The Bone Tree (11 page)

NATCHEZ SLEEPS IN
silence as we cross the Mississippi River, as silent as Kaiser and I have remained since we left the sheriff’s office. The town looks as it has since I was a child, a fragile line of lights strung along the rim of the high bluff, with church steeples standing watch over the populace. Given the ruckus at the Concordia hospital early in the evening, a few citizens are probably sitting up, constantly refreshing the
Examiner
’s Web page, hoping for a Breaking News update that will tell them once and for all whether Henry Sexton was killed by a sniper. How will they react when they learn that Henry survived that attack only to give his life for Caitlin’s hours later? Or that he was only one of several casualties, among them Brody Royal?

Looking back at the dark lowlands of Louisiana, I scan the sky for the column of flame we left behind, but I don’t see it. The levee near that lake stands thirty-five feet tall, and the flames were probably double that, but now the fire’s burned out of sight.

Kaiser turns onto Canal Street and heads into downtown proper.

“Are you going to keep me in suspense all night?” I ask. “I’m not going to sit outside City Hall talking till dawn. I’m wiped out, man.”

When Kaiser begins speaking at last, his voice carries a passion that it didn’t back in the corridor of Sheriff Dennis’s office. “Penn, the FBI had two great failures in the last century, and they irreparably damaged the Bureau in the public mind. The first was the unsolved murders of the civil rights movement. The second involved the major assassinations, particularly that of JFK. Those weren’t failures of process, but of
will
. Why did the Bureau fail? Because the director didn’t really want those cases solved.”

This isn’t news to me, but it’s a pretty remarkable statement to hear from a serving FBI agent. “When Dwight Stone discovered who was behind the murder of Del Payton in 1968—a big Nixon supporter, as it happened—Hoover made Stone suppress it. ”

“I know all about that. Stone’s generation of agents saw J. Edgar’s sins firsthand. And as a result, there’s now a group of retired FBI agents—mostly thirty-year men—who’ve never forgotten the sting of those failures. They’ve never let go of the cases they weren’t allowed to work as they should have been. The Double Eagle cases were among those.”

“And the JFK assassination?”

Kaiser nods. “That, too. These men work quietly, in the background, but they’ve done significant investigative work over the years. They’ve even got serious funding behind them now—private money, of course. The current director knows nothing about these guys, but some active agents give them help when possible.”

“Like you?”

A brief nod. “Like me.”

“Is Dwight Stone part of this group?”

“He is. They don’t publicize their activities, so you can’t tell Caitlin about it. If it got out that former FBI agents were actively working the Kennedy assassination . . . that’s like chum in the water to the media. These men are dedicated pros. Engineer types. They keep their heads down, and they don’t get excited. I think of them like retired astronauts. In fact, that’s what I call them, when I refer to them at all. They call themselves the ‘Working Group.’”

Kaiser turns right on State Street, rolls past Sheriff Billy Byrd’s sheriff’s department and the courthouse, then turns left again and parks in front of the lit oaks before City Hall.

Dwight Stone’s participation in this group legitimizes it in my eyes, but given tonight’s events, I can’t raise much interest. “Where’s this going, John?”

“My astronauts have been pretty quiet for a while. The civil rights murder cases have stalled, and the few remaining witnesses are dying like flies. Even the agents themselves are dying, more’s the pity. But when Glenn Morehouse talked to Henry Sexton on Monday, everything changed.
Everything,
Penn. No Double Eagle had ever cracked before.”

“Except Jason Abbott.”

“That was different. Abbott was just trying to screw the guy who was screwing his wife. But Morehouse was trying to clear his conscience, and in the process he opened a door that the Working Group believed was closed forever. By revealing the connection between
Carlos Marcello and Frank Knox—through Brody Royal—he cracked the door on the JFK assassination.”

“How? Just what did Henry tell you, exactly?”

“That Jimmy Revels was murdered to lure Robert Kennedy to Mississippi to be assassinated by the Knoxes. Or that was the plan anyway, until Frank Knox was killed in an industrial accident.”

“You don’t doubt that story?”

