Greg Iles - Turning Angel

To my surprise-and my satisfaction-Natchez remains the eccentric Southern town in which people who have caught their spouses in bed with others still attend the same Pilgrimage parties, and graciously pour punch for mortal enemies.

Ellen is wearing a designer dress, but she looks pale and drawn. She’s currently participating in an outpatient rehab program overseen by a local physician. Drew is seeing a psychiatrist with her in Jackson every three days. He’s been working out his grief by doing writing exercises, which he says read more like an elegy to Kate than anything else. He told me that the hardest thing for Ellen to deal with has been something I only recently recalled from the autopsy report. Kate died from strangulation, but the “bleed” in her brain caused by hitting her head on the buried wheel would probably have killed her, had she not been strangled before that could happen. So while Ellen did not in fact kill Kate, she did inflict what would have been a fatal injury. She only escaped prosecution because no one in the world knew that she had been at the crime scene-no one, that is, but the unholy pentangle of Drew, me, my father, Mia, and Quentin Avery. And none of us will ever speak of it.

After the last of Mia’s well-wishers drifts away, I signal Drew to join me beside her.

“Great speech,” I say, hugging her to my side.

She looks sheepish. “Not so great.”

“Better than mine, anyway.”

“That’s true. Were you on drugs or something?”

“I was a little preoccupied.”

She suddenly realizes that Drew and Ellen are behind her. She turns and gives them an awkward wave. “Hey.”

“I enjoyed your speech,” Ellen says. “Very much to the point.”

“Thanks.”

An uncomfortable silence follows this exchange, so I break it. “Drew has something to tell you, Mia.”

“Really?”

He nods and smiles at her. “I want to thank you for everything you did for me.”

“You already thanked me. That day I saw you in Planet Thailand.”

Ellen smiles as though bursting with a secret. “We wanted to thank you in a more tangible way.”

“But…I already got your present.”

“The jewelry box?”

Mia nods.

Ellen laughs, and Drew actually blushes. “Mia,” he says, “today I went down to my broker’s office and opened an account in your name.”

Mia nods, but I’m not sure she understands what Drew is saying. The excitement of the day, giving her speech, thoughts of the party later-all this is more than a little distracting. While Drew tries to find the right words, a girl runs up and hugs Mia, then squeals and races off to someone else.

“In my name?” Mia asks. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a college fund,” Drew explains. “To help pay your expenses at Brown.”

Mia reddens as understanding dawns. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Ask him how much money is in it,” I tell her.

“Oh, no. My God, anything’s fine. I’m serious. You shouldn’t have done it. Really.”

Ellen takes Mia’s hand and looks into her eyes. “There’s a hundred thousand dollars in it, Mia. And you deserve every penny.”

Mia blinks in disbelief. Then her free hand starts to shake, and a tear escapes her eye. “I’ve got to tell my mom. Oh God…oh, my God.” She leans forward and hugs Drew and Ellen at the same time. “Do you mind if I find my mom and tell her?”

“Go,” Ellen says. “Happy graduation.”

Mia walks away dumbfounded. As her petite form recedes into the crowd, I follow her with my eyes. Just before she disappears, she turns back and finds me. Her gaze is long and open, her eyes speaking to me as though there’s no space between us. I raise my hand and open it in a motionless farewell.

Very slowly, she shakes her head and mouths the words, Thank you.

And then she’s gone.

When I turn back to Drew and Ellen, only Drew is there. He’s watching me with an empathy that raises the hair on my neck.

“You understand now,” he says. “Don’t you?”

I look away, but he takes my arm and squeezes hard.

“Maybe a little,” I say softly.

He shakes his head, then puts his arm around me. “Let’s find the kids.”

We stroll through the familiar crowd, two former golden boys tarnished by the years. A few people smile and shake our hands, but more nod in silence as we pass. That’s all right. I can live with my choices. Drew will have a harder time living with his, but what do people want him to do? Kill himself?

“Look,” he says, pointing.

Thirty yards away, two slim figures about four feet tall walk slowly along the track that runs around the football field. One is Annie, the other Tim.

“You think maybe…?” Drew says.

I smile. “I’d be okay with it.”

I would like to thank Susan Moldow and Louise Burke for giving me the most supportive home in publishing that one could imagine in the twenty-first century. I also thank Colin Harrison-a kindred spirit, gifted writer, and sympathetic editor-for his work on this book. Many thanks also to Sarah Knight, the Harvard girl, who acted with unerring efficiency as my liaison to the house, and who also provided some wonderful details for the book.

Special thanks to Aaron Priest, who knows this business like nobody else. “Who loves ya, baby?”

I owe a special debt of gratitude to Nick Sayers, my incomparable British editor at Hodder and Stoughton, who chose quality over commerciality and confirmed my instinct that this was the story to write next.

Thanks also to Ed Stackler, who has journeyed with me through every book from frenzied inception to ragged completion, when all I can think about is the next one. Thanks again, man.

As ever, I have relied upon many generous individuals to bring verisimilitude to my story.

For legal and law enforcement details: Chuck Mayfield, Mike Mullins, George Ward, Tim Waycaster, Jim Warren, Ronnie Harper, Debra Blackwell, and Scott Turow.

For stories about the city of Natchez: Tony Byrne, Charles Evers, J. T. Robinson, Don Estes, Guy Bass, and David Browning. My thanks to Reverend Dennis Flach for his insights into the philosophy of funeral ceremonies. Special thanks also to Ben Hillyer for his wonderful photograph of the Turning Angel. Ben has the gift of seeing things in a different way, thus transforming reality. That makes him an artist.

For insight into the black leadership crisis, the works of Cornel West.

For medical advice: Jerry Iles, M.D.; Simmons Iles.

Special thanks to Courtney Aldridge, Jane Hargrove, Jack Reed, and Geoff Iles. Thanks also to the “kids” who spoke frankly about life in a modern high school. Most of us have no idea what they deal with every day.

No matter how I try to avoid it, there’s at least one factual mistake in every book. I absolve everyone mentioned above for those mistakes and take the blame myself.

GREGILESis the author of nine bestselling novels, including Blood Memory, The Footprints of God, Sleep No More, Dead Sleep, The Quiet Game, and 24 Hours (released by Sony Pictures as Trapped ). He lives in Natchez, Mississippi.