Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

working a story…. There might be a Natchez angle.

As improbable as it seems, I wonder if she’s somehow picked up the rumors of dogfighting, prostitution, and illicit drugs surrounding the

Magnolia Queen.

A word from one of her local reporters would be enough to pique her interest, and every facet of that story would engage her. If Caitlin does have reporters working that story, she might well elide it from any conversation with me. At one time we told each other everything. But as our relationship wore on, we found that the professions of lawyer and journalist—even novelist and journalist—gave us separate agendas where privileged information was concerned, and that led to conflict.

Thirty yards ahead, I glimpse the familiar rounded line of Libby’s shoulders, and a blade of guilt pierces me. Though we’ve officially ended our intimate relationship, it would hurt her to learn that a few moments with Caitlin affected me so deeply. As I near Libby, Annie and a friend cannonball through the exit of the Space Walk and roll squealing onto the ground beside her. Only now do I remember that I need someone to stay with Annie while I'm out on tonight’s midnight rendezvous. There’s little chance of getting a high school sitter this late on a balloon-race Friday; I'’ll have to ask my mother to spend the night at my house.

“You’ve been gone awhile,” Libby says with a shadow of suspicion.

“They had a lot of questions about Katrina,” I say in an offhand voice.

“We want to ride the Tilt-A-Whirl!” Annie and her friend scream in unison.

I'm hesitant to be alone with Libby, but she nods quickly and they set off for the Tilt-A-Whirl at a run.

“I saw an old flame of yours earlier,” Libby says, her eyes boring into mine with uncomfortable intensity. “Was she there for the interview?”

“One of a dozen or so.”

Libby sucks her lips between her teeth and looks pointedly off into the crowd.

“Have you seen Soren yet?” I ask.

“No. I guess Caitlin heard we broke up.”

“She didn't mention it.”

Libby tries to suppress a tight smile of judgment or envy. “She wouldn'’t.”

“Did Annie see her?”

“I don'’t think so.”

“Libby…we knew there were going to be some awkward times, but—”

“Don’t,” she says quickly. “You don'’t have to apologize. It’s not even unexpected. I'm just surprised to see her this fast. But I guess I shouldn’t be. Caitlin’s been a quick study all her life.”

I stifle a sigh and turn toward the Tilt-A-Whirl, where Annie and her friend spin through the air, trailing green and fuchsia light.

When I look back again, Libby is gone. Then I catch sight of her moving through the crowd toward the Tilt-A-Whirl. I follow, but time my arrival to coincide with Annie’s disembarking from the ride.

“Should we look for Soren?” I ask halfheartedly.

“Sure,” Annie says. “I haven'’t seen him yet.”

Libby forces a smile and pats her in the small of the back. “Oh, he’s with his older friends. You guys go have some fun. I need to get back and let the dogs out.”

This patent lie brings another rush of guilt, but there’s nothing to be done other than to let things take their course.

Libby bends, hugs Annie, then gives my wrist a quick squeeze and musters an almost genuine smile. With an awkward wave she turns and joins the flow of the crowd.

Annie stares solemnly after her diminishing figure, as though watching the departure of a family member she might never see

again. After Libby disappears, Annie turns and looks up with wide eyes. “Daddy, I saw Caitlin here.”

A strange numbness fills me, slowing my responses. “Really? Where did you see her?”

“She was talking to a man with a camera. She was far away, but I know it was her.”

I'm not sure how to respond, but I don'’t like to lie to my daughter. “I saw her too, baby.”

Annie’s eyes widen still more. “Did you talk to her?”

“She interviewed me a few minutes ago, with some other reporters.”

Annie nods slowly, taking this in. “I miss Libby, Dad.”

“I do too.”

When no explanation follows, she says, “Did ya’ll break up?”

God, she’s perceptive.

“What makes you ask that?”

“I don'’t know. Did you?”

I take Annie’s hand, then kneel and look into her eyes. “We did. I'm sorry I didn't talk to you about it first.”

She looks back at the place where Libby vanished, but all that remains is a crowd of laughing revelers.

“She’s really sad,” Annie says, looking back at me with damp eyes. “I am too. I knew something was different.”

“I'm sad too, baby.”

“I think she’s scared about Soren. Do you think so?”

“I think Soren has some problems. Lots of teenagers do. But that’s for Soren and Libby to work out.”

Annie wipes a tear from her eye.

“Come on,” I say, leading her down the long row of brightly lit carnival booths, a sanitized version of the sleazy carnies that used to camp on the edge of town when I was a boy. The barkers shout their come-ons, but their hoarse voices scarcely penetrate the confusion surrounding my little girl. And yet, as sad as she is, I know that the grief Annie feels over the loss of Libby as a potential mother figure is tempered by hope that Caitlin has reappeared for a very different reason than covering a news story. If it weren’t for my fear for Tim Jessup, I might be unable to think about anything else myself.

When the first rocket detonates over Louisiana, filling the sky over the river with sizzling arcs of blue and white light, it takes a couple

of seconds for the report of the explosion to reach us. When it does, every muscle in my abdomen clenches, as though steeling against a bullet. This, I realize, is sympathetic fear. My daughter’s hand is in mine, love is near, life is good. But somewhere not far away, Tim Jessup is risking all he has to right what he believes is an unendurable wrong.

Please be careful,

I intone in a private prayer.

Don’t try to be a hero.

My father never spoke much about his service in Korea, but one thing he did share has been borne out by my own experience:

Heroism is sacrifice.

Most of the heroes I’'ve known are dead.

CHAPTER

9

It took all my willpower not to call or text Tim once my mother got Annie to bed. That was at ten thirty. The following hour passed like a car stuck in low gear, and I fought the urge to swallow a couple of shots of vodka to help me endure the wait. When it finally came time to leave, my mother saw me off without any question about my destination. She probably assumed I was seeing a woman, and I did not disabuse her of the notion. The only difficulty I had getting out was sneaking a pistol past her. In the end I opted to slip my short-barreled .357 Magnum into my briefcase and carry it right by her to the car.

Now I'm cruising down Washington Street with a half hour to kill before my meeting with Tim. I'm only a couple of miles from the cemetery—as the crow flies—so I have some time to ponder why he thinks I need a weapon when we meet.

Or so I think until my cell phone rings. The caller isn’t Tim, as I expected, but Libby Jensen. She’s so upset that at first I can’t make out what she’s saying. For a moment I labor under the mistaken impression that she’s upset about our relationship, but then it registers—as it should have in the beginning—that she’s calling about Soren.

“They arrested him!” she sobs. “They say he has to spend the night in jail. They think he was driving the car.”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. What happened?”

“There was a

wreck,

” Libby says, her voice still riding the rapids of hysteria. “I'm not sure what happened. Soren was in a car that hit another car. The police say he was driving, but Soren says he wasn'’t.” Libby’s voice drops to a frantic whisper. “Penn, he’s so drunk I don'’t know whether to believe him or not. At least I hope he’s drunk. They might have found some drugs. They won'’t tell me. I'm so scared. You know what Mackey said the last time he got in trouble.”