Greg Iles - Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection - The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl

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The first three thrillers in the New York Times No.1bestselling series featuring Penn Cage: a man who must face the dark heart of the Deep South – and question everything he believes in . . .THE QUIET GAME: Penn Cage is no stranger to death. As a Houston prosecutor he’s sent sixteen men to death row – and now he’s lost his wife to cancer.Penn returns home to Natchez, Mississippi for a gentler life. But after discovering that his father is being blackmailed over a long-forgotten homicide, Penn is soon up to his neck in the town’s murky undercurrents of passion, power and racial tension.For this is a place with a dark past, where everyone plays the quiet game. But Penn cannot stay silent.TURNING ANGELS: Rape and murder aren’t new to the Deep South, but when the body of a popular high school girl is found dumped in the local river, the whole town of Natchez, Mississippi is shocked.Penn Cage no longer practises law, but when his best friend Drew is accused of the murder and asks for help, Penn must face the hardest questions of his life: Can he defend Drew against the town, the police and overwhelming evidence?Or could it be true that his friend is a brutal killer who has deceived Penn and everyone else?THE DEVIL’S PUNCHBOWL: When he was a prosecuting attorney Penn Cage sent hardened killers to death row. But it is as mayor of his hometown – Natchez, Mississippi – that Penn will face his most dangerous threat.Penn has ridden into office on a tide of support for change. But in its quest for new jobs and fresh money, Natchez has turned to casino gambling. Five fantastical steamboats float on the river, but one isn't like the others. Rumour has it that the Magnolia Queen has found a way to pull the big players from Las Vegas. With them comes an unquenchable taste for one thing: blood sport, and the dark vices that go with it.When a childhood friend of Penn's who brings him evidence is brutally murdered, the full weight of Penn's failure to protect this city hits home. So begins his quest to find the men responsible. And with his family's life at stake, Penn realizes his only allies in his one-man war are those bound to him by blood or honour.

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“Sweet Jesus.”

“The deputy was out front, so I ran to the French doors at the back of the house. When I got there, I saw nothing but the empty patio. I felt like I was falling off a cliff. Then something made me turn to my left. There was a man standing by the French doors in the dining room. Twenty feet away. He had a tiny bundle in his arms, like a loaf of bread in a blanket. He looked at me as he reached for the door handle. I saw his teeth in the dark, and I knew he was smiling. I pointed my pistol at his head. He started backing through the door, using Annie as a shield. Holding her at centre mass. In the dark, with shaking hands, every rational thought told me not to fire. But I had to.”

I take another gulp of Scotch. The whites of Kate’s eyes are completely visible around the green irises, giving her a hyperthyroid look. I reach down and lay a hand on Annie’s shoulder. Parts of this story I still cannot voice. When I saw those teeth, I sensed the giddy superiority the kidnapper felt over me, the triumph of the predator. Nothing in my life ever hit me the way that fear did.

“He was halfway through the door when I pulled the trigger. The bullet knocked him onto the patio. When I got outside, Annie was lying on the cement, covered in blood. I snatched her up even before I looked at the guy, held her up in the moonlight and ripped off her pajamas, looking for a bullet wound. She didn’t make a sound. Then she screamed like a banshee. An anger scream, you know? Not pain. I knew then that she was probably okay. Hanratty … the bullet had hit him in the eye. He was dying. And I didn’t do a goddamn thing to help him.”

Kate finally blinks, a series of rapid-fire clicks, like someone coming out of a trance. She points down at Annie. “She’s that baby? She’s Annie?”

“Yes.”

“God.” She taps the book in her lap. “I see why you quit.”

“There’s still one out there.”

“What do you mean?”

“We never caught the third brother. I get postcards from him now and then. He says he’s looking forward to spending some time with our family.”

She shakes her head. “How do you live with that?”

I shrug and return to my drink.

“Your wife isn’t traveling with you?” Kate asks.

They always have to ask . “No. She passed away recently.”

Kate’s face begins the subtle sequence of expressions I’ve seen a thousand times in the last seven months. Shock, embarrassment, sympathy, and just the slightest satisfaction that a seemingly perfect life is not so perfect after all.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “The wedding ring. I just assumed—”

“It’s okay. You couldn’t know.”

She looks down and takes a sip of her soft drink. When she looks up, her face is composed again. She asks what my next book is about, and I give her the usual fluff, but she isn’t listening. I know this reaction too. The response of most women to a young widower, particularly one who is clearly solvent and not appallingly ugly, is as natural and predictable as the rising of the sun. The subtle glow of flirtation emanates from Kate like a medieval spell, but it is a spell to which I am presently immune.

Annie awakens as we talk, and Kate immediately brings her into the conversation, developing a surprising rapport. Time passes quickly, and before long we are shaking hands at the gate in Baton Rouge. Annie and I bump into her again at the baggage carousel, and as Kate squeaks outside in her sensible Reeboks to hail a taxi, I notice Annie’s eyes solemnly tracking her. My daughter’s attraction to young adult women is painful to see.

I scoop her up with forced merriment and trot to the Hertz counter, where I have to hassle with a clerk about why the car I reserved isn’t available (although for ten dollars extra per day I can upgrade to a model that is) and how long I’ll have to wait for a child-safety seat. I’m escalating from irritation to anger when a tall man with white hair and a neatly trimmed white beard walks through the glass doors through which Kate just departed.

“Papa!” Annie squeals. “Daddy! Papa’s here!”

“Dad? What are you doing here?”

He laughs and veers toward us. “You think your mother’s going to have her son renting a car to drive eighty miles to get home? God forbid.” He catches Annie under the arms, lifts her high, and hugs her to his chest. “Hello, tadpole! What’s shakin’ down in Disney World?”

“I saw Ariel! And Snow White hugged me!”

“Of course she did! Who wouldn’t want to hug an angel like you?” He looks over her shoulder at me. For a few uncomfortable moments I endure the penetrating gaze of a man who for forty years has searched for illness in reticent people. His perception is like the heat from a lamp. I nod slowly, hoping to communicate, I’m okay, Dad , at the same time searching his face for clues to the anxiety I heard in my mother’s voice on the phone this morning. But he’s too good at concealing his emotions. Another habit of the medical profession.

“Is Mom with you?” I ask.

“No, she’s home cooking a supper you’ll have to see to believe.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “It’s good to see you, son.” For an instant I catch a glimpse of something unsettling behind his eyes, but it vanishes as he grins mischievously at Annie. “Let’s move out, tadpole! We’re burning daylight!”

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