Natchez Burning (86 page)

Despite the importance of the historical murders, Caitlin’s mind gravitated to Henry’s most recent discoveries, detailed in the Moleskine notebook she’d found at the fire. Last night, descriptions of savage beatings, flayings, and a possible crucifixion had still retained the power to shock her. But the sheer weight of the horrors Henry had uncovered had begun to deaden her sensibilities. The same thing could easily happen to the
Examiner’
s readers, so she had to choose her focus carefully. The dozen-odd murders committed by the Double Eagles comprised a diffuse mass of data spanning a decade and involving unknown witnesses who could take years to locate, if they weren’t dead already. Nailing a few wrinkled old Klansmen who’d been peddling crystal meth to pay their rent might sell a few newspapers, but it wouldn’t win her any prizes. Glenn Morehouse’s sickening account of the murder of the whistle-blowers from Royal Insurance was the kind of story that grabbed modern readers by the throat. Further, Brody Royal was about the juiciest target imaginable in terms of a marketable story. If she brought down one of the richest men in the state by tying him to Carlos Marcello and the attempted assassination of Robert Kennedy, the story would break worldwide in a matter of hours.

Caitlin set down her teacup, her heart racing. The last thing she needed now was more caffeine. To nail Brody Royal for murder, she needed one of two things: a witness who could tie him to one of the murders, or a line into his secret life that could yield damning evidence. The only witness she knew about was the one Henry had dubbed “Huggy Bear” in his notebooks—an unidentified black man who had mysteriously appeared at the bedside of Pooky Wilson’s dying mother. Yet Henry had committed many hours to finding this man, and he’d failed, even with the advantage of having known many of the boys who’d worked at Albert Norris’s store. As for finding a door into Royal’s secret life, Caitlin’s possible lines of infiltration were few. One was Brody’s daughter, Katy Royal Regan, who’d been Pooky Wilson’s lover forty years ago. Another was Royal’s homicidal son-in-law, who was as likely to rape and kill her as talk to her. And then there was Claude Devereux, Royal’s wily old attorney. Caitlin didn’t hold out much hope of tricking a lawyer into admitting anything damaging about a client, much less his richest one. The daughter, on the other hand, might make a vulnerable interview subject. Henry had interviewed Katy Royal and come up dry, but then … Henry was a man.

Caitlin felt sure she could do better.

The only problem was that after leaving the Jericho Hole, she’d promised Penn not to publish anything about Brody Royal until midnight tonight. She regretted that promise now, but Penn had told her that he and John Kaiser were working together to obtain proof of Royal’s involvement in Viola Turner’s death. She couldn’t very well argue against a strategy that might gain Tom his freedom.

As her mind shifted to thoughts of Tom on the run, someone cleared their throat in her doorway. She looked up and saw Jenna Cross, her personal assistant, looking harried.

“What is it, Jen?”

“Your father’s on line two, returning your call.”

Caitlin nodded and lifted the landline next to her computer. She often called her father to authorize extra funds for specific stories, and their pattern of negotiation was invariable. John Masters would complain for a while, but in the end he would give his daughter what she wanted. But this time Caitlin’s request had been unusual. She’d asked her father to publish tomorrow’s Double Eagle stories not only in the
Natchez
Examiner,
but in all twenty-six other papers of his chain. Since most Masters papers were based in the Southeast, the public reaction would come like a storm. But Penn’s goal of making the story so big that attacking Caitlin or Annie or Peggy would seem pointless would be well and truly accomplished.

“Hello, Daddy. What did you decide?”

Her father’s deep chuckle filled the earpiece. “I’ll run your story in ten papers.”

Caitlin started to argue out of reflex, then reconsidered. “Which ten?”

“The urban markets. Charleston, Wilmington, Savannah, Birmingham, et cetera, down the line.”

She closed her eyes and suppressed the impulse to ask for more. Agreeing to run her story in ten papers was an unprecedented concession from her father, whose strategy of expansion had always been based on giving small cities what they wanted: good news rather than strong medicine.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“How much space are these stories going to take up?”

“Pretty much the whole edition here, excepting the sports page.”

