Natchez Burning (55 page)

Two pinks moons appear high on her cheeks. “Henry Sexton is a fine investigative reporter, but he works for a
weekly
newspaper. A tiny shop in the middle of nowhere. It’s read by five thousand people, many of whom would prefer he didn’t delve into the things that obsess him.”

“You can’t take over Henry’s story. And I won’t help you try.”

She leans forward, and I feel myself pulling away from her. “Penn, this story is
big
. Bigger than Henry. Bigger than you or me, bigger even than your father. There’s a secret history here, and yesterday’s deaths are going bring it roaring back into the headlines.”

“It’s the murder charges against Dad that will do that. Viola’s death would hardly rate a mention in your paper.”

She winces at this but doesn’t argue. Nor does she address my central point. “The FBI taking possession of Morehouse’s body is unprecedented,” she says. “John Kaiser is treating this like a terrorism case.”

“I suspect he is. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have had the power to do that.”

Ninety minutes ago, Henry called and informed me that Special Agent John Kaiser had dispatched a car from the FBI’s New Orleans field office to collect the bones Kirk Boisseau discovered this morning. Kaiser refused to comment on his decision to take possession of Glenn Morehouse’s corpse, but he assured Henry that he intended to take unprecedented measures to bring the surviving Double Eagles to justice. Since I initiated Kirk’s dive, I felt I could report that much to Caitlin without breaking faith with Henry. But beyond that …

“You can’t hold me to a promise I made in ignorance!” she insists.

I lean back in my chair and let her reflect on the absurdity of her statement. “I’m more worried about Shad’s plans for Dad than I am about those bones.”

“Have you figured a way to expedite that DNA test?”

“The timing of that’s basically up to Shad, I’m afraid.”

“Are you going to tell Tom your worries about Shad trying to find a way to get his bail revoked?”

“Not until I can get him away from Mom. He was going home before heading to the office.”

“So what about the dogfighting photo?” she asks, jarring me back the present. “Isn’t it time to give Shad another look at it, so he can watch his career pass before his eyes?”

“He knows what I have, and that hasn’t stopped him. I’m missing something, and that worries me. Plus, using that image
is
the equivalent of going nuclear. There’s no way to predict what the ultimate result might be.”

She nods as though in agreement, but I can tell her thoughts aren’t really on my father’s problems. She’s thinking about the Double Eagles, and Henry Sexton’s secret knowledge.

“Go on,” I tell her. “Get it out.”

“Penn, a weekly paper simply
can’t
cover a case like this. It’s a matter of inadequate staff and resources. And this story’s too important now to let—”

“This story has
always
been important,” I cut in. “And Henry has always treated it that way, even when no other journalist in the country gave a damn about these murders.”

That dart went deep, but Caitlin knows I’m right. Still, I can’t deny her point. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her green eyes bright with excitement. “The
Beacon
is a fine vehicle for providing historical perspective, for unearthing backstory and doing patient investigation. But this is
breaking news
. And the
Examiner
can’t ignore it.”

My internal radar goes on alert. Given the risk of libel inherent in this kind of story, Caitlin must figure Henry has reams of information that he hasn’t made public. She would probably perform sexual favors for a chance to break this story nationwide. She would for me, anyway.

The phone on my desk buzzes, drawing our eyes to it. I press the lighted button. “What is it, Rose?”

“Henry Sexton is out here. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed, but he says it’s an emergency.”

Caitlin’s eyes shine with anticipation, and she doesn’t offer to leave. “Send him in, Rose.”

“Yes, sir.”

Five seconds later, my door opens and Henry walks in wearing corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and John Lennon glasses. He must have been wearing contacts last night. The moment he sees Caitlin, he looks like a college professor flummoxed by a question he can’t answer. Caitlin has actually sunk down in her chair in the vain hope that Henry won’t see her until he’s blurted out whatever is on his mind. The woman is shameless.

“Henry, you know my fiancée.”

He moves awkwardly around the chair and shakes hands with Caitlin, who straightens in her chair and smiles like an actress auditioning for a coveted role. But Henry doesn’t return the expression. He looks back at me with utter sincerity and says, “We need to talk, brother.”

