The Bone Tree (27 page)

“Why the hell would you come back here?” Lincoln asks.

“Forrest ordered him to,” I guess. “Right?”

Before Grimsby can answer or evade the question, Kennard breaks to his right and sprints past me, running in a zigzag pattern. Lincoln fires his shotgun, but only into the air. Seeing this, Grimsby bolts as well.

Lincoln aims after his retreating figure. “Want me to shoot him?”

“No. I’ve got their IDs.”

“I can hit him in the legs.”

“We don’t need the hassle.” I shove the cops’ wallets into my pocket.

As the men disappear around the neighbor’s house, Lincoln lowers the shotgun. “Whose house is this?”

“Drew Elliott’s. One of Dad’s medical partners.”

“Have you searched it?”

“I didn’t find anything that would tell me where he’s gone. And it looks like he was taken against his will. He left medicine behind. But if that guy was telling the truth, maybe he was just under stress.”

Lincoln peers deeply into my eyes.

“That’s all I know, seriously. I’d rather him be on trial for killing Viola than running from a thousand cops. Besides, you probably just saved my life.”

The silence that follows this statement is strangely awkward. While Lincoln stares at the blood on the grass, I search his face for similarities to my father’s, or even my own. I remember our conversation in CC’s Rhythm Club, the juke joint by Anna’s Bottom, and his promise to take a DNA test. If I had a Q-tip or a plastic bottle to store a twig in, I’d ask him to scratch a sample from his inner cheek right now.

“You followed me here, didn’t you?” I say at last. “You were hoping I’d lead you to Dad.”

Lincoln looks up the slope, toward the lake road, as though he’s considering leaving. “Yeah. But you don’t know shit, do you?”

I remind myself to be more careful the next time I visit Annie and my mother.

Lincoln cradles the shotgun and looks back at me. “All anybody’s talking about now is that dead reporter, Sexton. And Brody Royal. A couple of white men die, and my mother’s forgotten. No surprise, I guess. This is still Mississippi.”

“Do you really still believe my father killed your mother?”

“Nothing’s happened that would change my mind.”

“What about all the killings in the last three days?”

“What about them? I read the paper this morning. Don’t mean shit.”

“Did you read about Glenn Morehouse?”

“That old Klansman who talked to Henry Sexton?”

“He wasn’t a Klansman. He was a Double Eagle.”

“Same difference to a black man.”

“I think your mother was killed for the same reason Henry was. She knew too much about the Double Eagles, and they were afraid she was going to act on what she knew.”

Lincoln looks past me, back over the lake.

“Unless you killed her yourself, that is,” I add.

His face whips back to me. “What are you talking about?”

“I know my father a lot better than you. It was totally out of character for him to run rather than face the charges against him. He’d never do that to protect himself, only someone else.”

“He’s ashamed,” Lincoln says, “and his shame’s made him cowardly.”

“No. He has his faults, but cowardice isn’t one of them. He’s protecting someone. And maybe that someone is you.”

Lincoln looks as though I slapped him. “Why would he protect me?”

“He believes you’re his son.”

The black man’s eyes narrow, and for the first time he looks at me with serious interest. “You’ve finally accepted it, haven’t you?”

“No. But Dad has. I think your mother told him he was your father, and that was enough to make him believe it. I think she was trying to help provide for you after she was gone. I don’t blame her. And I don’t blame you if you tried to ease her passing with morphine.”

Lincoln’s dark cheek twitches.

“But if you made some kind of mistake and gave her that painful death by adrenaline—and then tried to blame Dad for it—then for that I blame you. Is that what you did? Did you have second thoughts and try to revive her?”

Immeasurable contempt radiates from Lincoln’s eyes. “If I’d done that, and Dr. Cage meant to protect me, why would he run? Why wouldn’t he just plead guilty and take his sentence?”

“I’m not sure. He probably figured her death would be recorded as natural, and there’d be no autopsy. He certainly didn’t expect any videotape. And he probably expected you to show some gratitude and keep your mouth shut. But instead you pushed for a murder charge. And Dad knows that both the Double Eagles and the Adams County sheriff would like to see him dead. I don’t think he was ready to die in a jail cell.”

