Natchez Burning

  The reporter opened his eyes with difficulty. Caitlin held the first snapshot up and tilted it so the overhead light shone on the paper.

  “This is Tom Cage with Brody Royal,” she said. “In a fishing boat. Can you see it?”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “Why was Tom with Royal?”

  “Don’t know. That picture always worried me …” Henry blinked and opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

  “Henry?” She fought the urge to shake him. “Can you hear me?”

  “Doc … never let me … interview him. I … gave Penn copy.”

  Caitlin’s mouth fell open as Henry groaned. One more thing Penn had withheld from her.

  “Doc told Penn … wasn’t nothing. One-time … thing.” Henry jerked as though at a sharp pain. Her stomach clenched in sympathetic reaction.

  “There’s some writing on the back of the picture,” she said in his ear. “It says ‘BT,’ and then ‘T. Rambin.’ Henry,” she said sharply, feeling him slipping away. “Henry! Can you hear me?”

  “Unnhh,” he moaned. “Bad now … push the pump.”

  Caitlin sighed and pressed the pain pump three times in quick succession.

  Henry murmured something, but she couldn’t make out the words Then his eyes slowly closed, and he began to snore. The Dilaudid had overcome both pain and consciousness.

  Caitlin prayed he would awaken before Sherry returned.

  TOM AND WALT LOOKED at each other over empty Chinet plates that smelled of fried fish and ketchup. Melba walked over to them with the flat paper bag she’d used to blot the grease from the bream fillets and french fries.

  “Still got some left,” she said. “Any takers?”

  Walt groaned and rubbed his belly. “If I eat another bite, I’ll pop. You did a fine job, Melba.”

  The nurse smiled and laid a hand on Tom’s good shoulder. “How bad’s that pain, Doc?”

  “Nothing two more Lorcet wouldn’t fix.”

  Melba humphed like chiding nurses around the world. “Two more Lorcet and you’re liable to quit breathing when you doze off on that couch.”

  Tom winked at Walt, who smiled briefly, then wiped his hands on a paper towel, stood, and flattened his trousers. “I hate leaving you two, but until I meet Colonel Mackiever, we’re not going to have a prayer of leaving this place.”

  “You’re sure it’s not a trap?” Tom asked.

  “Mac and I Rangered together. That’s the best answer I can give you. Anyway, he’s the only man in this state who can cancel that APB.”

  “But you think he wants some kind of quid pro quo in exchange for helping us?”

  Walt nodded. “Sounded to me like Mac’s got a Knox problem. Which is exactly what we’ve got. So maybe things’ll fit together just right for all of us.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Melba asked.

  Walt looked at his watch. “I figure six hours. Ninety minutes each way, plus whatever it takes to deal with Mac. I can’t risk getting pulled over by a Louisiana highway patrolman. He might just put a bullet in my ear. I could be back in five hours, if nothing unexpected happens.”

  “What if it does?” Tom asked.

  “Put it this way: I’ll be back by dawn no matter what happens. Will you two be all right? Or should we try to get some kind of guard help over here?”

  “We’ll be fine,” Tom said, hoping it was true. “The fewer people who know we’re here, the safer we’ll be.”

  Walt nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  “I hate for Melba to be here. There’s not only the legal risk for her, but the physical one, as well. I think you should drop her in Natchez on your way through.”

  Melba put her hands on her generous hips and glared at Tom. “And what do you plan to do after you have a heart attack and pass out? You going to call the ambulance with ESP?”

  “She’s got you,” Walt said. “And be glad for it. I couldn’t leave you here alone.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Walt looked uncomfortable. He wasn’t the type for small talk or long good-byes. “I’d better get moving. You two kids don’t get up to nothin’ while I’m gone, tempting as it might be.”

  While Melba shook her head, Walt picked up the small bag he’d packed for the ride, then went to the door. “Back before you know it,” he said.

  As he walked out of the lake house, Tom felt the way an old bomber pilot he’d known had described feeling when the P-47s reached the limit of their range and peeled away, headed back for England, leaving the bombers alone for their final push into Germany.

