Natchez Burning (65 page)

“As long as the guys breaking the rules can be trusted.”

“Amen. Henry told me a little about your father’s case, too.”

“Did he?” I say coolly.

Kaiser is silent for a few seconds. “Would it surprise you to learn that I know quite a bit about you, Mayor?”

“Because of my battle with Director Portman, you mean?”

Kaiser chuckles softly. “No, though I was no fan of that elitist asshole. I’m actually a friend of Dwight Stone.”

This name hurls me back in time. Dwight Stone was one of more than a dozen FBI agents assigned to Natchez during the 1960s. When I was persuaded by distraught family members to look into the murder of civil rights activist Delano Payton, the trail eventually led me to Dwight, who’d retired to the mountains of Colorado. He did more than help me solve the cold case; he ended up saving my life.

“That says a lot for you,” I tell Kaiser. “What are you going to do about Henry?
Can
you do anything?”

“You bet your ass I can. I’m going to add some men to his guard detail, and I’m coming up there myself, first thing in the morning.”

“First thing” means different things to different people. New Orleans is three hours south of Natchez, but Kaiser sounds like the crack-of-dawn type to me. Before I can ask for clarification, he says, “If Walker Dennis is bent, or he has a mole in his department, the discovery of those bones in the Jericho Hole might have triggered Henry’s beating.”

“Couldn’t it just as easily have been Henry’s interviews with Glenn Morehouse and Viola Turner?”

“Of course. Can you keep something absolutely between us?”

“Absolutely.”

“Morehouse died of an overdose of fentanyl, which he was taking by prescription. But the dose was too high to have come from his patch, or even two of them. He was murdered, no question.”

Kaiser’s openness is startling after years of dealing with closemouthed FBI agents. “I figured as much. One thing strikes me as strange. Henry described his assailants as being between twenty and thirty years old. That doesn’t sound like Double Eagles to me.”

“All those bastards had sons and grandsons. Keep an open mind as we move forward.”

I’m surprised to hear Kaiser use the plural pronoun. “What’s your idea of moving forward?”

“Getting the rest of those bones up, ASAP.”

My heart is pumping faster. “How are you going to do that?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ve got a couple of ideas. The Double Eagles have crossed the line this time. I’m coming up there loaded for bear.”

Kaiser doesn’t talk like most FBI agents I’ve worked with. Around laymen, Bureau people tend to speak like fighter pilots and accountants—without emotion. “Agent Kaiser, I’m going to take a shot in the dark here. I think my family may be in as much danger as Henry Sexton was. I believe Brody Royal and the Double Eagles have threatened us, to make my father take the blame for a murder they committed. Are you with me?”

“Keep going.”

“I don’t exactly have a private army up here. I was wondering whether you might be able to protect my father as a federal witness. I believe my dad knows who murdered Albert Norris, and probably Dr. Leland Robb and three other people as well.”

Kaiser grunts but offers nothing.

“And this may sound crazy,” I add, “but Dad might also have information about the major assassinations of the 1960s. A man named Brody Royal definitely does. Do you know that name?”

“I know who Royal is. He barely evaded prosecution in a state insurance fraud case.”

“That’s the one. I think if you could assure my father that our family is safe, he could help you quite a bit.”

After a few seconds, Kaiser says, “Let me make some calls. I’m just getting up to speed on some of this. I probably won’t know for sure what I can do until tomorrow morning. Can you protect your folks until then?”

“I think so. And anything you need on my side of the river, let me know. I’ll get it done.”

“Do you have a lot of influence with Shad Johnson?” The lightest touch of irony colors Kaiser’s voice.

“I can still make things happen here when I need to,” I assure him.

“Good.” The FBI agent gives me a 504 cell number, which I enter into my contacts list, and then I let him go.

“Was that John Kaiser?” Caitlin asks, her face strangely flushed.

“Yes. He’s coming up here tomorrow.”

Her face lights up as though I’ve announced that Robert Redford is coming to town.

“What’s the deal?” I ask. Annie, too, looks curious.

“Don’t you know who Kaiser’s wife is?” Caitlin asks.

“No.”

“Jordan Glass!”

I shake my head, perplexed. Then it hits me. “The war photographer? From Oxford, Mississippi?”

