Greg Iles - The Quiet Game

“Where?”

“Huntsville, Texas. The Hanratty execution.”

Her eyes go wide. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. You can be there when I interview the agent, but I need you to stay at the hotel with Annie during the execution.”

“The hottest ticket in journalism this week, and I’m going to be baby-sitting?”

“They wouldn’t let you in the witness room anyway. It’s your call.”

She purses her lips in thought. “I’m still not sure how to think of this. Do you want me to come?”

“Very much.”

“Then I will. But what if Annie won’t stay in the hotel without you there?”

“Then I’ll skip the execution. I don’t really want to see it anyway.”

“She’ll be fine with me. We got along great on the plane. Hey, what’s this FBI agent’s name?”

Caitlin’s mention of that flight makes me remember her deception about her identity, and this makes me hesitant to confide Stone’s name. I wipe my bloody nose on my shirtsleeve and look through the windshield.

“Penn, I could have the guy’s life story before we ever talk to him.”

She has a point. “Dwight Stone. Crested Butte, Colorado.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Her eyes are almost mocking, but they hold more understanding than I have seen in a long time.

“The answer to your earlier question is yes. I’ve thought about it since last night.”

A serene smile lights Caitlin’s face.

“And I’d like to kiss you again.”

Her smile broadens.

“May I?”

She leans through the window and across the passenger seat, her eyes not closed like last night but open, inviting me into them. Our lips touch, and a perfect echo of the warmth I felt last night rolls through me. This kiss is passionate but more intimate, the crossing of another boundary together. She pulls back and peers into my eyes, then closes hers and kisses me once more.

When she pulls away this time, she has a Charlie Chaplin mustache.

“You’ve got blood on your lip.”

“My first war wound,” she laughs. “It’ll wash off. What time do we leave?”

“Seven-thirty for the drive to Baton Rouge Airport.”

She touches her forefinger to my nose, then pulls back through the window. “Pick me up at the paper. I’ll be ready.”

The trip to Baton Rouge airport takes eighty minutes, just enough time for Annie to adopt Caitlin as a big sister. Caitlin seems to know every TV character Annie does, outlandish names I can never keep up with but which Caitlin rattles off like the names of old friends. When I asked my mother if she thought Annie was ready for a trip to Colorado with Caitlin and me, she said, “Annie’s ready. Just make sure you are.” When I asked what this meant, she gave me one of her looks and said, “Am I wrong, or is this the first extended time you’ve spent with a woman since Sarah died?” I told her she wasn’t wrong. “Just don’t rush it,” she advised. “Even chitlins smell good to a starving man.” Caitlin Masters is a long way from chitterlings, but there’s no point in trying to explain this to my mother.

The short-term parking lot is easy walking distance from the Baton Rouge terminal. I carry the suitcases, Caitlin the carry-ons, and Annie her pink backpack. We check our bags at the door and go straight to our gate, only to find that our plane, which is parked at the gate, is running twenty minutes behind schedule. As irate passengers begin to deplane, Annie announces that she has to tee-tee, and Caitlin escorts her off to the ladies’ room. I’m absently watching the gate when Olivia Marston walks through it.

I know it’s Livy because of the sudden tightness in my chest. Also because the plane just flew in from Atlanta, her home for the past thirteen years. As soon as she clears the gate, she steps out of line and starts past the other passengers, not rushing but somehow overtaking businessmen who have five inches on her. Southern belles are notorious for traveling heavy; Livy travels light. Yet the single overhead-sized suitcase rolling behind her will contain a color-coordinated ensemble versatile enough to get her through every social event from a luau to a formal ball.

A belle by birth, Livy matured into something altogether different. The beauty of belles is a soft beauty: pliant curves and shapely baby fat. Livy is leaner, with enough sculpted cheekbone to separate her utterly from the peach-skinned debutantes who fill the ranks of the Junior League below the Mason-Dixon line. Her eyes are a deep and brilliant blue, and the tailored jacket and skirt she’s wearing bring out their color just as she intended.

Her name is actually Livy Sutter now, but I live in such denial about her marriage that the name Sutter never really registered. I remember it only on those rare occasions when I pass through Atlanta on business and in the tipsy midnight of a lonely hotel room pick up the phone book and flirt with the idea of calling. Of course, I never have. Oh, John, that was Penn Cage, the writer. He’s an old friend from Natchez… I’d rather die than be another “old friend” of Livy Marston’s. Have good old John think of me with pity, knowing that every heterosexual man who ever met his wife fell in love with her to some degree. As far afield as Montreal and Los Angeles, I’ve had lawyers-upon learning that I’m originally from Natchez-come alive with questions about the fantastic Livy Sutter. Do I know her? Isn’t she remarkable? Unique? Different somehow? That was certainly the opinion of the Pulitzer prize-winning writer-in-residence who made a fool of himself (in his sixties, no less) and ruined his marriage over Livy when she was a junior at UVA.

Twenty yards away from me, Livy slows and pans the concourse. She has her father’s survival instincts. Her eyes pass over me, then return.

“Penn Cage,” she says, without the slightest doubt that it’s me.

“Hello, Livy.”

She walks toward me with a smile that cuts right through resentment and regret. Her hair is the color of winter wheat in summer and just touches her shoulders, looking much as it did during high school. The last time I saw her (at Sarah’s funeral) she had a short, severe, lady-lawyer cut. She must have been growing it out ever since. I like it much better this way. Probably because it fits the images that haunt my dreams.

“My God, what happened to you?” she asks.

For a moment I’m confused, but it’s the bruises she’s noticed. Last night’s altercation left me looking quite a bit worse for wear.

“I ran into the welcome wagon.”

She shakes her head as though this is about what she would expect from me, then leans forward. Livy is a big hugger, but I have never submitted to this. Her hugs somehow put you at a remove even as they seem to pull you in. Remembering my aversion, she drops one hand and squeezes my wrist with an intimate pressure, her eyes already working their subversive spell upon me, blurring my critical faculties, creating a juvenile desire in me to please her, to make those blue eyes shine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“I’m on my way home. To Natchez, I mean. My mother’s having health problems. Dad’s been after me to come visit, so when he called this time, I decided to spend a few days with them.”

Her health was good enough to toss a drink in my face two nights ago, I think. Maybe “health” is a euphemism for alcoholism. If they intend to try an intervention with Maude, I don’t want to be within a hundred miles of it. In fact, I’d recommend Kevlar body armor to the participants.

“What about you?” Livy asks.

“I’m on my way to Huntsville Prison.”

“Oh, God, the Hanratty thing. It’s all over the news. Midnight tonight, right? Are you required to be there?”