Natchez Burning

  With shaking hands, Sleepy cranked his own truck and followed them.

  CHAPTER 49

  WALT GARRITY CRUISED slowly up the gravel road in pitch darkness while Tom studied the scope monitoring the GPS tracker on Sonny Thornfield’s truck. A hundred yards down the slope to their left lay Old River, once a great bend in the Mississippi River but now a lake created by a cutoff dug by the Army Corps of Engineers in 1932. You could still access the Mississippi from Old River, through a channel a half mile east of here, and that’s why all the fishing camps along Old River were built on thirty-foot-high stilts. When the Mississippi flooded, Old River did, too, and the only way in or out was by boat. But the people who owned camps here loved that isolation, and that, Tom figured, was what Sonny Thornfield had come here to find.

  “Let’s hope he’s alone,” Walt said.

  Tom had made house calls down here before. A few of the camps were luxurious, but most were little more than shacks on stilts, with three flights of iron steps for access. All had makeshift elevators, metal cages hauled up and down a metal track system by a truck winch mounted at the top.

  “Shouldn’t that one be it?” Walt asked, pointing up into the darkness, where a faint yellow light burned.

  “I think so,” Tom said, still trying to decipher the screen.

  Walt made a sharp left into an empty driveway next door to the camp where Thornfield had parked, and cut his engine. “No point wasting time,” he said, touching the derringer that hung on a chain beneath his shirt. “Same signal as the steak house, okay? If you see anything strange, start the engine.”

  “I will. You be careful.”

  Walt saluted, then got out of the van and silently closed the door.

  Tom quickly lost sight of him in the darkness, but he felt confident that Walt would succeed in his mission. A seasoned hunter of men, the old Ranger wouldn’t hesitate to use force if things got dicey. Walt had given Tom a handheld radio to monitor, and reiterated that Tom must leave his cell phone switched off. Tom felt exposed sitting in the empty driveway, even in the dark. But at least most of the camp houses had RVs of various types parked beneath them. As he waited in the van, alone but for the ticking of the cooling engine, his mind began to wander.

  All day, he had been quietly contemplating a biblical tale his father had despised. On the Day of Atonement, the priest of the temple had chosen two goats by lot. One would be sacrificed on the altar for the sins of Israel, the other cast out into the desert, bearing the sins of the people on its head. The first goat was known as the Lord’s Goat. The second—the Azazel—became known as the scapegoat. Because the scapegoat was sent away to perish, it came to represent any person blamed or punished for the sins of others, or to distract attention from the real cause of a crime. The Bible was replete with examples: Eve blamed for original sin, Jonah for a storm at sea. Barabbas, the thief, was allowed to live while Jesus, the Lord’s Goat, died for the sins of man. In the New Testament, Satan had become the scapegoat for God’s harsher side.

  Tom’s father, a man of rigid moral rectitude, had condemned this practice as an expression of man’s basest urges. He’d recounted countless historical examples: Alfred Dreyfus rotting on Devil’s Island; royal whipping boys beaten bloody; medical patients scapegoated for epidemics; Jews being led to the ovens as Tom approached puberty. Percy Cage had ingrained in his son the conviction that a man of honor admitted his mistakes, took responsibility for them, and stoically accepted his punishment. Evading responsibility for sin was cowardice, plain and simple. Yet in the present circumstance, Tom thought, he had no choice. Not if he wanted to live with his family for the final year of two of his life, and not in a locked cage.

  He thought of Glenn Morehouse, the simple-minded factory worker he’d treated so long ago. Morehouse was probably the least guilty of all the Double Eagles, because he’d had the least free will. He’d also possessed some remnant of a conscience, because he’d been murdered for trying to unburden his soul before death. But Glenn Morehouse, too, had committed murder. He’d participated in Viola’s rape, and probably countless other acts of brutality. Few tears, if any, had been shed at his death. And since Morehouse was dead, what more fitting scapegoat could there be for Viola’s murder?

  Tom’s radio crackled in his lap. Then Walt said, “He’s moving around inside.”

