Natchez Burning

  Brody walks up and squints into my eyes like a neurologist. “Can you hear me, Cage?”

  I nod once, my head ringing like a struck anvil, my cheek radiating arcs of fire.

  Brody signals Regan to bring Caitlin closer. The tall Irishman grabs her arm and drags her to within five feet of me. Her jet-black hair hangs lank over her eyes, but while her jaw hangs slack in shock, her emerald eyes still burn with intelligence.

  “The name,” Brody urges.

  Even in my dazed state, I sense Caitlin’s mind working at blinding speed, simultaneously racing down a dozen pathways, desperately searching for some ingenious blocking move. But there isn’t one. I’ve known that since we were in the van.

  “They’re here,” Regan says from my left.

  Royal nods, preoccupied. “I tell you what, dear,” he says with sudden gentleness. “Walk with me while you think about it. You, too, Mayor. Let me show you the pride of my collection.”

  Putting his arm around Caitlin, Brody walks us down the line of display cases. Regan prods me from behind, and the object poking me feels more like a gun barrel than a finger. Glancing backward, I see a Glock semiautomatic in his hand. As my eyes rise to his face, I read sadistic hunger in his eyes. Worse, we’re already halfway to the firing range door.

  Inside the display cases are MP40 and Mauser machine pistols, a Walther P38, the Fallschirmjägergewehr 42, a Sturmgewehr 44, even a Panzerfaust antitank weapon—each labeled with a brass plaque and a descriptive caption. Between a British Sten and a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle, I see a Thompson submachine gun, one of the few pieces I would have recognized without the tag.

  “Did you serve in combat?” I ask Brody.

  “I was exempted from the draft,” he answers over his shoulder. “War-critical work.”

  “Bootlegging?” Caitlin says with scathing contempt.

  A hitch in Royal’s stride tell me this barb hit home. “A little advice, Princess. Don’t insult the alligator until you’ve crossed the river.”

  A few steps more, then Brody pauses before a cabinet at the end of the row, one wider than the rest. Despite its size, this case holds only two weapons: civilian hunting rifles, by the look of them. Below the rifles sits a large empty shelf with a plaque that reads: FLAMMENWERFER 41. ST. VITH. DECEMBER 1944.

  “Do you know what you’re looking at?” Brody asks, his voice oddly hushed.

  Leaning forward to read the plaques beneath the rifles, I freeze, barely breathing. The first reads, November 22, 1963. The second: April 4, 1968. Juxtaposed in this setting, those two dates blow what coherence I’ve regained to smithereens. Yet out of the resulting chaos bounces Henry’s tale of Snake Knox claiming to have killed Martin Luther King, and my father’s story of being trapped on the fishing boat with Brody Royal and the drunk CIA man who kept cursing about the botched job in Dallas. Caitlin’s gaze presses on my right cheek, silently asking if these weapons could be authentic. Unwilling to give Brody the satisfaction of seeing my distress, I straighten and turn to him as I would to a fool who’d paid top dollar for lead bricks painted gold.

  “How much did you give the Knoxes for these fakes?” I ask. “Not much, I hope.”

  The steady certainty in Royal’s eyes rattles me, and he knows it. In his mind, at least, these rifles are the genuine article.

  As Caitlin straightens up, I try to catch her eyes, but she’s whipped her head toward the staircase by which we entered. Two strangers have entered the room. They’re better dressed than our van crew, and walk with distinctly military bearing. Each carries what looks to be a heavy banker’s box. The sight hardly affects me, but Caitlin looks as though someone just gut-punched her. Behind us, Brody Royal chuckles softly.

  “You obviously recognize those boxes. Take those into the firing range, Chalmers. Then deal with the mayor’s car and our Natchez PD officer as quickly as possible.”

  Both men walk quickly to the door on the far right, then disappear through it. “What’s in the boxes?” I ask.

  “Henry Sexton’s backup files and notebooks.” Brody smiles with triumph. “Another excellent return on my investment at the Examiner. Now, no matter what the paper might print, no one will be able to substantiate the stories. And the FBI will never see them.”