  “I guess it’s just you and me now, Mel. Let me give you a hand with those dishes.”

  “Stay where you are,” she replied. “I’m used to doing dishes. We’re gonna be just fine, Doc.”

  “I know we are,” he said, smiling. “Just like always.”

  When Melba turned to the sink, Tom’s smile died, leaving dread and regret in its place. Something told him they were never going to see Walt Garrity alive again.

  EIGHTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER HE passed out, Henry Sexton began to stir in his bed. Caitlin’s heart began to race, and she rushed to finish the text she had been writing to Tom. She’d slept fitfully for much of the past hour, despite her intention to work on her master story. A steady flow of nurses and aides had cycled through the room, checking tubes, taking readings, and monitoring the catheter and drain bags. One had even gotten Henry awake enough to check his vital signs, but he’d fallen right back to sleep. Caitlin had hit the pain pump at least three times while he slept—probably not as often as Sherry would have done, but as cruel as it might seem, she hadn’t wanted to miss her chance to speak further with him alone.

  She doubted Tom would even see her text message, since he’d probably switched his phone off, but she wanted to do what she could to prevent some cop from shooting him as a fugitive. Though no one else knew it, Caitlin had unique leverage over her future father-in-law, and she meant to use it. Her text read:

  Tom. Whatever happened the night Viola died, you don’t have the right to sacrifice yourself, because I’m pregnant. Penn doesn’t know. I’m telling you because my child needs you in his life. It’s time for you to come home. This family can get through ANYTHING together. Caitlin Masters Cage ( your future daughter-in-law).

  Henry started awake and called out for Albert Norris. Caitlin pressed SEND, then leaped out of her chair and took his hand, reassuring him that he wasn’t alone.

  “Did you see him?” Henry asked through his teeth.

  “Albert?” Caitlin asked hesitantly.

  “No … no. The other guy.”

  “What other guy?”

  “The black guy.”

  Caitlin looked around the room as though she might actually find an unexpected visitor. “Who was he?”

  “He wouldn’t say.” Henry’s eyes looked dreamy with narcotics. “Just one of Albert’s boys, he said.”

  “One of Albert’s boys?” Caitlin had read that phrase in Henry’s journals. “Like Pooky and Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old was he?” she asked, figuring Henry had hallucinated a teenager from his youth in Albert’s store.

  “’Bout sixty.”

  Caitlin blinked in puzzlement. “Was he here just now?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said groggily. “Maybe it was earlier. Maybe when Sherry stepped out.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Just a black guy, you know. Had on a black baseball cap. An old one with a white D on it. For Detroit maybe? Yeah. The Detroit Tigers.”

  “What did he want here?”

  “He thanked me for all the good work I’ve done. That’s all. He said it didn’t matter who he was. It made sense to me.”

  I’ll bet, with all the Dilaudid in your system. Caitlin made a mental note to check the deputy’s book for visitors.

  “Hey,” Henry said. “Do you think he could have been the one who went to see Pooky’s mama before she died
? ‘Huggy Bear’?”

  Caitlin recalled Penn telling her about the anonymous caller who’d contacted Sheriff Dennis about the burning of the Beacon building. But the whole idea of that man sneaking in here with a guard outside seemed far-fetched.

  “Maybe it was,” she said, deciding not to get Henry too excited with that story. “Henry, do you remember the photograph I showed you before you fell asleep?”

  “What?”

  “The one of Tom and Brody Royal in the boat. It has writing on the back. It reads ‘BT,’ and then ‘T. Rambin.’ It looks like your writing to me.”

  At first Henry said nothing. Then in a reluctant tone, he said, “It is.”

  His eyes looked wary, almost hunted. Caitlin said, “I was wondering if ‘BT’ might stand for ‘Bone Tree’?”

  The reporter avoided her gaze.

  “You see, I read all about the Bone Tree in your journals, and the more I read, the more I started thinking Pooky’s bones might be out there. Maybe Jimmy Revels’s, too. The FBI only brought Luther’s up out of the Jericho Hole.”

  “Could be,” Henry said vaguely. “But I looked for that tree … and I never found it. So did the FBI.”