  Tom’s chest tightened. He reached down into his bag for his short-barreled .357 and laid the heavy pistol in his lap.

  “Get ready,” Walt said. “I think he’s coming out.”

  Tom got to his feet—he had to stoop inside the van—then opened the side door and stepped out into the night. The smell of dead fish and rotting vegetation assailed him. He stuck the .357 into his waistband and crunched up the gravel driveway, then crossed over into some shadows thrown by the light beneath Sonny’s camp house. He’d barely found a place to wait when he heard a screen door bang against its frame high above him.

  A new sound puzzled him for a few seconds. Then he realized that Thornfield was pissing off the deck high above. By the light of the moon, Tom saw urine falling in a thin, irregular stream to his right. Old man’s prostate, he thought. Tom had little doubt that Walt would make use of Thornfield being indisposed to get control of him. Sure enough, he heard a squawk of surprise, and the trickle of urine abruptly stopped.

  Angry words passed above him, and then, as Walt had predicted, someone started down to the ground in the makeshift elevator. Walt had told Tom to expect Sonny in the cage, and ten seconds later, the old Double Eagle appeared, clinging to the bars of a flimsy metal elevator as the winch groaned and whined high above him.

  Tom heard Walt descending a metal staircase on the other side of the elevated shack, but he seemed in no hurry. As Walt had predicted, Sonny seemed to think this was a chance for escape. Wearing only pajama pants and a wifebeater T-shirt, he peered back at the staircase, gauging Walt’s rate of descent, a sly smile on his lips.

  When the cage hit the ground, he jerked up the safety bar that held him inside and started toward his pickup truck. Either he kept a spare key inside, or there was a gun under its seat. Tom stepped out of the shadows, directly in his path. The old Eagle’s eyes went wide, then narrowed when he recognized Tom.

  “What you doin’ here, Doc?”

  “Waiting for you, Sonny.”

  Thornfield looked back up at the staircase. Walt was only about halfway down and he hadn’t increased his pace. “I need to get somethin’ out of my truck, Doc. I’ll be with you in a sec.”

  Tom took the Smith & Wesson out of his waistband and pointed it at Thornfield’s potbelly. The T-shirt that covered it was stained with fried egg and something dark, maybe jelly. “You wait right where you are.”

  “Hey, Doc, take it easy with that. There’s a guy upstairs tryin’ to rob me.”

  Tom couldn’t help but smile. “He’s not here to rob you. He’s here to help me. We need to ask you some questions, Sonny. We’ve got a proposition for you.”

  Walt’s boots clanged on the metal steps as he neared the ground. Thornfield seemed to understand that once the man in the cowboy hat reached ground level, he would lose all chance of escape. Without another word, Sonny started running toward the next house over.

  “Stop!” Tom shouted.

  Sonny looked back over his shoulder but didn’t stop.

  Tom raised his pistol, aimed between Thornfield’s shoulder blades, and cocked the hammer. The old man turned, trying to decide whether Tom had the nerve to fire.

  “I’ll kill you, Sonny,” Tom said, surprised by his desire to pull the trigger. “You deserve it, for what you did to Viola.”

  Thornfield stopped backpedaling and stood uncertainly between the camp houses. Tom walked toward him, still aiming the pistol. “You raped Viola when she was a happy young woman. You and Frank and the others. You ruined her life. If I kill you now, I could pin Viola’s murder on you, along with whatever else your buddies need to take off the books.”

  Sonny’
s eyes widened, and then his face took on the cast of the eternal loser who feels put upon by the world. “What do you guys want with me? I ain’t nobody. And I ain’t done nothin’ to you. I didn’t hurt that Viola none, neither. You got the wrong idea, Doc. Way wrong.”

  Walt took a couple of steps past Tom. “If that’s the case,” he said, “I’m sure we’ll find a way to make it up to you. But right now, you need to step into that van over there.”

  “No way,” Sonny said, glancing at the Roadtrek. “I ain’t gonna. I ain’t no fool. And Doc ain’t gonna shoot me.”

