The Devil's Punchbowl

  “If you want your prosecution to succeed, please don’t make me call you again.”

  “More threats?”

  “That’s no threat. How would you like this story to go page one across the country? We can make that happen, if you push us.”

  This silences Hull longer than anything else.

  “Do we have an understanding?” I ask.

  “D’accord,” he says. “You go back to your lives, we’ll go back to making America safe. Good-bye.”

  I kill the connection. “God, what an arrogant bastard.”

  “Let’s go,” Caitlin says in a flat voice. “How are we getting back?”

  “You two ride in the helicopter with Danny and Carl,” Dad says. “Kelly and I will follow in the car. If that’s okay with you, Kelly. I’d like to keep an eye on that arm.”

  “Sure.”

  The subtext is clear: No one wants to be around Caitlin for the thirty minutes it will take to drive back to town. I’d just as soon ride in the car with Kelly and Dad, but that wouldn’t go over well with the offended lady.

  “Let me get that dog’s head and lock the house,” Dad says, “and we’ll run you over to the chopper.”

  “It’s only a couple of hundred yards,” Caitlin says. “We’ll walk it. There’s no danger anymore, right?’

  Dad’s face darkens. “I’m not so sure—”

  “We’ll walk it,” I tell him, looking over at the running lights of the chopper on the far side of the lake road.

  Kelly squeezes my arm and says, “I’ll see you back at the house.”

  “You sticking around town awhile?”

  He somehow manages a grin as my father walks back to the door. “I can’t afford to lose this gig. You’re my only employer now.”

  “Good, because I need you to bring Annie back from Texas. You’re definitely still on the payroll.”

  “Sounds like a pretty cushy job.” Kelly stops smiling and points past me. “You better look after her.”

  Caitlin has already started walking toward the helicopter. I don’t hurry to catch up, but my longer stride brings us even soon enough. At first she says nothing. But when I don’t speak, she says, “You know what’s funny about the way that just went down?”

  “What?”

  “Two minutes before that lawyer called, you were ready to wipe Jonathan Sands off the planet without even a warning. But the second some Beltway lawyer told you that Sands should go scot-free for God and country, you bent over and said, ‘Thank you, sir, may I have another.’”

  “Caitlin nothing I say is going to make you feel better.”

  “No, I want to hear your rationale. Is there something more than the ‘good German’ defense here?”

  “Yes, unpalatable though it may be. Edward Po represents a greater threat to a larger number of people than Sands. If the only way to nail Po is to let Sands walk, then that’s what the government will do. They’re choosing to stop the greater of two evils. If that sounds lame, let me tell you something. When I was an ADA, I once had to go down to the port and walk into a ship container that held twenty-seven bodies. They were Mexicans who’d died of dehydration. Five extended families, all dead. Men, women, children. Put Chinese faces on those bodies, and you get an idea of the kind of thing Edward Po is into for profit.”

  Caitlin is shaking her head in frustration. “But you’re just taking their word about Po. What do you really know about him?”

  “We got Po’s history from Blackhawk before they sold Kelly out. The bottom line is that however crazy Sands may be, he’s protected right now. That’s a fact of life. And if he feels threatened, he won’t hesitate to kill my father, my mother, my daughter, or even you. It would be insane to risk that.”

  “I told you not to use me to justify murder. Don’t use me to justify chickening out either. Aren’t you putting an awful lot of trust in a bureaucrat you’ve never met, to keep Sands in line?”

  She’s right about that much, I think, as we cross the black strip of asphalt in the night. Carl’s probably watching us through his night scope from the helicopter and wondering why we’re risking this walk across open ground without Kelly.

  As we draw close enough to hear the slowly turning rotors whoosh through the air, she says, “I really feel down. I can’t explain it. It’s more than just what happened tonight.”

  “No, it’s not. After I told off Hull, you were flying high. Now, facing reality, you’re depressed. I know I’ve disappointed you. But I have too much at stake to fight Hull and Sands. You want me to leave you out of my calculations? Okay. The bottom line is this. I have a child, you don’t. That was a big part of my reasoning about executing Sands, as well. Until you have a child of your own, you can’t understand the absolute imperative you feel to protect that innocent life.”