“Yes. Holy
shit
.”

Annie is bemused by Caitlin’s schoolgirl excitement.

“Jordan Glass has won two Pulitzers,” Caitlin informs us. “Maybe three. Not to mention the goddamn Robert Capa Gold Medal. Not that it matters. She’s past all that. Glass is like Nachtwey, or even Dickey Chappelle, for God’s sake! She’s on that level.”

“You have a Pulitzer,” I remind her.

Caitlin dismisses this with a flick of her hand. “I was lucky. Jordan Glass is the
shit
. She’s a freaking legend.”

Annie is shaking her head in amazement.

“Are you sure she’s married to
this
John Kaiser?” I ask, motioning for Annie to leave the room.

“I’ll stop cursing,” Caitlin promises, signaling Annie to stay. “I read all of Henry’s stories last night, remember? He mentioned Kaiser several times, so I checked him out. He’s married to her, all right. They met while working a big murder case in New Orleans.” Caitlin shrugs. “You know me.”

That I do
.
No stone left unturned, no matter how far off the main path it may be.
“Well, the assault on Henry really upset Kaiser. I think we’re finally going to see some federal action on the Double Eagle group.”

“Based on the bones Kirk Boisseau found?”

“That’ll be the legal justification.”

“Can I print anything about the bones yet?”

“Not until you clear it with Henry.”

A shadow flits across her features. I hope it’s guilt for being so ready to exploit the misfortune of a colleague. When a story gets hot, Caitlin instantly reverts from publisher to reporter, and in that mode she operates with the ruthless dispassion of a surgeon.

“You said ‘I figured as much’ to Kaiser,” she observes. “What did he tell you?”

Christ.
“I can’t tell you. He made that very clear.”

She makes very little effort to conceal her frustration. “Something about Glenn Morehouse, right? They’ve had his body since this morning.”

She’s like a hunting dog that never gets distracted from the scent. “Next time I talk to Kaiser, I’ll ask if I can pass it to you, off the record.”

Caitlin grimaces but doesn’t argue. “Do you think it would be all right for me to visit Henry at the hospital?”

“Not tonight. You’d just be in the way.”

“But he may have already decided to work for me! He may be my employee
now
.”

“He hasn’t signed anything. You can call Sheriff Dennis for any details you need, or Mrs. Whittington, the secretary who chased away the assailants.”

“Did I hear you say someone stole Henry’s files?”

“Sheriff Dennis said the assailants took some files from his vehicle during the attack. He was apparently moving them to his girlfriend’s house.”

Caitlin gives me a triumphant look that says,
Come on
. “Why would Henry be doing that unless he’d decided to change his work circumstances?”

Thankfully, the house phone rings again before I can answer.

“This is crazy,” Annie says, looking much happier to be watching this circus than researching Benjamin Franklin. “This is like during Katrina.”

“Penn Cage,” I answer.

“
Hizzoner the Mayor,
” says a warm baritone filled with the character imparted by fifty years of whiskey and tobacco. “This is Quentin. How they hangin’ today, Counselor?”

The shocks are coming almost too fast to process. “Just a minute, Quentin.” I cover the mouthpiece, but Caitlin’s already nodding that she understands.

“I’m heading back to the office,” she says. “Call me as soon as Drew calls you.”

“Do
not
go over to that hospital,” I tell her. “Security’s a major issue now. Stay at your office, and call me when you’re ready to come home. I’ll drive over and follow you back.”

It takes a few seconds, but she finally nods.

“Wait—could you take Annie in the kitchen for a couple of minutes before you go?”

She hesitates, then pulls Annie up from the sofa. “Come on, squirt. Your dad needs to take this call alone.”

As Annie disappears into the kitchen, Caitlin nods at the autopsy report on the back of the sofa, then raises her eyebrows—an obvious request for permission. Though I know I’ll pay for it later, I shake my head. She glares at me for two ominous seconds, then turns and follows Annie into the kitchen.

“Sorry, Quentin,” I say, trying to gather my thoughts. “Thanks for getting back to me.”
At last,
I add silently.

“I’ve been sleeping a lot lately. Apparently, I missed some of today’s action.”

“I wouldn’t bother you if we didn’t have a desperate situation here.”