  Katy Royal talked about a tree like this, too, Caitlin wanted to say, but she stifled herself. “Who’s T. Rambin, Henry?”

  Still the reporter refused to meet her eye.

  Caitlin laid her hand softly against Henry’s hair and stroked it. “I know this is hard, to be trapped in this room while other people go out and try to finish what you started. It’s not fair, and I won’t pretend it is. But whatever I find, Henry, your name will be there with mine. I promise you that. Not for the glory—because I know that’s not what you care about—but for the closure. So the families will know it was you who brought them justice.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “And for Swan. She’ll see it, too.”

  Henry finally turned to her, his eyes more alert than she’d seen them since the attack. “If you try to find the Bone Tree, you could end up just like me. Or worse.”

  “I know that. But it’s worth it to me.”

  After some moments, he nodded slowly. He tried to roll to his left, but failed. “My cell phone,” he groaned. “In my pants. In that bag, there. Get it.”

  Caitlin quickly found a soiled pair of trousers in a shopping bag beside the chair she’d been sitting in. In their right front pocket was a Nokia cell phone.

  “Look in my contacts,” he said. “Toby Rambin.”

  Caitlin flicked through the buttons with manic dexterity. “Who is he? I looked for a phone number and couldn’t find one.”

  “A poacher. Rambin hunts the swamp down in Lusahatcha County. I only found him a few days ago. Didn’t tell anybody. Not Penn … nobody. All he has is a cell phone. Talked to him Monday night. Rambin says he knows where the Bone Tree is. I was setting up a meeting, but … this happened.”

  Caitlin’s heart thumped as her eyes zeroed in on the name in tiny text. “Got it.” Quickly, she memorized Rambin’s name and number, then entered the characters in her Treo. “Do you think this guy is for real?”

  “Maybe. He sounded scared enough. He wants money, though.”

  With a twinge of guilt, she edited Henry’s “Toby Rambin” contact so that the surname “Rambin” became “Smith.” Then she altered the area code of Rambin’s phone number to that of South Carolina. Unwilling to go so far as to delete the information altogether, she saved the changes, then slipped the phone back into Henry’s pants.

  When she looked up, Henry was holding out his bandaged hand. Caitlin hurried to his bedside and took it in hers. “You be careful,” he said. “They play rough down in Lusahatcha County. The Knoxes own land down there.”

  “I will. Let me ask you one more thing. I found a telephoto shot of you with a rifle scope over your face. What’s the story on that?”

  Henry took a couple of shallow breaths, and his eyes clouded with anxiety. “I was … checking into Brody Royal’s land deals … with Carlos Marcello. Got that picture in the mail. Showed the FBI … They never traced it. I backed off. Too chicken, I guess. That time, anyway.”

  Caitlin leaned over and kissed the reporter’s forehead. “Screw that. You’re a hero, Henry. I mean it. This is Captain America stuff you’ve been doing.”

  Henry’s skin reddened between his bruises. He was blushing.

  “We’re going to get them all in the end,” she promised. “Royal, his son-in-law, the Knoxes … every last one. And when we do, it’ll be because of you.”

  Henry began coughing, hard. “Hope so,” he finally croaked. “Won’t bring Albert back, though. Or Jimmy … or Pooky.”

  Caitlin glanced back at the door, toward the little hall that led to the door. She felt as though Sherry were standing just out of sight, listening intently.

  “Can you tell me anything else about Brody?” she whispered. “Is there anything else you didn’t put in your notebooks?”

  Henry’s breaths were coming shallow. He flinched suddenly, then raised his hand. “Ohhh. Belly hurts again … bad.”

  Caitlin picked up the pain med controller and started pumping. “I’d better let you rest some more.”

  “Pump it,” he said, his face sweating. “Pump …”

  She pressed the button four times.

  “Muhhfckrs,” Henry mumbled.

  Caitlin looked up. “Did you say ‘motherfuckers’?”

  “Yeah. Listen … if you go see Toby Rambin … don’t go alone.”

  “I won’t.”

  Henry’s eyes widened. “Promise me.”

