Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

The only other option Caitlin can think of is the storeroom. Quinn has taken Linda into the storeroom to rape her, and Linda recalls seeing a drug cabinet and stacks of bagged puppy chow inside it. She does not, however, recall seeing any tools. If the cabinet contains tranquilizers like the one they used on Caitlin, there might be some chance of drugging the dogs. But unless she can get down through the roof of the storeroom, that option is off the table. And according to Linda, the men who feed and train the dogs are likely to show up soon—they come once in the morning and once in the evening—and Quinn could appear at any time.

The chain next door rattles louder than before, and Caitlin stops bobbing in her crouch. She hears Linda groan through the plywood, then a parched sobbing sound.

“Linda? It’s Caitlin. I'm here.”

The chain rattles loudly, and Caitlin hears plastic slide.

“Oh my God,” Linda whines. “I have to pee. What am I going to do?”

“Just grit your teeth and do it. That'’s all you can do.”

“I can’t! I can’t take it!”

“You have to. I'm with you.”

The plastic pail slides again, and there’s momentary silence. Then Caitlin hears urine hitting the plastic pail, and Linda begins to scream. Caitlin hugs herself and tries to block it out. Once, when she was hiking in Belize with a boyfriend, she developed a urinary tract infection from too frequent sex. The pain was almost unbearable, and by the time they got back to civilization, it had spread to her kidneys. She’d spent three days in a hospital on IV antibiotics, wondering what women had done before the discovery of penicillin.

Surely millions must have died, and in the same agony that Linda Church is suffering now.

There’s a heavy bump against the plywood wall, and the chain rattles loudly. Linda is gasping. Caitlin is about to try to comfort her when she hears the sound of an engine. The pit bulls begin barking wildly.

“Oh, no,” Linda says. “Nooo…”

The engine dies, and a door slams.

Linda’s sobs grow louder. “I can’t do this!” she wails. “Oh, God, don'’t let them do this.”

Caitlin speaks a few words of reassurance, but her heart is skipping from fear. She’s never been at the mercy of a man the way Linda has these past hours, much less a sadistic psychopath. As she struggles to gain control of herself, she hears Linda reciting a Bible verse. Caitlin doesn’'t recognize it, but the sound of the terrified woman steels something within her. Long ago Caitlin determined that she would not go through life as a victim, and she has no intention of becoming one now.

By the time the door of the kennel building slams open, she’s standing naked but erect in her cell, right over the bloody footprints that could alert her captors to her nocturnal efforts. She’s used some of her precious drinking water to try to lighten the bloody marks, but the only real result was to make them larger. If anyone notices, she plans to tell them she’s started her period.

She hears booted feet come up the aisle between the stalls, then stop just short of her room. Though she can’t see Quinn, she remembers his photograph from the Golden Parachute file Penn showed her. He was handsome in what some call the black-Irish way, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and good bone structure. But even in the photograph the whole effect was spoiled by what appeared to be gray, badly-cared-for teeth.

“Top of the mornin’ to you, ladies,” Quinn calls. Then his voice moves closer to Caitlin’s door. “How you doin’ in there, princess?”

“She needs medicine!” Caitlin shouts. “She’s really sick.”

“I gave her some antibiotics.”

“They’re not working!”

“I'’ll give her something else then. We definitely don'’t want anything interfering with our party.”

“Just let her alone! She’s in agony!”

“You want to take her place, princess?”

The question seems so genuine that something jumps in Caitlin’s chest.

“I wouldn'’t mind a piece of you, darlin’. Cleanest I’'ve ever had, by the look of you.”

For one primal moment Caitlin wonders if Linda wishes he would turn his attention to Caitlin today.

Of course she does. And I can’t blame her

A key rattles in the lock on Linda’s cage, and Linda begins to shriek.

“LET HER ALONE!” Caitlin shouts.

“Ah, it’ll pass, now she’s done her business. She’ll be ready for another workout in no time.”

Caitlin crushes her palms over her ears as she hasn’'t done since she was a child.

CHAPTER

50

I'm sitting at a private table in a side room of the Castle, the restaurant Caitlin and I frequented most often when she lived here. It’s a Gothic outbuilding of Dunleith, the most magnificent antebellum mansion in the city. I often make sure that people who are flying in to look at industrial sites stay here, and to prime them for the experience, I tell them that the main house makes Tara in

Gone With the Wind

look like a utility shed. No one has ever argued the point.

Caitlin and I have had good meals and bad ones at the Castle, not because of the quality of the food, but because we’ve worked through so many phases of our relationship over the tables here. When times were good, we ate at the small table in back, beside the window overlooking the verdant grounds. When times weren’t so great, we ate in the private dining room where I'm waiting now. If Caitlin does show up, she won'’t be surprised to find me at this table.

It’s 12:25 now, and though I hate to admit it to myself, she’s probably not coming. Caitlin tends to be late now and then, but she wouldn'’t be on a day such as this. I can’t quite believe she’d leave me sitting here without even a phone call, or at least a text message. But I guess she feels strongly enough about where things are to view standing me up as her statement on the subject. I should probably

just order lunch and try to parse out her feelings, but given my conversations with Annie, I don'’t think I can put this event—or nonevent—behind me without being sure Caitlin hasn’'t been delayed by something unforeseen.

I speed-dial her cell, but it kicks me immediately to voice mail. Either she switched off her phone, anticipating upsetting calls from me, or else she’s driving south and chatting happily to Jan about the documentary she’ll soon be working on.

Searching my contact list, I call the

Examiner

office and ask for Kim Hunter, the reporter who is Caitlin’s best remaining friend on the staff. It takes some time for Kim to come to the phone.

“Hello?” says a young male voice free of any Southern accent.

“Kim, it’s Penn Cage.”

“Hey.”

“Look, I'm down at the Castle, and I thought Caitlin was going to be joining me for lunch. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. She didn't say anything to me.”

“You saw her this morning?”

“No. I haven'’t seen her since yesterday afternoon. She came in and pulled some old stories she worked on.”

“Do you know what stories?”

“Something she did on charismatic religions. You know, foot washers and faith healers, that kind of stuff.”

Maybe the stories have something to do with her interviews in New Orleans, I think, though it seems unlikely. “Did she say anything to you about going to New Orleans today?”

This time the silence is longer, and Hunter sounds uncertain about telling me more. “She said she might be going down to do some interviews for a documentary being shot there.”