  Walt raised his derringer and touched the barrel to Thornfield’s forehead. “Maybe not. But I’ll blow your damn brains out and never lose a moment’s sleep over it. So, you can take your chances in the van or you can die where you stand. Make your choice, bub. I need some coffee.”

  “Who are you?” Sonny asked.

  “Captain Walt Garrity, Texas Rangers.”

  Sonny’s mouth worked around as though trying to raise a plug of spit. There was a lot of white showing in his eyes.

  “Life or death, Sonny?” Tom said. “Life is in the van.”

  “Shit,” Sonny said. Then he started walking toward the Roadtrek.

  CHAPTER 50

  IF A MAN is forced to choose between the truth and his father, only a fool chooses the truth. That quote rings in my head like a mocking mantra as I pull into my parents’ driveway. Annie sits puzzled beside me. I woke her from a dead sleep an hour after realizing why I’d sought out the old photograph of Viola. After my epiphany about the night my father left me stranded at the hospital, I struggled to understand what might have resulted from their relationship, and I quickly came to the conclusion that Lincoln Turner was one possible answer. This realization must have overwhelmed me, because I quickly slipped into a dreamless coma. But while I slept, a key of some kind turned deep within me, for I started awake with my second revelation of the night. To my surprise, it concerned my mother, not my father.

  When I called my mother earlier tonight—my second call of the evening—she told me my father was still asleep. The wrongness of that answer should have hit me instantly. Had this not been one of the most stressful days in all our lives, it would have, but I assumed that Dad was exhausted from the day’s events, and from grief over Viola. But when I snapped awake in my chair the second time, I knew how mistaken I’d been.

  I can’t remember ever being at my parents’ house at night with my father asleep and my mother awake. Invariably, my mother lay in bed while my father dictated medical charts by phone, painted lead soldiers, read in his library, or watched movies in bed while Mom snored under the influence of her sleeping pills. Only during the day would I find my father asleep and my mother awake. As soon as this realization hit me, I knew I had to go to my parents’ house. I calmed Annie as much as I could after waking her, but during the drive over, she quickly sensed my anxiety. I took her hand in mine and told her everything would be fine, but I’m not at all confident of this.

  Together we get out of the car and walk hand in hand to the carport door. On the way over, I called Chief Logan and told him to warn his patrolmen that I would be coming, but I didn’t call my mother. Ringing the bell at this hour might frighten her, but I’m unwilling to let her manipulate me any longer. If I must choose between the truth and my father … I choose the truth.

  “Who is it?” Mom calls through the door.

  “Penn.”

  “Penn? What on earth? Why didn’t you call?”

  “Mom, it’s cold. And I have Annie with me. Open up!”

  After five seconds of silence, she flips the bolt and opens the door. I see many emotions in her face, but fear is dominant. I also see one hand hidden in the pocket of her housecoat. Whatever she’s holding there looks heavy—probably the .38 Special my father gave her decades ago.

  “Why don’t you make Annie some hot chocolate?” I say, slipping past her and into the kitchen.

  “I don’t need any hot chocolate,” Annie says. “Gram? Are you okay?”

  I walk into the den and toward the hallway that leads to their bedroom.

  “Penn!” Mom calls after me. “Your father’s exhausted. Please don’t put any more stress on him today.”

  With a last look back at her, I enter the dark hall and move along it, my heart pounding with dread. Her hurried footsteps rush up behind me.

  “Penn, please don’t wake—”

  I whirl on her, my face hot. “He’s not in there, is he?”

  She takes a deep breath and looks at the floor.

  “Mom?”

  When she looks up, her eyes are red. “No.”

  For a few seconds the world seems to shudder on its axis. A couple of hours ago I learned my mother would lie on the stand to protect my father. But now I realize she’s been lying to me. How could that deception possibly help Dad? Who could it protect him from, other than me? But then the answer comes to me: my parents believe they’re protecting me by keeping me ignorant of my father’s insanely desperate act.

  “Daddy?” says a small voice.

  Annie stands watching us from the end of the hall. I want to comfort her, but I can scarcely get my mind around what’s happening myself. “Where is he, Mom? Tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, hurrying to Annie’s side.