  Caitlin stops short of the helicopter and looks up at me, her eyes bright and wet. “I want a child. I wanted one with you. I always have. That’s why I’ve been treading water for a year and half, even though I’m almost thirty-five. You think I can’t deal with reality? What about you and your fantasy of saving Natchez?”

  I reach out to take her hand, but she slaps mine away. “You told me you ran for mayor to save your hometown. That’s what you told yourself, your parents, Annie, and everyone else. Well, I wasn’t sure it could be saved from the things you wanted to take on. Not by one person. But I know this: It damn sure needs saving now. And what are you doing? Folding your tent. Pissing on the fire and calling in the dogs, as they say down here.” She shakes her head and starts to turn away. “Honestly I don’t think I’ve ever been more shocked in my life. Or more wrong about someone.”

  At this point, a wise man would offer an apology and get into the helicopter. But something’s been nagging at me ever since the argument about killing Sands.

  “As long as we’re being honest,” I say to her back, “let me ask you one question. When you argued so passionately against killing Sands, was that really because you believe it would be morally wrong to do it?”

  “Of course!” she snaps, whirling on me. “What did you think?”

  “I wondered whether you might be arguing that way because, if we’d gone that route, you’d never have been able to write the story. Not as it really happened, anyway.”

  Caitlin has pale skin, but what little color she has drains from her face. “You son of a bitch.” She looks as if she’d like to gouge my eyes out, but instead she simply turns and climbs into the cabin of the helicopter.

  I look back at the road, where my father’s nine-year-old BMW is swinging onto the asphalt to head back toward Mississippi. No matter what I told Caitlin, there’s no escaping one unalterable reality: Despite my deal with the devil, Tim Jessup’s blood still cries out from the ground. And I am not deaf. Only one thought brings me solace now.

  My daughter is coming home.

  CHAPTER

  35

  Linda is sitting in the front pew of the church, near the wooden rail. Pastor Simpson sits facing her, his hands hanging between his knees. He looks like a laborer forced to put on a suit for a funeral, but when you feel his hands, you know he hasn’t done real labor in years. He’s a talker, soft-spoken and sincere. He’s been talking to Linda about the totality of God, but she can’t keep her mind on the words. She’s burning up, her leg is throbbing, and her ride is late, hours late, picking her up.

  “I’m sorry it’s taken so long, honey,” Simpson says for the twentieth time. “That dern nephew of mine can’t hardly get no work, and now he gets called out to rig like this and after what you said, I didn’t think we should tell nobody else but Darla about you being here.”

  “I understand,” Linda says, trying to keep her mind clear through the fever. “But the Bargain Barn closed a long time ago.”

  “I told you, hon, Darla sits with sick folks sometimes after she gets off, and tonight she had to check on a patient. Somebody probably ran off and stuck her with their mama or something. Happens all the time. Darla don’t charge half of what professional sitters charge, so people are all the time taking advantage.”

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  ?
?Oh, you’re gonna love it. My brother’s got a place way out in the country. Ain’t nothing there but trees and ponds. Nobody to hurt you, or even see you. Just an old cabin. You can stay out there however long you need, till the coast is clear.”

  “All by myself?”

  “Well, Darla can stay awhile to get you fixed with food and sundries. But after that—” Simpson falls silent at the sound of an engine. “See there? All that worry for nothing.”

  Linda feels a dizzying rush of relief. The pastor reaches out and steadies her. “She’s gonna knock three times, so we’ll know it’s her. Okay?”

  “Okay. You said Mayor Cage got my note, right?”

  “That’s what Darla said. Now, let’s get on down the aisle.”

  As Simpson helps Linda to her feet, three loud knocks reverberate through the cold church, like someone banging on a castle door.

  “Come in,” the pastor calls. “We’re coming.”

  The door opens, and Linda sees a tall silhouette in the door. Darla, for sure. But as the silhouette moves forward, Linda perceives its narrow waist and broad shoulders. Then a shaft of light falls on the handsome face of Seamus Quinn.