“Not at all. Carlos Marcello had hated Robert Kennedy since the McClellan hearings in ’59, and he’d wanted him dead since Bobby deported him while attorney general in ’61. If JFK’s death hadn’t neutralized Bobby in ’63, Marcello would probably have killed Bobby then. And five years later, when Bobby announced his presidential run, he put himself right back in Marcello’s sights. If Frank Knox hadn’t died in your father’s office in March of ’68, Robert Kennedy might have been assassinated in Natchez or Ferriday in April, rather than Los Angeles in June. Carlos could not allow RFK to become president, Penn. If he had, he would have been immediately deported, and lost his empire.”

“Empire?” I mutter in frustration.

“You think I’m exaggerating? In 1979, the House Select Committee on Assassinations determined that Marcello’s combined operations—both criminal and legitimate—comprised the largest industry in the State of Louisiana. Bigger than the oil business, bigger than agriculture. Carlos wasn’t just a Mafia kingpin. He was a king, every bit as powerful as Huey Long in his day.”

Kaiser has raised his voice, and I’m starting to hear the obsessive passion of a conspiracy nut. “I still don’t understand what we’re doing here, John.”

The FBI agent looks at me like I’m playing a game with him. “You’re holding back on me, Penn.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you called me Tuesday night, after Henry’s stabbing, you told me you thought Brody Royal might be involved in the major assassinations of the 1960s. You also said your father might know something about them. You used the plural both times. It’s time to tell me what you were talking about.”

I don’t want to answer, but my memory of Dwight Stone and all he
did for me seven years ago is pushing me to speak. After some deliberation, I decide to break my father’s confidence.

“My dad told me a story the other night,” I say, not mentioning the incriminating photo that Henry Sexton passed to me earlier that same night—the photo that prompted our conversation. “Back in the midsixties, Dad and Dr. Leland Robb were down on the Gulf Coast at a gun show, and Dr. Robb set up a fishing cruise with Brody Royal. Dad didn’t know about it until the last minute, so he couldn’t get out of going. Claude Devereux and Ray Presley were also on the boat.”

“That’s a pretty motley crew.”

“I know. Anyway, the one other guy on this boat was some kind of paramilitary CIA type. A contractor, probably. He spoke French. Or cursed in French, anyway.”

Kaiser’s gaze has turned intense. “What year was this?”

“In ’65, I think. No, ’66. Dr. Robb was killed in ’69, so it was three years before that. Anyway, the CIA guy got trashed during this little voyage, and he and Royal got to talking about Cuba. The Bay of Pigs. They also talked about some coup d’état operations in South America. Then at some point the guy started bitching about ‘Dallas’ and how the whole thing had been screwed up, like a botched military operation. Dad didn’t know what he meant, but it scared the shit out of him, and he made a point never to see Royal again after that. And that’s all. That’s my story.”

“Why would that scare your father unless he thought ‘Dallas’ referred to the JFK assassination?”

“I know, I know. You’re probably right.”

“Dr. Cage didn’t think this guy was just talking out of his ass?”

“No. Dad was a combat medic in Korea, and he told me he’d seen a certain type of guy over there. The hard type, you know? Professional. He said this guy was like that. No bullshit. A killer.”

Kaiser nods slowly and motions for me to go on.

“That’s all I know, John. Seriously. “

“No, it’s not. You saw those rifles in Brody’s basement.”

“That’s meaningless, man. A gullible old man’s fantasy. You’ll have the rifles themselves soon anyway. The barrels and works, at least. You don’t need me for that.”

“Earlier you told me you thought the JFK rifle might be real. What made you say that?”

“The fishing story, I guess. I figured there might possibly be some connection between Royal and the kind of guy who’d be involved in an assassination.”

“That’s all?”

“Maybe after all I’ve heard about Frank Knox . . . it didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility that he was in Dallas on the day John Kennedy died.”

“No shit,” says Kaiser. “And he might not have been alone, either. His brother Snake served as a sniper in Korea. I told you that over the past couple of years Snake has bragged to a few people that he shot Martin Luther King.”

I groan in protest. “James Earl Ray killed King, John. I don’t think there’s any serious dispute about that. In any case, I honestly don’t care right now. I killed someone myself tonight. I need to sleep.”

“Just one more minute. Tell me about the rifles. What kind of guns were they?”