  Behind me, Regan says, “The Examiner’s scanned copies of those files are being systematically erased as we speak.”

  Caitlin’s face now has the blankness of a condemned prisoner. She looks like she could scarcely string two thoughts together; I can hardly credit that she made the crack about Royal’s bootlegging past only seconds ago.

  Brody nods to Regan, who presses his pistol against my spine. Then Brody lays a hand on Caitlin’s shoulder. “We’re going to step through this door over here, darling. Last one on the right. Nothing to worry about.”

  How have we come to this point? Death stands behind us, and death waits before. In this situation, many people simply allow themselves to be led forward, grasping whatever extra seconds of life they can, until they get the bullet in the neck, or the gas, or whatever end has been devised.

  I will not die that way. Better to fight here and force them to kill us both than to endure some depraved game like the one Brody forced on the two women from his insurance company.

  I’m tensing my legs to hurl myself back against Regan when Caitlin says softly: “All right—I’ll tell you.”

  Brody stops in mid-stride and turns to her. “What?”

  “The witness. I’ll give you his name.”

  Royal glances back at Regan, who shrugs.

  The firing range door opens, and the two guards walk quickly to the staircase at the opposite end of the room. After they’ve gone, Brody looks at Caitlin and says, “I’m listening.”

  Caitlin looks so shamefully resigned that a terrifying notion comes to me. Has she known the real name all along? Has she forced us to endure this in an effort to protect Henry’s witness? The “friend” who held his silence for forty-one years? With a rush of clarity I understand how she could justify such a thing. If she believed we were going to die no matter what, better to die saving the one man who might someday send Royal to death row for his crimes. Only now that we truly stand at the threshold of the abyss, she can’t resist the hope that giving Royal what he wants might spare us terrible pain, if not our lives.

  Brody leans toward her like a Hollywood vampire, his cold eyes burning into hers, searching for deception. “Don’t lie to me, child. You’ll burn if you lie.”

  Her chin is quivering, and when she speaks, two wheezing syllables emerge, but I can’t make them out. Neither can Royal, because he leans still closer and says, “Once more, dear.”

  As the last syllable leaves Brody’s lips, Caitlin catches his shoulder and spins him against her with feline quickness. The bright steel of Pithy’s razor flashes beneath his chin as she lays the blade against his throat.

  Regan knocks me aside and tries to get close enough for a shot, but Brody throws up a hand to stop him. As would I. Gone from her eyes is the dull glaze of a moment ago. Now they glow with green fire, and she holds the straight razor against his pulsing throat with the sure hand of an executioner.

  “Get back,” she warns, her voice like a second blade. Her eyes drill into Regan’s. “Give Penn your cell phone. If you don’t, I’m going to lay open his windpipe and sever his carotid.”

  Regan looks to Brody for guidance.

  “I’ll paint this fucking floor with his blood,” Caitlin promises.

  When Royal starts to speak, Caitlin slices his neck above the jugular. A dark rivulet of blood rolls down to his shirt collar. “The phone, moron,” she says, tucking her head behind Royal’s for protection. “Do you recognize this blade, Brody? The handle says ‘A Lady’s Best Friend.’ Sound familiar?”

  The old man looks almost hypnotized by her words.

  “Nobody’s giving you a phone,” Brody rasps, his eyes regaining focus and confidence. “Randall, put your gun to the mayor’s head.”

/>   Regan presses the barrel of his Glock against my right temple.

  “Count to ten, then blow his brains out.”

  Caitlin’s jaw is set tight with purpose, but I see doubt in her eyes. Even if Regan can’t see the same, I sense that she’s already lost the initiative. At least she tried—

  “I’m counting to five,” Caitlin snaps, before Regan even starts counting. “Then it’s hog-killing time. ONE—”

  “What do I do?” Regan cries, his Glock scraping against my temple.

  For the first time I see fear in Brody’s eyes. He knows there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered animal.

  “Give him your phone!” Caitlin screams. “And your gun. TWO!”

  Blood rolls steadily down Royal’s neck.

  Turning my head slightly to the right, I say, “Give me the gun, man.”