  Linda’s stomach heaves in terror, and she whirls toward Pastor Simpson, who’s looking at her with terrible shame on his face.

  Quinn strides up the aisle with two big men flanking him. Linda recoils and tries to run toward the altar, but her torn knee gives way and she collapses in the aisle. The two men rush forward and lift her to her feet.

  “How can you do this?” she asks, her eyes on Pastor Simpson. “You’re a man of God!”

  “Just a man, Linda. I’m weak, like everybody else. I sin like everyone else. It’s the curse of my life.”

  Simpson turns to Quinn and says, “We’re square now, right? That’s what you said? All debts canceled?”

  Quinn gives him a broad grin and slaps his back. “No worries, Padre. For now. I’m sure you’ll be back at the tables soon enough.”

  “No!” Simpson cries. “Never. This finishes all that!”

  Quinn’s laughter reverberates through the church as they drag Linda toward the door.

  “They’re going to kill me!” she screams, looking back at Simpson with pleading eyes. “You know they are!”

  “The Lord will keep you, child! Have no fear. You’re a child of God, perfect in his eyes. But I must to render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. My family needs me, Linda. My congregation needs me. You’ll be saving all of that with your sacrifice, just as our Lord did at Calvary!”

  “Fuckin’ hell!” Quinn shouts, laughing. “Shut your fucking gob already! You’re worse than the bloody Taigs!”

  As Simpson falls to his knees at the altar and begins to pray, Linda’s knee gives way at the door. The men lift her bodily and carry her toward a black SUV.

  “Who’s going first?” asks one of the men holding her.

  “High card wins,” says the second.

  “Get your arses up front,” snaps Quinn. “Age before beauty, that’s the rule.”

  He lifts the rear gate on the SUV and the men slide Linda into the cargo area on her back. “Get on with you,” Quinn says. “This is no peep show.”

  One man slams the rear door down, and they get into the front seat. After the motor starts, Quinn leans down beside Linda’s ear. “You led me a merry chase, darlin’. But I like a game bitch. I’ve been waiting a long time for this. I’ve already seen pictures, now let’s see the real thing.”

  Linda struggles as his hand slides down her stomach, but when a razor-edged knife grazes her throat, she freezes. Seconds later, her pants have been cut from her body as smoothly as if by a nurse in an ER.

  Quinn’s eyes glint in the dark. “So that’s what kept the boss in such a state,” he whispers. “Not bad not bad.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Everything you gave him,” Quinn whispers. “Then more.”

  Linda’s shock and fever have held her at some chemical remove from the situation, but now reality is settling into her bones. God has not delivered her anywhere but into the hands of Tim’s murderers.

  “Please don’t hurt me any more,” she whispers. “I’ll do anything you say.”

  “Course you will.” Quinn laughs harshly, then hits the front seat twice to signal the driver to go. “Everybody does, in the end.”

  CHAPTER

  36

  Kelly and I are standing at the foot of the broad gangplank of the Magnolia Queen, having a last talk before we go aboard. Kelly believes Sands needs to hear directly from us that we’re disengaging from our covert war, and we need his assurance that he’s doing the same. I’ve agreed because I want no misunderstanding on that score, especially since Kelly and Danny McDavitt are flying to Houston this afternoon to bring back Annie and my mother.

  “We’re just going to talk, right?” I ask a little anxiously.

  “Clear the air,” Kelly says. “Everybody can get whatever they have to say off their chests, and we can all relax a little.”

  “That’s kind of hard for me to visualize, given the past few days.”

  “Nah. Come on.”

  As I follow him up the broad gangplank, I say, “Did that SAS sergeant ever get back to you? About Sands’s life pre-1989? The Northern Ireland stuff?”

  Kelly’s face darkens. “He did, but he didn’t have anything for me. He thinks Sands probably isn’t a real name. I faxed him a photo, but that could take longer. My guy’s not on active duty anymore.”

  “I just wish we knew more about this asshole.”

