Natchez Burning (107 page)

“I know you’re upset,” Caitlin says carefully. “I’m sure you blame me for what your daughter did. I can understand that. But she needs you now. When I talked to her …” Caitlin trails off when she sees the glacial coldness in Royal’s eyes.

“Tell her, Randall.”

“Katy’s dead, you stupid bitch.”

Caitlin whips her head back toward Royal.

“She died twenty minutes after your fiancé left the hospital,” says the old man.

Even as Caitlin says, “I’m sorry,” the timing of Royal’s daughter’s demise strikes me as highly improbable.

“You killed her,” I say softly, my eyes boring into his.

“You left me no choice. It was a mercy, in a way. Especially for Randall.”

Regan looks at me like a man who has had a crippling burden lifted from his shoulders. Undoubtedly he did the deed himself.

Brody looks hard at Caitlin, who appears horrified by the ultimate consequences of her interview with Katy Royal. “I don’t need your apologies, Ms. Masters. All I need from you is a name.”

Caitlin’s eyes flick back and forth like those of a trapped animal. She’s where I was a few minutes ago.
Make up a name and pay the price for lying? Or give Royal a real name and possibly trigger someone’s death?
Is there even any point to stalling?
John Kaiser seems our only possible deliverance, but without Walker Dennis leading him to Royal … why would he show up?

“Randall, I think it’s time you show Ms. Masters that we’re not playing games here.”

“About time,” Regan says, setting his computer aside and getting to his feet with his cigarette clamped between his teeth.

I start toward Caitlin to protect her, but instead of moving toward her, Regan walks straight to me, spreads his hands wide, and claps them over my ears with stunning force. Though I see the blow coming, my taped hands give me no chance to block it. The simultaneous concussions stun me like nails driven through my eardrums, scrambling all thought.

I hit the floor even before I realize I’m falling.

As I lie on my back, heaving for breath, Regan drops a crushing knee onto my chest and leans over me, the orange eye of his cigarette burning white as he sucks air through it. Grabbing the butt from his mouth, he jams the burning tobacco into my left cheek.

Searing agony whites out his laughing face. For a wild rush of heartbeats there’s only fire in my skin and a hammer pounding in my skull. The next thing to register is a high-pitched scream. Turning my head toward the sound, I see Caitlin’s mouth wide, her eyes red and pouring tears. Royal gives an order that registers faintly in my brain, and then Regan gets off my chest and pulls me to my feet.

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.

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.