  “I promise!”

  “Talk to Dr. Cage, too. He knows more than anybody.”

  “I will, as soon as I find him.”

  “Oh, Jesus … pump some more.”

  Caitlin pressed the button four more times. “It’s coming, Henry. I’m pressing. I think you’re at the limit, though.”

  Henry lay silent but for his stertorous breathing. Then his eyes popped open and flickered like lantern flames. “I’ve tried to forgive them,” he said. “But I can’t. Jimmy talked to me about forgiveness once. He wasn’t but twenty-five … but he was wise. He said forgiving somebody doesn’t mean … they shouldn’t … pay a price for what they’d done. But that’s God’s business, he said. Hating somebody just poisons you … not them.”

  Caitlin felt a sudden urge to unburden herself, a desire to know what Henry would do in her predicament. “Penn wants me to hold back the recording of Katy,” she said. “He wants to use it against Brody, to try to save his father.”

  The reporter blinked several times, his head moving side to side on the pillow. Then he looked at her as though trying to make her out from a great distance. “Dr. Cage is a good man. But … can’t let Brody go free. Not even for …”

  The reporter’s eyelids fell and did not rise again.

  Hearing the door creak, Caitlin stepped back from the bed, afraid it would be Sherry rather than another nurse. Henry’s girlfriend wouldn’t like seeing her leaning so close over him.

  The first thing Caitlin saw was a huge, flower-print weekend tote. Then came a grease-stained McDonald’s bag, followed by Sherry herself, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans.

  “Look what Sherry’s got,” Caitlin sang, hoping to break the spell of intimacy in the room.

  “Is he awake?” Sherry asked, looking for floor space to set down her bag.

  Henry’s lips moved, but as Sherry dropped her tote against the exterior wall, his head jerked to the right and his eyelids fluttered, then froze in the open position.

  “Did you say something, hon?” Sherry asked, straightening up with a weary sigh.

  In the silence that followed this question, a shard of glass fell out of the window. It tinkled against the air-conditioning unit, then shattered on the floor with a flat crack like a broken Christmas ornament. Caitlin stared at the shard in confusion, then looked up at Henry.

  A single runnel of bright red blood trailed from his temple down to
the white pillow. His head jerked again, but his eyes remained open. Caitlin’s gaze went to the window again and finally took in the state of the mini-blinds.

  When were those opened? she wondered. They were supposed to be closed at all times—

  “Henry?” Sherry said, puzzled but still not worried.

  “Shut the blinds!” Caitlin screamed. “Sherry, shut the blinds!”

  Flooded with adrenaline, she grabbed the foot of the hospital bed and pulled it away from the wall. Various cords and tubes resisted her, but she yanked hard and the bed came away on its wheels.

  Sherry stared at Caitlin as if she were about to start pulling the bed back toward the wall.

  “Shut the fucking blinds!” Caitlin yelled again. “Someone’s shooting!”

  Another piece of glass popped out of the window, and Caitlin sensed more than felt something ricochet through the room. At last Sherry grasped what was happening. Without any thought for herself, she lunged for the plastic rod that controlled the blinds.

  Caitlin manhandled the head of Henry’s bed past the bathroom door and slammed it against the main door of the hospital room. Then she kick-locked the bed’s wheels to stop anyone getting in from the hall.

  Someone was pounding on the door—the deputy, probably—but Caitlin wasn’t about to let anybody inside. She shouted that he should call the FBI and lock down the hospital, but he just kept yelling for her to open the door. Scanning the room for her purse (meaning to get her pistol), she saw Sherry spin away from the window, both hands clutching her throat. The woman hung in the air for a surreal second, blood pouring from her left eye socket, then fell so heavily that Caitlin knew she was dead before she hit the floor.

  Terrified that the gunman outside would rush the shattered window, Caitlin snatched up her pistol from her purse, then backed into the narrow crack between Henry’s bed and the wall. The deputy was still shouting, but he didn’t have the weight to overcome the resistance of both Caitlin and the locked wheels under the bed.

  “Lock down the hospital!” she shouted. “There’s been a murder!”