“Does Caitlin need to leave? If this visit has to do with your investigations, don’t hesitate to kick her out.”

Henry gives this question grave consideration, his face hardening with something like territorial instinct. “Under any other circumstances, I would. But if she’ll promise not to print what I’m about to say, or post it online, I’m willing to say it in front of her.”

“Henry, what the hell is going on?”

“Do you know about the grand jury?”

My diaphragm flattens like that of a boxer about to take a body blow. “No. What’s happened?”

“Shad took your father’s case before them right after lunch.”

For a few seconds I stop breathing. The work of grand juries is supposed to be confidential, but I sense that Henry already knows what happened in that chamber today. “Tell me.”

He gives Caitlin a mistrustful glance, then says, “They returned a true bill half an hour ago. I’m sorry, Penn.”

“Mother
fuck
,” Caitlin curses, anger making her eyes blaze like klieg lights. “An Adams County grand jury indicted Tom Cage for murder?”

“They sure did,” Henry confirms. “I can hardly believe it myself.”

Henry and I share a look: last night he assured me that he’d nail the Double Eagles for Viola’s death long before my father could be indicted.

“How the hell do you know that when I don’t?” Caitlin asks.

Henry lowers his chin and gives me a look that says:
Does this girl have her priorities straight?

“Who’s the judge?” I ask.

“Joe Elder.”

I shake my head with something close to despair. “How certain are you of this?”

Henry’s cheeks redden a bit. “One hundred percent. That’s all I can tell you, with or without Caitlin here, so don’t ask me more. I just thought you ought to know.”

“Damn it! Shad must have some serious evidence to sway a Natchez grand jury against Dad.”

“Do you think it was my video? I’d sure hate to think that.”

“If so, it wasn’t your fault. What that tape means is open to interpretation. And since the accused can’t have a lawyer in the grand jury room, Shad could put whatever spin he wanted to on every frame.”

Henry’s eyes are welling up, and I can sense just how much he cares about my father.

“Shadrach Johnson,” Caitlin says with contempt. “It’s time to nuke him, Penn, I swear to God.”

I signal for her to keep quiet, but she’s too angry to pay attention.

“Say the word,” she hisses. “I’ll have that photo up on our Web edition in ten minutes. Front page, bigger than VJ Day. Shad won’t even reach the city limits before PETA is screaming for his hide.”

“What photo?” Henry asks, blinking.

“Sorry, Henry,” she says with a hint of irony. “Privileged information.”

He gives her a look that a teacher might give an arrogant student.

“Damn it all!” I yell, getting up and pacing around the room. “Shad must really believe Dad is guilty. Otherwise, he’s gone insane.”

“Bullshit,” says Caitlin. “This is a vendetta, nothing else. He proved that this morning, when he asked that bail be denied.”

I’m still not sure of this. These tactics aren’t Shad’s usual Clausewitz strategy. This is a blitzkrieg, and the risks to Shad are considerable, all of which begs the question of what’s really going on. But if I don’t respond immediately, my father could be overrun by a legal offensive that could kill him before he even gets to trial.

When Caitlin walks to the window looking onto the oaks in front of City Hall, I can tell by her posture that she’s thinking hard. After a few moments, she turns back to us, her eyes focused on Henry. “May I ask you a question, Henry?”

“I can’t wait.”

“When does your next edition come out?”

“Thursday.”

“Two days from now. And the next edition after that?”

“Next Thursday. We come out every Thursday.”

“I see.”

God, she’s shameless.

“Henry, may I be blunt with you?” she goes on.

He meets her eyes with steady calm. “I thought you already were.”

“Do you think a weekly paper is capable of covering a story that’s breaking as fast as this one?”

Henry works his mouth around in silence for a few seconds. “Well, yes. Not the way you could with your daily, of course. But we’ve got our Web edition up and running, and I can post articles to that all day long.”

“True. But that’s not quite the same thing, and more to the point, you’re really a one-man shop over there when it comes to these cold cases.”

Henry takes his time parsing her words and tone. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“She wants to know everything you know about the Double Eagles,” I tell him. “She wants to take over your story.”