“Let me stop you right there,” he says, and I brace myself for protests that his declining health prevents him from being able to help me. “I’ve already talked to your father.”

“
What
? When was this?”

“That’s neither here nor there, Brother Penn. Like everything else relating to this matter, that falls under the attorney-client privilege. But I know most of the details of the case, and there’s no need for you and your mama to get worried. Not yet, anyway.”

After I get my wind back, I ask, “Are you telling me you’ve agreed to represent Dad in the murder of Viola Turner?”

“Obviously.”

“But Doris said—”

“My wife don’t run my practice, boy! Your father needs a lawyer. I’m it.”

“But … he told me not to call you, not to bother you. Had he
already
called you by then?”

“That’s a family matter, son, not a legal one. But I wouldn’t press him too hard right now. What matters at this point—and what I got directly from Tom—is that he wants me handling this case.
Alone
.”

“Alone” in this case means only one thing: without me. “Why, Quentin?”

“You’ll have to ask your daddy that. But again, I wouldn’t yet. He’s carrying a heavy load just now.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s not my place to tell you.”

“Jesus, man. Did he confess or something?”

An incredulous laugh makes me pull back from the receiver. “Boy, you know I’d never ask a client that. Not even Tom Cage.”

“I know. I just … I
don’t
know. It’s like Dad has become someone else overnight.”

“Well,” Quentin says in a sage voice, “that happens to everybody sooner or later. Every son eventually learns his daddy has feet of clay. You just happen to have a father of singular rectitude, so it took until you were forty-five. That doesn’t make it any less painful.”

Echoes of Pithy Nolan.
“I need to tell you something, Quentin.”

“I’ll just sip this glass of whiskey while you do.”

“Doris must have gone out to the store.”

He laughs softly. “Speak on, brother.”

I tell him what happened to Henry Sexton, then give him a quick summary of Shad Johnson’s moves, news of the FBI’s pending involvement, and the findings in the preliminary autopsy report. As I conclude, I get up and take that report from the sofa back, then sit back down.

“Good work getting hold of that report,” Quentin says. “You haven’t lost your touch, I see. And we could have got a lot worse judges than Joe Elder. The Sexton thing is disturbing, though. Makes me think the Double Eagles are night-riding again.”

“Are you familiar with that group?”

Quentin’s chuckle is a low rasp. “I knew some of those crackers all too well, my boy. This is like Old Home Week for me. You just keep me apprised of any developments in that line. If I’m unavailable, you can tell Doris anything you would me. Almost anything, anyway. I’ll trust your judgment on that.”

Quentin is a lot like the traditional FBI; he prefers a one-way flow of information, with him on the receiving end. Feeling like I’ve surrendered to fate, I start to hang up, but concern for my father overrides my decorum. “Quentin, I have to ask you a hard question.”

“They’re the only ones worth asking, most times.”

“I know you haven’t been doing well. Can you handle a major murder trial, if it comes to that?”

There’s a long pause, during which I hear the high wheeze of an old man breathing. “I won’t lie to you,” he says finally. “The Lord has taken a lot from me since my prime. I’ve had some low days. I can’t walk, can’t eat anything worth eating, and I can’t give my woman what she needs. And no matter what a woman tells you to comfort you, that eats you up inside. It’s enough to make a man lie down and never get up again.”

I hear the sound of careful sipping, then the pained groan of an old man shifting position. “But they’ll have to lay me out dead on the courtroom floor before I let anybody put Tom Cage behind bars.”

For the first time since yesterday morning, I feel the burden of defending my father partly lifted from my shoulders. The relief of having a lawyer with Quentin Avery’s gifts in Dad’s corner—even if his powers aren’t what they once were—is enough to bring tears to my eyes. I want to say, “I never doubted you,” but Quentin knows better. “Thank you” is all I can manage.

“Don’t feel bad for asking what you did. There’s no room for sentiment when family’s on the line.”

“I appreciate it, Quentin.”

“Get a good night’s sleep, brother. Do whatever you need to about the Double Eagles, but leave Shad Johnson and Joe Elder to me. Those boys don’t want no part of my bad side. Now, Doris just opened the front door, and she’ll beat me like an egg-suckin’ dog if she catches me with this bourbon. You’d hear me holler all the way to Natchez.”