  “Is that the truth?”

  She looks back at me in surrender. “Yes.”

  “Do you have a way to reach him?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She hugs Annie and whispers something in her ear.

  “Why do you look so mad, Daddy? Is Papa okay?”

  “I’m not mad, baby. Please go back to the kitchen for a second. We’ll be right there.”

  After my mother whispers something else, Annie reluctantly obeys.

  I step closer to my mother so that I can keep my voice low. “He’s jumped bail?”

  She nods.

  “How long ago?” I ask, trying to compute how much time has elapsed since I called earlier. “Two or three hours?”

  “I think he left just after lunch. I’m honestly not sure.”

  I feel like a man blinded by some injury, suddenly having his bandages ripped off. I spent the second half of this day working on the assumption that I’d have the opportunity to try again to persuade Dad to save himself, and that Quentin Avery might help me do that. But the truth is that my father jumped bail hours ago, and probably fled the city. Maybe even the country.

  A primal blast of fear surges through me. Two days ago, Viola Turner was murdered in her sickbed. Last night Glenn Morehouse was murdered almost the same way. Tonight someone tried to kill Henry Sexton. Right after that, Special Agent John Kaiser asked me if I could protect my “folks” until the FBI arrives tomorrow. I said I could. What the hell was I thinking?

  “Mom, pack a bag. Right now. Clothes for three days.”

  Her eyes go wide. “What?”

  I take her arm and start leading her up the hall. “We’re in danger. All of us. When was the last time you talked to Dad?”

  “Around noon,” she says, trying to hold her ground. “Wait!”

  “We can’t. Pack the bag and bring your pistol. Don’t take more than five minutes. Annie and I will be in the kitchen.”

  She stops. “Penn, I can’t leave this house.”

  “Why not? Is Dad going to call you here?”

  “No, but …” She doesn’t know what to say. “Where are we going? To your house?”

  “Only long enough to get Annie packed. We’ve got to go into hiding. At least you and Annie do, until I can find out what’s really going on. The FBI will be here tomorrow, and things should be safer then.”

  “Penn, this is crazy. Why are you saying this?”

  “Because Dad’s put us all in danger! Maybe more than he understands. I hope so. But either way, I’m going to need your help with Annie.”

  Mom shakes her head, reflexively resisting me. Grippi
ng her shoulders, I lean down and look hard into her eyes. “Annie needs you. Now, go. Go!”

  She hesitates five or six seconds, but then her resistance crumbles. Annie is the future of our family, and my mother cannot contemplate exposing her to danger. The decision made, she takes her pistol from her pocket and darts through the bedroom door.

  CHAPTER 51

  TOM SAT IN the back of Walt Garrity’s Roadtrek van, looking into the flat, uncommunicative eyes of Sonny Thornfield. They’d sat him on the edge of the six-by-six-foot bed in the rear of the van. The old Double Eagle’s hands and feet were bound with a pair of flex-cuffs that Walt had brought from Texas.

  “What the hell am I doing here?” Thornfield asked.

  Neither Tom nor Walt answered. Walt had explained to Tom that for their plan to work they must instill genuine terror in Thornfield. If they had more time, a different approach might work. But under the pressure they faced now, they couldn’t afford gentleness. Sonny Thornfield had to believe that they didn’t care whether he lived or died. Only then would he grasp at the only escape route they offered him.

  To ensure privacy, Walt had parked the Roadtrek on the river side of the levee, near the edge of the borrow pits—the long trenches left behind where earth was “borrowed” after the 1927 flood to build the levee system that protected Louisiana from the wrath of the Mississippi River. In the decades since, those huge pits had filled with black water, cottonwood trees, and scrub vegetation, a perfect environment for snakes, fish, and alligators to thrive. More than one corpse had been found in the borrow pits over the years, and at this time of night, the only people likely to drive down here would be poachers or teenagers looking for a place to have sex. They would give the polished silver RV a wide berth.

  “You guys just kidnapped me,” Sonny said resentfully. “That’s a fucking felony.”

  Walt backhanded him across the face, just to set the tone of the occasion.