“Why would I press charges if he was protecting me?”

“Bitterness. You clearly still hate him. You saw a chance to get some payback for the pain you believe you suffered at his hands, and you took it. It’s a human response. But things have gone too far now, Lincoln.”

He shakes his head as though he’s tired of dealing with a crazy man, then starts walking back to his truck.

“Aren’t you even going to deny it?” I ask.

“What’s the point? Even after everything that’s happened, you can’t admit to yourself that he might have killed my mother.”

“You haven’t given me any facts!”

Lincoln shrugs and gets into his truck. “The truth will out, my brother. Sooner or later. I’ll see you ’round.”

The big engine roars, Lincoln backs up, and then the white pickup climbs the slope and turns onto the lake road. The rumbling drone lasts half a minute and then fades to silence. Standing alone by the stained grass and the water, I wonder if it’s remotely possible that Lincoln Turner and I have the same blood flowing through our veins. It doesn’t seem so, and yet . . . it’s become clear over the past few days that the history I’ve believed was mine wasn’t nearly the whole story.

With shaking hands I slide my .357 back into my pants at the small of my back, then start up the hill. If Lincoln is still following me, and Forrest Knox is dispatching dirty cops to commit murder, I need to find a more private place to hide Annie and my mother than Edelweiss. Hiding in plain sight is a good principle, but it can’t work forever. The Natchez bluff has too much tourist traffic for someone not to notice that somebody has taken up residence in the famous house. How long before someone gets curious and climbs the steps to the gallery to look through the windows?

Hiding Mom and Annie somewhere safer will require serious thought, and probably some very quiet negotiation with someone I can trust with my family’s lives. But for now I need rest. If I go back to Edelweiss, I won’t get it. Annie is bound to be bored out of her skull, and she’ll talk to me nonstop. City Hall is no refuge either, especially after three days of ignoring my mayoral duties. In this moment, the only place that seems to offer sanctuary is my town house on Washington Street. There I could get some peace.

As I reach my city car, I decide to call Caitlin and ask her to meet me at home. We haven’t seen each other since last night’s nightmare, and
while I know she’s probably working at a fever pitch, no one who went through what she did in Brody Royal’s basement can be all right. More to the point, I feel a strong urge to reconnect with her before events spin any farther out of control. In situations like this one, we’re almost always pushed apart by the things we’re forced to keep from each other.

The vibration of the starting engine comforts me a little, but the car has sat too long for the heater to provide any warmth. As I pull onto the road, it strikes me that Grimsby was telling the truth. Dad shot and killed his partner last night. If Forrest Knox isn’t exploiting this fact, it can only be because he’s working a more subtle plan. In my present state of ignorance, I have little chance of guessing what that might be. I only pray that Walt and Dad possess enough information to unravel Forrest’s intent. If they don’t, they’re certain to wind up right where he wants them, which I assume is dead.

CLAUDE DEVEREUX HAD
lived a long life, but the old lawyer had never been as afraid as he had since last night, after hearing Brody Royal had died. Yet that fear increased as he walked into the Baton Rouge headquarters of the Louisiana State Police. Unlike most people who dealt with Forrest Knox, Claude Devereux had known his father. And he knew that the will and anger that drove Frank Knox burned in Forrest also. Claude did not fancy bearing bad news to Frank’s son.

Worse yet, the FBI was investigating the recent deaths in Concordia Parish, as well as those dating back over forty years. Though Claude had worked hard to insulate himself from the more violent activities of his clients over the decades, remaining immaculate was impossible. If the Bureau looked hard enough at Brody Royal’s dealings, they would find enough to send Claude to prison.

Claude was shown into the office by Forrest’s Redbone acolyte, a fairly recent recruit who made Claude’s skin crawl. Claude took a seat before Forrest’s desk, ignoring the plaques, awards, and shooting trophies that adorned the walls and focusing on the single samurai sword that hung behind Forrest’s head—one of the
katanas
that Frank had brought back from the Pacific in 1945.

