Greg Iles - The Quiet Game

“Penn?” Caitlin asks, after a minute of hold music.

“Yes. Remember, your phone’s tapped.”

“What’s going on? I’ve been freaking out here.”

“Have you asked any of the Argus guys to pick up the witnesses yet?”

“Not yet. I can call them now.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. Don’t even mention it. I’ll be there soon, and I’ll handle it. Hang tight until then. Stay inside the newspaper building if you can.”

“Penn, Kelly was acting a little strange before he left. Like I might not see him again.”

You might not. “Things are pretty fluid right now. I’m on my way.”

“Listen. An hour ago my receptionist told me I had a call from the editor of the Rocky Mountain News. When I got to the phone, he told me he was sending a reporter down to cover your trial, and he wanted to know if the guy could use our office facilities.”

“And?”

“He said the reporter’s name was Bookbinder. Henry Bookbinder.”

Bookbinder. Stone’s dead partner. And the Rocky Mountain News is based in Denver. I want to scream with joy, but I just say, “Did he say when this reporter would arrive?”

“Only that he’d be here in time to cover the trial. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“CNN, Court TV, and some others have been pressing Judge Franklin to allow the trial to be televised.”

“Cameras aren’t allowed in Mississippi courtrooms.”

“I know, but this is a civil case. Apparently if both parties agree, the judge could allow it.”

“But why would Leo agree? Portman would tear him a new one if he did.”

“CNN and the other networks have been saying publicly that if Marston and Portman have nothing to hide, they should have no problem with cameras. It’s a PR nightmare for Portman. It’s extortion, basically. I assume you’d have no objection to cameras?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I already told a CNN reporter that you didn’t.”

“That’s fine. Listen, if that ‘reporter’ you mentioned shows up, keep him inside the building until I get there.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there before you know it.”

As I hang up the phone, I yell, “You tough old son of a bitch!” Though he is probably a thousand miles away right now, Dwight Stone is almost certainly alive. If he can reach Natchez by tomorrow morning without being killed, my slander trial will provide more fireworks than the city has seen in decades. And Leo Marston will be indicted for murder. Only now that prospect does not offer even a shadow of the satisfaction it would have two days ago. If I’m right about Leo being Jenny Doe’s father, every judgment I ever made about Livy Marston was wrong. In my mind she has already been transformed from a privileged princess into a tragic figure, a lost girl trying to find her way.

I try to keep the Taurus under the speed limit. A state trooper has haunted this stretch of road for years, handing out tickets like confetti. As the hardwood forest drifts past, I lean back in the seat and force myself to ponder one of the connections that came to me last night in the darkness of the Denver motel. Sometime near dawn a remarkable and frightening idea struck me. A possible link between Del Payton and Leo Marston. Dwight Stone believes Ray Presley randomly chose Del Payton to be murdered. But if my theory of paternal incest is true, there could be a secret link joining the Payton and Marston families, one which Dwight Stone would have known nothing about.

Althea Payton.

Althea is a nurse now. She works in the hospital nursery. But where did she work in the 1960s? Could she have worked for a private physician? A pediatrician perhaps? Is it possible that she noticed some physical evidence of sexual abuse while handling Livy Marston and reported it to the doctor? If she had, what would have been the likely result? In the 1960s sexual abuse of children was grossly underreported, and became public only in the most egregious cases. A man as powerful as Leo Marston would have had little to fear from a doctor, especially if the evidence was equivocal. And even if it wasn’t, would the doctor have the nerve to confront Leo? To bring in the police to investigate the district attorney?

Of course, Leo Marston would never have been to the pediatrician’s office. He wouldn’t have taken time out of his day to carry his daughter to the doctor. Maude would have done that. A pediatrician might have been more comfortable bringing certain suspicious symptoms to the mother’s attention. But if he wasn’t, a compassionate nurse certainly might have. Mother to mother. I can see Althea Payton doing that. Pulling Maude aside and pointing out a couple of things. In the interest of the child.

What would Leo have done if Maude had confronted him with such a thing? Denied it, of course. Deny, deny, deny. Then he would have demanded to know the source of Maude’s suspicions. If she told him it was Althea, what then? Killing Althea would certainly silence her. But it was Del who had died, not his wife. Perhaps Leo had initially taken no action. But later, when the necessity arose to kill a black man to make an example for the Georgia carpet magnate, had Leo chosen Del Payton out of some perverse desire to strike back at the woman who had threatened him? A wild scenario perhaps. But Leo long ago demonstrated his penchant for holding grudges. Whatever the case, unraveling the truth of this low tragedy will be a nightmare for everyone involved. The idea of confronting Livy with my deductions leaves me numb.

A few miles before I reach town, I call Sam Jacobs at work, tell him my family might be in danger, and ask for his help. Jacobs is thirty-eight years old, with a wife and two kids, but by the time I arrive at the Prentiss Motel, he is parked outside with a. 357 Magnum sitting on the front seat of his Hummer. When I see that, I know I am looking at the Jewish boy who discovered the list of Klansmen and White Citizens’ Council members in his father’s attic with me twenty-five years ago.

With Sam beside me, I inform the three remaining Argus security men that their services are no longer required. It’s an awkward moment, but they say little and leave the motel with expressionless faces. I’m tempted to tell them to pass a message to their boss when they get back to Houston-that he should look forward to a multimillion-dollar lawsuit-but I don’t want to do anything that might hurt Daniel Kelly in the future.

My parents are stunned by my action, but as soon as I explain what Kelly told me, my father gets on the phone and speaks to two patients of his-avid hunters-and they promise to arrive within the hour, loaded for bear. Dad then makes my day by informing me that while I was in Crested Butte, he finally persuaded Betty Lou Beckham to take the witness stand tomorrow and tell the jury that she saw Ray Presley in the Triton Battery parking lot only seconds after Del Payton died.

What we need now is a new place to stay, a secure location, and it’s my mother who solves this problem. When our house burned, a friend of Mom’s offered us rooms in her bed-and-breakfast, which occupies the slave quarters of her home, Aquitaine, a massive Greek Revival mansion completed in 1843. Not wanting to impose on her friend’s hospitality, Mom declined. But these are special circumstances, and the fall Pilgrimage has just ended, so our staying there won’t cost the chatelaine her peak season fees. One phone call secures us lodgings in the slave quarters of Aquitaine.

Since the fire destroyed most of our things, moving from the motel to the mansion is relatively painless. The two-story slave quarters was sited across the ornamental gardens from the main house, which occupies most of a city block on the north side of town, near Stanton Hall. Once we’re settled in our rooms, I order out for pizza and spend the forty-minute wait playing with Annie in the garden. She dances around the rim of the central fountain like a gymnast, oblivious to the anxiety mounting in the adults as the hours tick down to tomorrow’s trial. That she does not pick up on our feelings shows me just how far she has come in her journey from the hypersensitive state that followed Sarah’s death.