“You know I can’t give you that in the other papers.”

“What can you give me? This story’s going to go international sixty seconds after we go out with it.”

“Three related stories, a total of … three thousand words.”

This was like a gift from the gods, but still she clenched her jaw and said, “Four.”

“Thirty-five hundred, Cait, and that’s pushing it.”

Caitlin wanted to press him, but she stifled herself. She’d have to be content with adding links to the full suite of stories on the
Examiner
’s Web edition. “Done,” she said.

“When will you be finished with these stories?”

She was going to have to lie now and beg forgiveness later. “What’s the absolute latest I can get them out?”

“Midnight, if you want them in the other papers. That’s nonnegotiable. I can’t pay the staffs of ten papers overtime because you’re late getting a story in. If you need more time, we can run it day after tomorrow.”

“I’d like nothing better. But Penn says no.”

“Is Penn making your publishing decisions now?”

She quickly explained her fiancé’s theory of achieving security for the family by running the story as soon as possible.

“I agree with Penn,” her father said. “You have those stories done by eleven—no ifs, ands, or buts. If you don’t, I’ll call Penn and have him dictate a story. I’m not suffering through one more night like I did two months ago.”

Caitlin closed her eyes and tried to remain in the present. “I’ll make the deadline. And you’d better get ready. We’re going to have every TV network in the country calling us tomorrow.”

“I’ll let the other editors know.”

Caitlin thanked him again, then hung up and looked at her watch.

It was 4:42
P.M.
She had approximately seven hours to produce the stories that would run in the chain’s flagship papers tomorrow. Maybe a couple of extra hours to write additional material that would run only in the
Examiner
. That meant she had a decision to make. Would she write those stories based on Henry’s work alone? Or would she use part of her time to try to accomplish what Henry Sexton had not?

Seven hours. Fourteen if I’m willing to break a story in the online edition alone.
Could brazenness, daring, and insight allow her to crack the most explosive mystery of this complex epic in a single night? An image of Katy Royal Regan rose into her mind—her most promising target of opportunity. But to take that shot, she would have to break her promise to Penn, and possibly damage Tom’s chances of a quick dismissal of his case. With a resentful sigh, she got up and closed her door, then picked up Henry Sexton’s charred Moleskine and began to reread his most recent entries, hoping to find something she’d missed before.

A hard knocking at her door startled her, and before she could call “Come in,” the door opened.

Jamie Lewis came into her office and shut the door behind him. A professional cynic, he rarely delivered news without a smartass remark. But Caitlin could tell by his manner that he had bad news.

“Tell me,” she said.

“An APB has gone out for Tom Cage and his friend Walt Garrity. The Louisiana State Police issued it.”

Caitlin’s palms went cold. “What’s it for? Jumping bail?”

“No. Killing a cop. A state trooper.”

The blood drained from her face. She waved Jamie out, then grabbed the telephone, all her anger at Penn forgotten.

“
THAT’S ALL I
can say on the phone,” I tell Caitlin, driving down Washington Street toward Edelweiss. “Just keep working on your story, and I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”

“But Tom—”

“I’m doing the only thing that I think might possibly get Dad to safety. That’s really all I can say. I’m checking on Mom and Annie now. Don’t leave your office if you can avoid it. Okay?”

“All right. But please come down here as soon as you can.”

“I will.”

Taking a sharp turn, I pull into the backyard of Edelweiss, which is only accessible by a small opening in the overgrown fence on the Washington Street side. I park behind a small brick outbuilding, trot to the back door of the ground floor, let myself in, then climb the stairs to the main floor.

From the sound, Mom and Annie must be watching TV in the third-floor master suite. When I call up the long staircase, Annie comes to the head of the stairs. I smile and wave to her, but then I hold up my hand and ask her to send her grandmother down. Annie is clearly worried, but I don’t want her to see me too closely. A reddish-blue bruise is already spreading around my neck where Randall Regan choked me.

As soon as Mom reaches the bottom of the steep stairs, I walk her into the kitchen. She can tell that something has happened, and suddenly her gaze settles on my neck. Raising my hand to stop her question, I speak in a low voice.

“Mom, you need to brace yourself.”

