Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“How’d you wangle that?”

“Just played my part and stuck to it. Lost enough of Penn’s money to attract attention, then let Sands know I was interested in some real action.”

“You’re sure nobody followed you here?”

“Give me some credit, soldier. If somebody was following me, they think I'm still in the Natchez Mall, where my Roadtrek is parked. My clothes are hidden in a storage cabinet in a department store. I picked these up on my way out.”

Dad says, “What do you think, Penn?”

“We need to tell you guys something. Caitlin was kidnapped last night.”

While they listen with growing anxiety, I relate the morning’s events. Dad hasn’'t even heard the news about Paul Labry, probably because he left work early.

“Where’s Annie?” I ask. “Is she really here?”

“She and Peggy are in the back watching TV. She really did call with a stomachache, but she’s fine.”

Walt says, “This puts a new spin on everything. I'’ll keep my eyes and ears open tonight, especially if we’re on the river. Maybe I'’ll pick up a clue to where Caitlin could be.”

“I doubt it,” says Kelly. “More likely they'’re just testing you. We think the Po sting is set for tomorrow night. I don'’t think they’d let

somebody they don'’t know close to anything important with that cooking.”

“I’'ve been thinkin’ about that,” says Walt.

“What?” I ask.

“Po. You gotta figure this mandarin motherfucker can see just about anything he gets an itch to see over there in China. If not, then in Russia or Thailand. What the hell could Sands offer that would make the old man risk setting foot on U.S. soil?”

“God only knows,” I say. “It could be an orgy with fifty blond twelve-year-olds, or dinner and a show with Barbra Streisand.”

“I’d say the former’s more likely,” says Kelly.

“You never know with moneyed folk,” drawls Walt. “Especially your oriental types. They got all kinds of strange fixations about America. Course, it could be a simple business meeting. Straightening a few things out, or replacing some people.”

“It doesn’'t matter,” says Kelly. “All that matters to us is the time limit. The sting is our ticking clock. According to Labry, we had thirty-six hours to find Caitlin. By now, I say we figure on twenty-four.”

“Well,” says Walt, standing, “I guess it’s back to business. What are you boys gonna be doing today?”

“This and that,” says Kelly. “But we’re going to fly the river tonight with a FLIR chopper, hoping to pick up something.”

Walt looks suitably impressed. “Well, if you get in a bind trying to save the girl, or if you’re outgunned somewhere and you need backup, call the Louisiana Highway Patrol. Ask for the man in charge and give him my name. I was saving this for later in the game, but it sounds like it’s time to call in all the heat we’ve got.”

“You trust him?”

“Yessir. And there seems to be a shortage of cops we can trust around here.”

“What makes you trust him?” Kelly asks bluntly.

Walt smiles. “He started out as a Texas Ranger.”

“Good enough,” Kelly says, and shakes Garrity’s hand. “Thanks for the tip, and good luck.”

“Good luck to you boys. We don'’t want to lose that girl.”

“Penn,” Dad says, getting up much slower than Walt, his knees creaking. “I got a package today, FedEx. I think it’s for you.”

“Who’s it from?”

“It said Dwight Stone.”

This piques my interest. Dwight Stone is a retired FBI agent who helped me nail the former director of the Bureau.

“Here you go,” says Dad, having retrieved a thick envelope from the kitchen.

“While I'm thinking about it,” I tell him, “I’d like you to do me a favor this afternoon, if you can.”

“What is it?”

“Find Jewel Washington and speak to her face-to-face. I think Shad Johnson has the USB drive that matches the cap the pathologist in Jackson took out of Tim’s rectum. I want Jewel to use her contacts at the hospital to find out if anyone saw Shad there the night Tim died. Or if Shad has any particular connection with anybody who has access to the morgue. One more thing. If she can, have her find out the exact model of the drive that mates with that cap. No phone calls, though. This has to be face-to-face.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thanks. I also think we should all stay in my house tonight. You, Mom, Annie, everybody.”

Dad’s face darkens. “Why’s that?”

“Things are moving fast now, and we don'’t know what might happen. We’re safer all together. And my house has the old shutters that really work. We can shut those things and lock the place down.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Kelly says.

“Sounds like a pain in the ass,” Dad grumbles. “But okay.”

Holding up the FedEx package, I glance at Kelly, and he nods. Inside it I find a thick sheaf of typed, single-spaced pages. Taped to the top sheet is a typed note that reads,

Sometimes help comes from the most unexpected places.

“It’s from Lutjens!” I say. “Peter Lutjens.”

“What is it?” asks Kelly.

I crumple the note and read the top of the first page. It begins, “Case Black. Distribution List Restricted. Subject: Edward Po, Macau.”

“It could be gold.”

My cell phone is buzzing again. I look down. “That'’s William Hull.”

Kelly motions me out of the room.

Walking into the kitchen, I hit SEND and say, “Penn Cage.”

“Are you feeling reassured about your lady friend?”

“Why would I?”

“I have no idea. I'm just calling to reiterate that I have no knowledge of what we discussed in your earlier call.”

“Well, now that we both know what we’re not talking about, are we done?”

“Just about,” says Hull. “I have one question.”

“I'm listening.”

“You said you had enough evidence to convict Jonathan Sands of money laundering on your own.”

“That'’s correct.”

“I’d like to see that evidence.”

“I’d like a chocolate chip cookie without the chips.”

“Mr. Cage—”

“Unless your informant wants to trade my lady friend for said evidence, you won'’t be seeing anything. And don'’t bother looking for it, or sending people to look for it. They won'’t find it.”

“I wonder if that’s because you have no such evidence.”

“You’ll be wondering that all night. Look, Hull, I’'ve been where you are, okay? How long did you say you'’ve been trying to bust Po? A couple of years? More?”

“Almost three actually.”

“And everything you'’ve done in that time comes down to tomorrow. You’re living on caffeine and adrenaline and doughnuts. You’ve probably got the AG bitching about all the money you'’ve spent, and now—right here at the end—you finally realize that everything you'’ve done hangs on the actions of one psychopathic informant. You thought you were running him, but right now, the tail’s wagging the dog. I know you wouldn'’t have okayed them snatching Caitlin, but for whatever reason, they did it. And the truth is, you’re probably relieved that they took her off the board. Just until your sting goes down. Because right now, you’re the living embodiment of the end justifies the means. Nailing Po is all you live for. I get that, William. But you’re not so far gone that you'’ve forgotten this. If Caitlin Masters dies in the custody of your informant, it won'’t matter what kind of evidence you have on Po. Your case is blown,

and you’ll end up sitting in a cell right next to Sands when it’s all over. That'’s not a threat. That'’s lawyer to lawyer. So you'’ve got one job, my friend. Make sure that not one hair on Caitlin’s head is harmed. Not

one

.”

There’s a long silence. Then Hull says, “All I can do is give you my word that I'’ll look into the situation. But my instinct is that—no, let me rephrase that—as regards anyone involved in my investigation, you should have no concerns whatever regarding the safety of Ms. Masters.”