  “We’re about to. You’re not carrying a weapon or a wire, are you?”

  “No. Why?”

  “They’re bound to search us. Wand us, everything.”

  “I’m clean. You?”

  Kelly rolls his eyes. “I asked you first.”

  At the end of the gangway we pass through the main entrance, where a guard in a burgundy uniform stands greeting gamblers. Seeing us, he speaks into a collar radio. Seconds later, two men appear at our sides and lead us to an elevator hidden behind a wall partition. As we rise to the upper floor known as the hurricane deck, our escorts pat us down thoroughly, then run wands along the lengths of our bodies.

  “Rub a little harder down there,” Kelly quips. “You’re giving me a chubby.”

  The guy pulls back, muttering something about queers and ponytails. He’d probably be shocked to learn that this ponytailed hippie could take him apart without raising his pulse rate.

  The other guy finishes Kelly’s patdown, stopping at his left forearm. Kelly pulls up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, exposing a white bandage. “Dog bite,” he says with a smile. The guy fingers the entire length of the bandage while Kelly grits his teeth. Then the man presses a remote in his pocket.

  The doors open onto a carpeted corridor where the jangling sound of slots does not intrude. The men motion for us to walk past simulated gasoliers to a set of stainless-steel doors at the end of the hall.

  As we reach them, the doors part as though by magic, and I catch my breath. The steamboat-Gothic motif that dominates the Magnolia Queen ends at the door of Jonathan Sands’s office. Behind his sleek black desk stands a solid glass wall that offers a breathtaking vista of the upstream bend of the Mississippi River, the great reddish tide flowing down out of verdant green bluffs on the east, and flat delta earth to the west. Sands sits behind his desk wearing an olive green commando sweater with patches on the elbows. He’s furnished the room with Barcelona chairs, an Eames lounger, and several other iconic pieces. The office feels as though it was ordered in a single shipment from Ultra Modern or Design Within Reach.

  “Well, Mr. Kelly,” he says. “We meet at last.”

  Kelly nods but says nothing.

  “Where did you come from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I flew in from a place called Qalat. You know where that is?”

  Sands gives a surprised smile. “Actually, I do. I passed a few years there one afternoon, back in the nineties.”

  “I figured maybe you had. Or somewhere like it.”

  “So. Brothers-in-arms.”

  “I wouldn’t go
that far.”

  “Well, get on with it. Why are you here?”

  “Diplomacy. To make sure something’s understood.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “At the request of the government, we’re going to cease and desist trying to nail your hide to the barn door.”

  As Sands laughs, the doors hiss open behind us. When I glance back, I see Seamus Quinn, his face clouded with suspicion. After Quinn comes the white Bully Kutta I last saw at Sands’s house. The dog walks around us and sits calmly to the right of Sands’s desk, the piercing eyes staring out of its wrinkled face.

  “That’s already been communicated to me,” Sands says.

  “From Hull, no doubt,” I say.

  “We’re here to add the personal touch,” Kelly says. “I have a message of my own for you.”

  Sands raises one eyebrow.

  “I want you to understand that the only thing keeping you alive is this man standing here.”

  Sands looks back and forth from me to Kelly.

  “Penn is your old-school type guy. A gentleman and a scholar. Officer material, you might say. I’m more the direct type. A grunt. A grunt’s grunt might be more accurate. I have certain skills that your average grunt doesn’t. When the brass sees a problem they can’t solve with a TV-guided bomb or an Abrams tank, they point guys like me at it. The paper pushers call it discretionary warfare. Doesn’t sound very bloody, does it?” Kelly smiles. “But you know the real definition, don’t you? Mate?”

  Sands’s good humor seems to be wearing thin. I doubt he’s accustomed to being challenged in his own office.

  “I know what you did to his sister,” Kelly says mildly. “And he told me what you said you’d do to his little girl. I’m a big fan of that little girl. I like the way she smells—like clothes that just came out of a dryer. So when Mayor Cage asked my opinion of your recent activities, I told him you were a one-bullet problem. Do you require a translation, Mr. Sands?”