Her right hand flicks out and seizes mine, her eyes wild. “Tom’s not dead!”

“No, no. But a Louisiana state trooper was found shot to death this morning, by one of the borrow pits across the river. The state police have already put out an APB for Dad and Walt Garrity. Every cop in three states is hunting them now.”

My mother’s face looks as though it’s turned to wax. “But … why would they think Tom would kill a state trooper?”

“You knew Dad was with Walt, didn’t you?”

“No! But I’m glad he is. What else do you know?”

“A lot. I just talked to Sheriff Dennis. Basically, all the physical evidence looks bad for Dad, and the state police have a witness who’ll place both him and Walt at the murder scene. A man named Sonny Thornfield.”

Mom is shaking her head in denial or disbelief.

“Do you have
any
idea what Dad’s plan was when he jumped bail? If you do, tell me now. If I can reach him by phone, I can try to arrange a surrender to the FBI. One of their agents is willing to protect Dad as a federal witness. Or to try, anyway.”

She stares back at me with a look I recognize from my experience with the wives and mothers of criminal defendants: uncertainty about what to say to support the unknown alibi of a loved one.

“Mom, listen to me. There’s an officer high up in the LSP who wants Dad to go down for Viola’s murder. He’s the son of Frank Knox, the founder of the Double Eagle group. And the best way he can get the result he wants is to have Dad shot as a fugitive while resisting arrest.”

“Annie’s going to come down in a minute,” Mom says, looking bewildered. “She’s terrified, Penn.”

“I know she must be. Mom, I need you to focus.”

She grabs my wrists with surprising strength. “You don’t really think Tom or Walt could have killed a police officer?”

I’ve been pondering this question from the moment John Kaiser told me about it. “I’d like to say no, but even an honest cop might have drawn down on Dad if he saw him as a bail jumper. And if they were dealing with a dirty cop … I can see Walt shooting to protect Dad in either case.”

She sags against the kitchen counter. “Oh, God. This can’t be.”

I hug her tight against me. “Where would he go, Mom? Who would he trust with his life on the line?”

“Oh, Lord,” she says into my chest. “Tom must have treated ten thousand people since we moved here. Three-quarters of them would probably help him if he asked, and ten percent would probably risk their lives for him.”

She’s right. “That’s a thousand places to search, right there.”

Her wet face nods against me. “Maybe he wasn’t so crazy to run. Maybe he’s sure they can’t find him.”

“But they will, sooner or later. They have too much technology, and the Knox family knows this area like their own backyard.”

Her arms clench me with the strength of near panic, and she shudders against my chest. After half a minute, I kiss the top of her head and draw back.

“Mom, I don’t want Annie to see me this way. I need to look for Dad, even if the chance is slim. Please reassure her all you can. And whatever you do,
don’t leave this house
. Don’t even stand by the windows. I’ve called all the contractors, so no one should be showing up. If I decide to send someone to protect you, I’ll call you first.”

She nods with grim determination. “I’ve got my pistol in my purse.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can. Tell Annie I’ll be back by dark. And call my cell if you think of any way I might be able to reach Dad.”

Mom nods helplessly as I disappear through the back door, but she bolts it shut as soon as I’m outside.

My cell phone rings when I take out my keys—a number I don’t recognize. Clicking the talk button, I say, “Hang on!” then climb into the Audi and start the engine. “Who is this?”

“John Kaiser.”

“Thank God. Have you got anywhere on being able to help my father come in?”

“I’m working on it. The best we can hope for is a surrender to us on federal charges. But with a dead state trooper, the politicos down here are going to light up the phones in Washington if I try to take him away from them. I’m pressing for it, but my SAC has been fighting turf battles with the locals every day since Katrina.”

I grit my teeth in frustration. “Please do what you can. I haven’t had any luck finding him yet, but I will.”

“Watch your tail while you look. I checked up on Randall Regan. He’s a bad son of a bitch.”

“I learned the hard way, as usual. Hey, have you got anything on the Big Ears yet?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ve got Regan telling Brody Royal that you assaulted him in the restroom of a restaurant. He’s thinking of pressing charges.”