I close my eyes and think back to the awful few seconds between Royal and Regan pushing us toward the indoor firing range and Caitlin going after Royal with the straight razor. “Hunting rifles,” I say softly.

“Not military?”

“No. Wooden stocks, hunting scopes.”

“What make?”

“I don’t know. My father’s the gun expert, not me. The rifle on the bottom might have been a Winchester. Yeah . . . and the top one was bolt-action.”

“Do you remember which rifle was dated for which assassination?”

“The bolt-action was Dallas. The Winchester-style gun was April fourth. Memphis.”

“That’s good detail for a quick glimpse. I guess former prosecutors make good witnesses. We’ll have to see what comes out of the ashes after the wreckage of Royal’s house cools.”

“Good luck with that.” I reach for the door handle. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Hold up,” Kaiser says, betraying some tension. “We’re not quite done.”

“Damn it, John. Yes, we are. I’m exhausted.”

“You didn’t think the story about the founding of the Double Eagles was relevant to all this? To the rifles, even?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The sandbar south of Natchez? Nineteen sixty-four? Henry didn’t tell you that story?”

I think back to the long conversation in Henry’s “war room,” but nothing rings a bell. “I don’t think so.”

Kaiser purses his lips like he’s surprised. “Frank Knox founded the Double Eagles on a sandbar south of the International Paper Company in the summer of ’64, five days after the FBI found the three civil rights workers in that dam in Neshoba County. That’s the first day Frank handed out the Double Eagle gold pieces.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of that.”

“Snake Knox was there, and Sonny Thornfield, and Glenn Morehouse. They were having a family campout and practicing with plastic explosives. Just good ol’ all-American fun.”

“Okay. So?”

“On that day, Frank told the others they were splitting off from the Ku Klux Klan. Then he drew three
K
’s in the sand.” Kaiser takes a small notepad from his coat and draws three capital
K’
s as the points of a triangle. “Morehouse and Thornfield were confused until Frank took out a magazine photo of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Junior, standing with President Johnson in the White House Rose Garden.”

“Go on.”

“Frank had drawn red circles around the heads of Kennedy and King.”

“Shit, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“You don’t think so? When Sonny and Morehouse still didn’t get it, Frank drew more letters in the sand—two before each
K
.”

As I watch, Kaiser adds letters to his notepad. Now the points of his triangle read:

To my surprise, the sight of these letters starts a low buzzing in my head. “But it’s what Frank said,” Kaiser goes on, “that makes me take all
this seriously. He scratched an X through the JFK with a barbecue fork and said, ‘One down, two to go.’”

A wave of sweat breaks through my skin inside my coat. “Henry didn’t tell me anything about that.”

“I guess he was too busy telling you other things.”

I don’t bite on this bait, but Kaiser’s probably right. Since the founding of the Double Eagles had nothing to do with my father, Henry didn’t waste time telling me about it. I’ll bet he didn’t tell me half of what he knew that night. He’d been working for twenty years on those cases. Thirty, maybe.

“John, are you seriously working the JFK assassination?”

This time, when Kaiser’s eyes meet mine, it’s as if I’m truly seeing the man for the first time. The intensity in his gaze is not that of a fanatic, but of a soldier committed to his cause. “Like I said, I’m helping Dwight and his buddies. But you still don’t understand. We
know
who ordered John Kennedy’s murder. We’ve been certain for more than two years. We just haven’t been able to prove who fired the kill shot.”

Now we’ve come full circle, back to cuckooland. “That’s great, John. But I’ve got no time for conspiracy theories.”

I reach for the door handle again, but Kaiser catches hold of my arm. “Yes, you do. Because your father knows the same thing we do. He’s known it for forty-two years.”

Kaiser’s words don’t quite seem real. “If you believe that, you don’t know my father at all.”

He concedes this with a small nod. “Are you sure
you
do?”

This freezes me in my seat. I want to argue, yet everything that’s happened over the past three days has happened because my father has refused to speak about the past—a past that it’s becoming increasingly clear is very different from the one I believed in only days ago.

“Penn, your father’s being hunted for killing a state trooper. I need very much to talk to him. And ultimately, his only chance to survive is to turn himself in to me.”