  Regan’s eyes are filled with indecision. He jumps at the sound of a closing door.

  Caitlin whips her head around Brody’s, her eyes wild with suspicion. To my right, the van crew has slipped back into the basement. Probably drawn from upstairs by the screaming. Caitlin curses and drags Brody backward, into the corner shooting station. Crew Cut heads for the firing range door, while the older man takes a pistol from his belt and moves cautiously closer to Caitlin, angling for a shot.

  “Watch that guy!” I tell her, pointing at the man making for the door.

  “THREE!” Caitlin cries, her eyes jittery. “FOUR—”

  “Stop!” Brody screams. “Put down your guns! Give Cage the phone. Stay out of there, Dwayne!”

  The Glock’s barrel falls away from my temple.

  Caitlin’s eyes flick back and forth, trying to read every intention. As Regan digs in his pocket for his cell phone, Brody sags with relief, then cracks his elbow into Caitlin’s ribs and tries to wrench himself away. With a cry she rips the razor upward, spraying blood—and then they are two, not one.

  Brody’s shirt is a fountain of scarlet, and blood pours through his hands, which are at his throat. I leap forward to shield Caitlin, afraid Regan will shoot her outright, but he appears stunned by the sight of Royal frantically probing the wound in his neck. Caitlin still has the razor in her hand, but it’s useless now, except as a tool for suicide. Crew Cut and his partner have now trained their guns on us. They walk forward, bodies turned at an angle, lining up their shots. When I turn and find Caitlin’s eyes, I see something I’d rather have died than witness: despair.

  “Take them into the range!” Brody bellows, still probing his lacerated neck.

  “Are you all right?” Randall asks, incredulous.

  “I will be. Get me some goddamn superglue!”

  Energized, Regan yells, “Put the mayor on the chain! The bitch gets the pole!”

  This is the end. As Crew Cut reaches me, I grab his gun and twist hard enough to tear ligaments from bone. He shrieks, and my left hand closes firmly around cold steel. I sense more than see Caitlin flailing the razor to my left, but then something crashes into my neck, stunning me nearly senseless. I try once more to twist the gun free, but a second blow batters my skull, blotting out the light.

  CHAPTER 92

  HENRY SEXTON FORCED himself to keep the Impala’s speedometer on forty as he drove up the lane toward Brody Royal’s lake house. The IV narcotics were fading; he knew because his abdominal pain was climbing quickly up the scale. He’d taken a second OxyContin to compensate for the missing pump, and a couple of minutes ago, he’d realized he was only driving ten miles per hour.

  He was breathing pretty well, in spite of his swollen tongue, and the pounding in his head had settled down to a tolerable backbeat. The cast on his left arm gave him no difficulty driving, but he worried about what might come later. As he neared the lake house, he tried to keep his mind engaged with reality. He couldn’t allow the combination of white-hot anger and potent painkillers to handicap him.

  He braked as he spied a pickup truck parked on the street beneath some trees at the border of Brody Royal’s property. There was a man sitting behind the wheel. For a moment Henry was paralyzed. If he stopped and tried to turn around now, he’d look suspicious as hell. But if he went on …

  He must be a guard of some sort, Henry decided, posted to stop people like me. Henry lifted his foot off the brake, thanking God he hadn’t removed his mother’s wig from his head. My brights are on, he thought. I should just drive past like I’m headed home after a late night.

  As he came within a few feet of the pickup, Henry realized that the man sitting outside Brody’s house was black.

  That made no sense.

  Twenty yards past the truck, Henry braked again. A black security guard? Here? He shook his head. Emboldened by the drugs, he put the Impala in reverse and backed up until he was even with the truck. Then he pulled off his wig and rolled down his window.

  The man in the cab of the pickup turned his head casually toward Henry, peering through his window with open curiosity. Something about him seemed familiar. He was about Henry’s age, for one thing. Maybe I know him, Henry thought. But … no. He couldn’t place the man.

  “Are you Henry Sexton?” asked the black man, sounding far from certain.

  Henry nodded slowly.

  “You shaved off your goatee?”

  Henry laughed painfully. He’d been through a hell of a lot more changes than that in the past two days.

