran could be killed by making assumptions about people. And in the end, that was what had killed Caitlin.

She’d been so hungry for that story—so ready to go to the end of the trail Henry Sexton had blazed, and then farther, making the story her own—that her normal defense mechanisms had been blunted. Where normally she might have felt suspicion of a stranger approaching her with information, the fact that the young man was African-American had lulled her into thinking he was naturally on her side. Caitlin probably assumed he’d heard of her quest through Carl Sims’s minister father, who’d put out the word for information on the Bone Tree the previous
night. Caitlin would have known she stuck out like a TV actress in the dingy café at the Athens Point crossroads, so it was only natural that someone might recognize and approach her—

A burst of salsa music from the street startled Jordan, and she turned in time to see a gleaming relic of Detroit metal roar past, complete with tail fins and fisheye headlights. The laughing girl in the passenger seat was stunningly beautiful, as most young women down here seemed to be, and watching the antique car race past a dozen others like it gave Jordan the feeling of being lost on a film set. This feeling was magnified by the depressing fact that most of the occupants of the classic cars were tourists who’d paid locals to drive them around Old Havana. More disturbing still, she’d noticed that except for a couple of large ships visible in the harbor, the sea was empty of boats. The government knew that its citizens would not hesitate to strike out for Miami in even the flimsiest craft that offered the promise of a new life.

God, Jordan wished she’d stayed in Mississippi.

Her mind returned to the afternoon’s photo shoot, which had begun as a study in anticlimax. Raúl Castro was a poor substitute for Fidel, or at least the Fidel that Jordan remembered from her visit twenty years earlier. But as she was concluding her work, the president himself had stepped into the room unannounced and told her he remembered her from their previous meeting. Back then, the Cuban leader had been vital and filled with restless energy, and he’d flirted shamelessly with Jordan. The man facing her now was only a shadow of his younger self, a bent figure with a grizzled beard, swept aside by the tides of history.

Speaking softly in Spanish, Jordan told him that her husband had asked her to inquire whether he might answer a couple of questions. Having been briefed before the meeting, Fidel knew that Jordan was married to an FBI agent. In response to her request, he gave her a noncommittal tilt of the head and asked what the subject of her questions might be.

“John F. Kennedy,” she said. “New evidence has been discovered in America.”

Castro gave her a polite smile, but she thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes. “You speak much better Spanish than you once did, I believe,” he said.

“I got a lot of practice in El Salvador and Honduras in the 1980s.”

“Excellent. Tell me about this new evidence.”

Jordan had lowered her voice. “I’m not free to do that. But my husband would like to know if an American pilot named David Ferrie once ran guns to your government, before you aligned yourself with the Soviet Union.”

Castro considered the question for some time. Then he said, “This is true. Señor Ferrie was an unstable man, but in those early days we could not be selective in our choice of allies.”

“Thank you. The Bureau also has a reliable report that when you heard of the death of President Kennedy, your first reaction was to say it was a terrible thing for Cuba.”

Castro nodded firmly. “This is also true. Kennedy’s administration worked against us, and even tried to kill me, but privately we were working toward a sort of détente between our countries. Also, the man who stood waiting in the wings in America—and the men behind
him
—were far worse than the Kennedy brothers, from my perspective. It was Cuba’s good fortune that those men became ensnared in Vietnam. Otherwise, I fear we would have been next on the menu, and the world itself might now be only a memory.”

Again, Jordan thanked him for his candor while struggling to remember the questions John had given her. Pulling out a notecard didn’t seem like an ideal move in a situation where informality was the lubricant for conversation.

“At that time, you also seemed to imply that the CIA or a right-wing cabal was behind the assassination.”

Castro tilted his palm from side to side. “At that time, you must remember, this was a reasonable suspicion, given the events at Playa Girón—excuse me, the Bay of Pigs. And of course the Caribbean Crisis—our blockaded missiles—and the subsequent activities involving Operation Mongoose. It was very easy to see Lee Oswald as the dupe of more devious men. He tried to emigrate here, but we wanted him no more than the Soviets.” Castro waved his hand dismissively. “But that is ancient history. I no longer believe in a CIA conspiracy regarding Kennedy. Such men could not have kept that secret for so long.” The president regarded her curiously, then said, “Does your husband have a new theory about the events in Dallas? What has been discovered?”

Jordan tried to keep her answer as short as possible. “I’m afraid I don’t know that myself. But my husband and some of his colleagues
now believe that the president was killed by a Mafia figure that Robert Kennedy was trying to deport from America. Do you have an opinion on that?”

The old dictator’s eyes seemed to deepen as he studied her. “I’ve had a good deal of experience with gangsters,
mi cariño
. They are venal men. They care only for themselves; they have no morals or mercy. If you seek a man who would murder the president of his country—one who is not a political extremist—then a gangster fighting to survive would be very easy for me to accept. Which
mafioso
do they have in mind?”

“The boss of New Orleans. Carlos Marcello.”