To Claude’s surprise, a pit bull sat like a statue beside Forrest’s desk.
Surely there must be a rule against that,
he thought. Then he guessed that Forrest must be testing the boundaries of the authority he hoped to make official in a short time.

“You look nervous, Claude,” Forrest said.

“Oh, I am.”

“Because Brody was killed? Surely you expected that, as reckless as he’s been lately?”

Claude glanced over his shoulder. The Redbone had taken up a station beside the office door, like a second attack dog. “In all honesty, it’s
a relief that he’s gone, though I’ll miss the fees. I didn’t think he’d go as far as he did last night. Kidnapping Penn Cage was suicidal. But that’s not why I’m nervous.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’d rather discuss that in private. I have some news.”

Forrest motioned for him to continue. Clearly, Alphonse Ozan was going nowhere.

Claude cleared his throat. “Sheriff Walker Dennis asked that I relay a message to Snake and the other Double Eagles.”

Forrest laid his elbows on the desk. “What message?”

“He’d like the surviving Double Eagles to come to his office tomorrow morning to answer some questions.”

“Voluntarily?”

Claude nodded.

“Is he serious?”

“Deadly serious. He’s lost a deputy. Another one’s in critical condition.”

“He should have left well enough alone,” Ozan said from behind Claude. “He let that Penn Cage get him into trouble.”

“Is that what I should tell him?” Claude asked.

Forrest shook his head. “Does he want Billy to come in, too?”

“He didn’t mention Billy.”

Forrest pursed his lips as he mulled this over. Claude tried not to stare at the mutilated left ear. He’d often wondered why Forrest hadn’t gotten plastic surgery to mask the injury. His best guess was that it served as a primitive badge of combat experience.

“What’s the latest from the moneymen?” Forrest asked, changing the subject. “Any word on the housing-project decision?”

“I spoke with a couple of attorneys during the drive down. Getting a public housing project rezoned for mixed use is no small matter. A lot of money is changing hands. A lot of favors are being called in.”

Forrest gave him an expectant look. “But I’m still in the deal.”

“As of now, yes. But I would venture to say that if things worsen in Concordia Parish, that might change.”

Forrest Knox’s flat stare chilled Claude as much as Frank’s ever had. “I have no say in the matter,” Claude said. “Most of my time’s been taken up trying to sort out probate issues with Brody’s estate. The children are already fighting over it.”

“Not one of them’s worth a cup of spit. Who gets that Italian turboprop?”

“The plane will be sold, I’m afraid.” Claude forced a smile. “May I ask how things are progressing with Colonel Mackiever?”

Forrest reached down and scratched his pit bull between the ears. A low sound of satisfaction came from the animal’s barrel chest.

“Mackiever was holed up in his house until about twenty minutes ago,” Forrest said. “The press had surrounded him like Indians around a wagon train. But he managed to slip out.”

“How did he do that?”

Ozan said, “His son-in-law, his nephew, and three or four older guys from the Highway Division blocked in the media with their vehicles. The colonel and his wife got out during the melee. Where they are now, nobody knows.”

Claude didn’t like the sound of this. “He hasn’t contacted you about resigning?”

“Not so far.”

“Have you tried to reach him?”

Forrest shook his head.

“Does he have any political support I don’t know about?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t . . . you don’t think he’d go to the FBI?”

Knox studied his fingernails. “It’s possible, but there’s no way he can refute that evidence. We spent months creating that trail. If he forces my hand, his life is over.”

Claude didn’t share Forrest’s confidence. “Then why hasn’t he resigned?”

“Let me worry about that. After you leave here, I want you to contact Billy. Tell him I want Snake and Sonny and at least two other Eagles at Valhalla by five
P.M.
They can use the plane, obviously.”

“Why do you want them back?”

“Because tomorrow morning they’re going to do just what Sheriff Dennis wants them to do.”