“
Not
true,” Caitlin snaps. “That’s not what I’m asking for at all.” She walks over to the reporter and lightly touches his arm, taking back his attention. “I have a proposal for you, Henry.”

Last night Henry’s worst fear was having his story stolen. But Caitlin isn’t going to steal it from him; she’s going to convince him he has a journalistic duty to give it to her. “A proposal?” he asks.

“Yes. I’d like you to start working for me.”

He draws back in puzzlement. “For you?”

“For the
Examiner
. I’m the publisher, you know, not a reporter or even the editor. I don’t have any business trying to write this story myself. But unless I have you working for me, I’m going to have to take it on, the way I did the Del Payton story.”

This statement is disingenuous. We all know she won a Pulitzer for her Del Payton coverage.

“I’d much prefer to have
you
covering this story for us,” she continues. “With our media group’s considerable resources backing you up. We’d publish under your byline, naturally.”

To my surprise, Henry’s face goes red, then darkens with anger. Even Caitlin takes a step back when she sees the frustration in his eyes. After all his painstaking work, I can only imagine the personal affront he must feel her overture to be.

“You can tell her to go to hell, Henry,” I say. “I mean that.”

Caitlin gives me a sharp glare, but then she takes two steps closer to him. “I realize what I’m asking. And I admit that I’m partly motivated by self-interest. But you can’t deny that I can bring considerable firepower to what until now has been a solo quest—albeit an impressively successful one.”

Henry looks up at her at last, then turns to me like a man seeking sanctuary, as if he’s only able to stand the intensity of Caitlin’s expectant gaze for a few seconds. I know the feeling well.

“This is complicated,” he says. “Because Dr. Cage’s case is one part of the story, and the cold cases are another. And I’ve been covering those just fine in the
Beacon
.”

“I believe all those stories are about to become one,” Caitlin says with unerring instinct. “One explosive story. The kind of story that comes along only once in a career.”

Henry looks genuinely surprised. This must be the last thing he expected when he walked through my door. He’s always known Caitlin was a threat to his monopoly on this story, but he probably never realized that the nature of his own newspaper might be a serious weakness. “I’ll admit the validity of your argument,” he says. “But even if I wanted to do that, I don’t know that my publisher would agree.”

Caitlin gives him another high-wattage smile. “I’m not trying to steal you away. You’d be a guest reporter—and a well-paid one. We’ll credit each story: ‘Special to the
Examiner,
by Henry Sexton of the
Concordia Beacon
.’”

Henry nods sharply. “You bet your ass you would.”

He rubs his palms down his thighs as though to flatten his corduroy pants, then looks to me as though for guidance. “What do you think, Penn?”

“I think it’s hard to say no to this woman. But that’s no reason to say yes. Not unless you’re sure.”

Caitlin maintains her smile, but her eyes flash fury at me.

“What do you think about her argument?”

“She has a point about the weekly-versus-daily issue, especially with my father’s case. You could cover it on the Web, but there’s no question that her father’s media group would give you massive exposure on a daily basis. On the other hand, you’ve been covering the Double Eagle story for years. That’s yours, and I think you’ll win a Pulitzer for it someday. The problem is, the past has crashed into the present. Look what happened with the bones this morning. The two stories are already tangling together. If the Eagles killed Viola, which you believe, then by sticking to your old methods you run the risk of other reporters catching up to you, and fast.”

“You think I should take the offer.”

“No. I’m saying every proposition has good and bad points. But I will tell you this: Caitlin’s very good at her job, and she can have your stories running coast to coast by tomorrow.”

Henry turns away from us and studies a framed photograph on the wall. It shows me with Willie Morris, my former lit professor, who edited
Harper’s Magazine
during the 1960s. In the photo we’re drinking a beer at the Gin, an Oxford, Mississippi, bar that, like Willie himself, no longer exists except in memory.

“This would take some serious negotiation with my publisher,” Henry says.

“Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”

He looks at Caitlin like a suspicious man dealing with a car salesman. “If we did it, I’d still want to be able to publish in the
Beacon
on Thursdays.”