Castro’s eyes filled with some of the intensity she remembered from an earlier decade. “Ah,
sí
. Some of my people had dealings with this man. He was a crony of Santo Trafficante, who I held in jail here for some time. Marcello had an interest in the Lansky casinos, and . . .”

“Yes?” Jordan asked, willing him to continue.

“Marcello’s people also had dealings with Señor Jack Ruby, who paid a visit here in connection with the release of Trafficante during the early days of the Revolution.”

“Do you know whether Marcello and David Ferrie knew each other?”

“This I do not know, I’m afraid. But”—the president smiled—“I will inquire among certain men of my acquaintance.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me anything more that might be helpful?”

“Perhaps. But first you must tell me something. I watched you while you were photographing my brother. You seem very sad,
mi cariño
. Not like the girl I remember from before. Has your trip been made unpleasant in some way?”

Jordan felt heat come into her face. “I lost a friend today. A young woman, only thirty-five.”

The old man’s eyes released the tension they had held. “I see. I am sorry. I experience the same thing often now . . . more with each passing year.”

Jordan forced herself to stay on point, not so much for John as for Caitlin, who would have tried to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. “Can you tell me any more about Carlos Marcello or the other men?”

Castro’s eyes flickered again. Jordan noticed his brother watching carefully from across the office, but the president kept his eyes on her.
“Perhaps,” he said finally. “But I shall not. Not today, anyway. I wish to reflect on what you have told me.”

At that point the dictator had nodded with enough formality to let Jordan know that her impromptu interrogation was over.

“Please let your escort know if there is anything we can do to make your stay in Havana more enjoyable. And next time bring your husband with you. I would like to speak to him on this matter. Like so many, I, too, would like to know with certainty who was behind the death of Kennedy.”

And that was the end of it.

After she left the capitol, Jordan had gone to the restaurant in her hotel, but found she had no appetite. She did feel thirsty, which had led to her drinking four Russian vodkas in quick succession. Then she’d begun her walk along the Malecón, watching the dark blue surf hammer the seawall, the waves hurling cold spray over her more than a few times. She’d wanted to fly home immediately, but to New Orleans, not Natchez. With Caitlin dead, the town was forever tainted for her. Yet John was still there, leading a forensic team as they excavated the heart of the tree that had drawn Caitlin to it like a moth to flame.

Jordan could still hear Caitlin laughing in the car as she’d talked about Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift filming
Raintree County
in Natchez, and how the Bone Tree was like a dark manifestation of that myth. More than ever, Jordan thought of Caitlin as a younger incarnation of herself. Only unlike Jordan, who had cheated death all over the world, Caitlin had walked into its embrace in her own backyard.

Realizing that she’d just walked past the door of her hotel, Jordan backed up and turned in, meaning to buy a double vodka to carry up to her room. But before she reached the bar, the desk clerk called her over in an excited voice. The fiftyish man she remembered as arrogant was a living stereotype, with slicked-back hair and a mustache that looked drawn on with a grease pencil.

“What is it?” Jordan asked, afraid that something had happened to John.

The man’s eyes sparkled with innuendo. “You have a present, Ms. Glass. A very special gift.”

The newly unctuous clerk turned and lifted a breathtaking bird-of-paradise blossom that Jordan had assumed was part of the hotel’s décor. This he presented to her with a suggestive smile. Jordan couldn’t
imagine John sending this to her. For one thing he was busy, for another he knew nothing about flowers. If anything, he would have sent roses.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said.

The desk clerk gave her a leer. “No mistake, Ms. Glass.
El presidente,
madam. See? There is a note.”

Jordan opened the sealed envelope and read the brief lines written in what appeared to be painstaking English script on common white notepaper.

I am sorry for your loss, mi cariño. Thirty-five is far too young for anyone to die. As for the other matter, please tell your husband that I agree with him about Señor Marcello. A man who knows much of these things tells me that the pilot Ferrie had close dealings with Marcello’s people. I would be interested to receive a report on this matter, though I do not expect to see one. And anyway, the truth is depressing and simple. The president’s brother pushed too hard against the shadow, and the shadow pushed back. This is the way of life. I doubt we will meet again. Like your young friend, we all share the fate of this flower.

Farewell.

Fidel

Jordan looked down at the flamboyant signature with a disturbing sense of dislocation. She felt a visceral echo of the excitement Caitlin would have felt to hold that piece of paper.

“Well,
Señora
?” asked the desk clerk. “Will they be sending a car for you?”

Jordan looked up with a glare that backed the clerk up a step. “I’d like a double vodka sent to my room. Two, in fact.”

Then she turned and walked toward the elevators.

“And the flower, Ms. Glass?”

Jordan pressed the elevator button, then looked back at the desk clerk. “You can send that up, too.”

She’d decided to return to Mississippi after all. She would take the bird-of-paradise and leave it beside Caitlin’s grave. The brave girl deserved some symbol of the exotic journalist’s life she’d always wanted, even if in truth that life did not exist.