Claude heard the Redbone gasp behind him. He took a moment to compose himself. “As an attorney, I’m not sure I’d advise that course of action.”

“It’s a good thing you’re not my attorney, then. You were Brody’s attorney, and he’s dead. I’m alive, and I intend to stay that way.”

Claude considered what Forrest was asking him to do. “Do you really think Snake will return to Louisiana and walk into the sheriff’s office of his own accord?”

“He won’t know anything about it until he talks to me. You’re going to tell Snake you’re not sure why I want him at Valhalla. If he pushes you, tell him you’re worried I’m ready to kill every mother’s son—and daughter—who poses a threat to us. You know Snake. He’ll come back for that.”

Claude nodded. “Without doubt.”

“You tell him anything else, Claude, and I’ll pickle your liver. Are we clear?”

“Absolutely, Frank.” Claude felt his face go red. “I mean Forrest. I’m sorry . . . I had a senior moment. You look so much like your father.”

Forrest grinned. “Take it easy, Claude. I take that as a compliment.”

A cell phone rang behind Claude, and he heard Ozan walk out of the office to answer it.

“Just tell me one thing,” he said to Forrest, taking advantage of the sudden privacy. “What do you hope to gain by sending Snake and the others into the lion’s den?”

“Time, of course. Meanwhile, I’m going to cut a deal to keep the people who could hurt me quiet.”

“With whom?” Claude asked. “Who has the power to keep those people quiet?”

An almost serene expression came over Forrest’s face. “Thomas Cage, M.D.”

Claude sat silently for several seconds. Then he said, “I see. Yes . . . I believe I do see. That makes me feel a little better. I suppose you’ll blame as much as you can on Brody and Regan?”

Forrest inclined his head. “You have any problem with that?”

Claude sighed. “Not as long as you keep me out of it. I may have to leave the country in any case. Brody kept too many mementos around.”

“Just like Snake and the rest. I’ve kept a couple myself, to tell the truth. But Brody seemed especially careless about it.”

“That’s actually what’s making me nervous,” Claude said quickly, glancing back at the closed door. “I think the FBI has the rifles from Brody’s basement. The special rifles. You know the ones I mean?”

“Dallas and Memphis?”

Claude nodded.

“How many people did Brody show those rifles to over the years, Claude?”

“Almost none. There was a panel over that display case whenever guests were there.”

“Exactly. Brody was like the guy who pays an art thief to steal a Rembrandt for him, knowing he can never sell it. He was content to stand in front of that case and say to himself, ‘I helped change the history of this country.’”

“That may be, but the Bureau has whatever remains of them now.”

“So what?” Forrest said, flicking his hand. “Those rifles won’t tell them anything that can hurt us. Do you think Carlos Marcello ran this state for thirty years by being stupid?”

“No. But . . .” Claude trailed off as Forrest got up and walked around behind him. He felt the younger man’s powerful hands on his shoulders, then his neck.

“I don’t like nervous men, Claude. Nervous men make bad decisions.”

“I only wanted to make sure you were aware of the rifle problem.”

Forrest clicked his tongue twice, and the pit bull growled ominously. “I’m not worried about that, Claude. But tell me this: was there anything in Brody’s house I
should
be worried about?”

Claude tried to look up, but with his neck in Forrest’s grip he couldn’t manage it. “Not that I know of. But in all honesty, I think we both should be ready to leave the country on short notice, just in case.”

Forrest laughed. “I’m always ready. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m about to break Griffith Mackiever into pieces even his kids won’t want to touch. Then I’m going to shut down the mess in Concordia Parish. You tell the moneymen in New Orleans to batten down the hatches for two or three days. With luck, I’ll cut a deal with Dr. Cage and there’ll be no more casualties. But if there does have to be more bloodshed, I’ve got that covered, too. No mud or blood will touch the Mardi Gras kings. Okay?”

Claude nodded as vigorously as he could.

At that moment Alphonse Ozan came back into the office.