  “Well, I guess you found me,” said the man. “What you doin’ out here? I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “I sneaked out.” Henry cocked his head. “Who are you?”

  “Sleepy Johnston. I’m from Wisner, originally. I been living in Detroit for the past forty-one years.”

  This revelation arced like lightning through Henry’s narcotic fog. One of Albert’s boys, he thought. With considerable effort, he opened the door and got out of the Impala, a movement that quickly punctured his OxyContin cushion.

  Sleepy Johnston got out and carefully shook his hand, each man assessing the other. With gray hair and whiskers showing under his Detroit Tigers cap, Sleepy looked close to seventy, but his body appeared strong and healthy.

  “Did you work for Albert Norris?” Henry asked. “I don’t remember you.”

  After he puzzled out Henry’s mumbled words, Johnston smiled. “Not officially. But I hung around the store whenever I could. By the time you came along, I was on the road, playing with bands. I only came back this way for family reunion gigs, things like that. That’s how I met Pooky. He sat in with my band a couple times. But I knew Jimmy and Luther real good.”

  Henry shook his head, still dazed by the sudden appearance of a man he had hunted so hard.

  “So,” Sleepy went on, “why’d you sneak out of the hospital?”

  A knot of foreboding formed in Henry’s stomach. He pointed at the darkened Royal house. “I’ve come to see the man who lives in there. He killed my girlfriend tonight. And he damn near killed me.”

  It took Johnston a while to make out the words, but as he absorbed their meaning, his eyes widened. “Have you come to kill Old Man Royal?”

  Henry thought about this. “I don’t know. I just had to come. When a man kills the woman you love, you’re supposed to do something about it. Aren’t you?”

  “I reckon so. But there’s a lot of distance between ‘s’posed to’ and actually doing. I can tell you all about that.”

  “Have you seen Brody here tonight?” Henry asked. “Is he in there?”

  Sleepy licked his lips and nodded. “He’s in there, all right. Just before you got here, two of Brody’s thugs drove up in a van. They took a man and woman into the basement, all tied up.”

  Henry felt adrenaline rush into his bloodstream, mixing with the heady cocktail of drugs that were keeping him upright. “Black or white?”

  “White, both of them.”

  “What did they look like?”

  Sleepy ran a hand across his mouth, thinking. “Tall man, dressed pretty good. The woman had dark hair, classy lookin
g. I was prowling back near the garage, and I saw the bastards drag them out of the van.”

  Penn Cage and Caitlin Masters. Henry knew it as surely as he knew that he had to abandon his confrontation plan and call for help.

  “What you doing?” called Sleepy as Henry turned and opened his passenger door.

  “I’m—” Henry slapped his forehead. In his haste at the hospital, he’d forgotten to ask his mother for her cell phone. The drugs were having more of an effect than he’d realized. He turned around. “We need to call for help. Not the local police. We can’t trust them. We need the FBI. Or … wait.” Henry fought through the cobwebs in his head. “Maybe we should call Royal’s house. Let him know we know they have the mayor and his girlfriend in there.”

  “The mayor? Hold on,” said Sleepy. “I don’t know any of those numbers.”

  “Well, we could call Information—”

  “Hands up!” ordered a sharp voice from behind Sleepy.

  A middle-aged white man in a dark jacket held a pistol to the back of Sleepy’s head.

  There’s the guard, thought Henry numbly. The real one this time.

  Sleepy put up his hands, and Henry slowly followed his example. He thought of the shotgun in the backseat of his mother’s car, but he couldn’t make a move toward it without endangering Sleepy. Especially in his current condition.

  The guard searched Sleepy’s windbreaker pockets and pulled out his cell phone. Taking a step back, he dropped it on the asphalt and crushed it with his boot heel. Then he walked forward and patted down Henry.

  “You got a gun in that truck?” he asked Sleepy, straightening up. Without waiting for an answer, he opened the driver’s door of the truck. “Move back,” he ordered. Then he searched the truck, quickly coming up with what appeared to be a small-caliber revolver.

  “Head to the house,” he barked. “Both of you. Walk in front of me. Double time.”