“I just got a call from Grimsby. Penn Cage showed up at the Elliott
lake house, poking around. Grimsby and his partner were trying to find out if he knew where his daddy was when a big nigger in a white truck pulled up with a sawed-off shotgun and ran them off.”

Forrest dropped his hands from Claude’s neck and walked back to his desk. He was nearly to his chair when he kicked it across the room. The pit bull sprang away, startled into confusion.

“A big jig in a white truck,” Forrest muttered. “That sounds like Lincoln Turner to me.”

“Yep,” Ozan agreed.

“What the hell is he doing protecting the son of the man he wants to send to death row?”

“I got no idea, boss.”

Forrest sat down on the desk and began tapping out a rhythm on his knee. “Claude, you do just what I told you. Except you tell Billy I want him to fly over with his daddy. Got it?”

Claude nodded, impressed by the decisiveness in that voice. Forrest Knox truly was his father reincarnated.

“Alphonse, I’m going to leak the rest of the story on Mackiever.”

Claude cocked his head, curious as to what this might mean.

Forrest smiled. “We’ve got a couple of male prostitutes who’ll swear under oath that Colonel Mackiever paid them for sex on multiple occasions. They’re both underage, and all the dates match up. Nobody can give old Griff an alibi.”

While Claude stared openmouthed, Forrest clapped his hands and stood. “Okay, everybody knows what to do. I expect Snake and the boys at Valhalla by five. If Snake gets ornery, tell him he can bring his sniper rifle. That’ll give the old bastard a hard-on. By the time they touch down, he’ll think he’s in a Charles Bronson movie.”

Claude couldn’t help but chuckle. Forrest knew his uncle well. “May I go?”

Forrest gave him a sidelong glance, then an easy smile. “Sure, Claude. Just don’t go too far.”

Claude cleared his throat. “Meaning?”

“Don’t leave the country. If I call, you come. Are we clear?”

Devereux nodded, then shook the younger man’s hand and hurried out of the office as though urgent business awaited elsewhere. Truth be told, he had tickets for a Virgin Atlantic flight leaving New York
tonight. But he wasn’t about to use them now. If he disobeyed Forrest Knox’s edict, no country could provide him sanctuary.

MELBA PRICE PULLED INTO
the parking lot of a Walgreens drugstore, got out, and walked inside to the rack of
Natchez Examiner
s near the cash registers. Half an hour earlier, the office receptionist had told her that a caller identifying himself as the husband of “Doris Avery,” an old patient of Dr. Cage’s, was asking for her. Melba had never heard of any such patient, but the surname was enough to make her expect to hear Quentin Avery’s voice when she picked up the phone. Once she got on the line, though, she quickly recognized the voice of Jack Cage, Tom’s younger brother from California. Pretending to be “Fred Avery,” Jack gave her a list of drugs and other items that “his wife” needed, and asked if there was any way Melba could drop them by Doris’s house that afternoon. He knew that was asking a lot, he said, since their house was near Fayette, but Doris really needed the medicine. With a shiver Melba realized that Tom must be hiding at Quentin Avery’s house in nearby Jefferson County. She told Jack that she was sorry Doris was hurting, and promised to get the medicine to her as soon as possible.

During the next twenty minutes, Melba had bagged several bottles of drugs from the sample room, then told Dr. Elliott that exhaustion and stress had overcome her. She needed to go home and lie down. Once Drew released her, she’d headed for the Walgreens to get the newspaper. Tom had not put this on his list; she’d made this stop to check whether she could spot anyone following her.

As she paid for the newspaper, Melba recalled her promise to call Penn if Tom contacted her again. But she had no intention of doing that. Personal loyalty meant more to Melba than any abstract concept of right and wrong, and Tom would have to do more than he’d been accused of thus far to make her abandon him.

Standing a few feet back from the glass doors, Melba scanned the parking lot for familiar cars. Then she looked across the bypass, toward St. Catherine’s Hospital. She realized then that she’d chosen her location poorly. This section of town had some of the heaviest traffic in the city.