Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

Hurrying down the stairs, I lock Sands’s briefcase—which is indeed full of cash—in the safe in my study, mentally ticking off the obvious obstacles:

The house will be watched. My phones will be tapped—cellular and landlines. The house may be bugged or even covered by video cameras, considering that Sands was waiting for me when I got home. He could be checking my e-mail, text mes sages, and any other form of digital communication. So…what options remain?

For some people, mortal danger brings paralyzing confusion. For me—after the first minute of panic—it brings clarity. So it’s with utter certainty that I pick up my kitchen telephone and dial my father’s home number. The phone rings three times, and then a mildly groggy baritone voice answers, “Dr. Cage.”

Even before I speak, something in me arcs out over the wires, instinctively reaching for the protection of blood kin. “Dad, it’s Penn.”

From three miles away, I feel him come alert in the dark. “What’s the matter? Is Annie all right? Is it Peggy?”

I let some anxiety bleed into my voice. “Annie and Mom are fine, but something’s wrong with me. My heart’s racing. I think I'm having a panic attack.”

“Tachycardia? Is it a stress reaction?”

“No, it just started a couple of minutes ago. I'm a little short of breath, and my pulse is about a hundred and ten. I feel like I may throw up. I guess maybe I'm worried about taking that balloon ride in the morning.”

There’s a brief silence. “We’d better go down to my office and get an EKG on you.”

“No, no, I think it’s just anxiety. I had to fly in a goddamn helicopter today. I think I just need some Valium or something.”

“A helicopter? Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Do you have any Ativan there?”

“No. Do you think you could bring me something? I’d come there, but I don'’t want to drive while this is going on.”

I hear him grunt as he heaves himself out of bed. “I'’ll pull on some clothes and get my bag. I want to listen to your chest.”

I press my palm so hard against my forehead that my arm shakes. “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. The front door is unlocked. Just walk in. I'’ll be in my bathroom.”

“Okay.”

I should hang up, but I can’t help adding, “Try to hurry, okay?”

“I'm on my way.”

CHAPTER

13

Linda Church hugs the toilet in the ladies’ room of The Devil’s Punchbowl Bar and Grille, shuddering as she retches into the bowl. She’s supposed to be seating patrons, but she can no longer carry out the basic functions of employment. Two minutes ago she received a text message from Tim, but the message made no sense. She wipes her mouth with toilet tissue, then flips open her phone and reads the letters again, being careful to hide it from the hidden camera above.

Thiefwww kllmmommy. Sqrttoo.

The message came from a number she doesn’'t recognize, not even the area code, but this is the strongest proof that Tim sent it. He’s told her that one of his security tactics is to use the phones of strangers when their attention is elsewhere. He’s even stolen cell phones for this purpose. But this message has taken her to the edge of panic. Kllmmommy? Sqrttoo? It almost sounds like an order to kill Julia and the baby.

“No,” she whispers, as the possibility that this message might have been meant for someone else sinks into her bones. “Not possible. He loves that baby. He loves Julia.”

Linda hears footsteps enter the restroom. She grabs the handle and flushes for cover, and cold spray hits her face.

“Linda?” asks a worried voice. “It’s Ashley. Are you okay? Janice said you really look like shit.”

“I'm okay, Ash. Stomach flu, I think. I'’ll be right out.”

“Yuck. I'’ll tell Janice.”

“Thanks.”

Linda frantically plays back the sequence of events that brought her here. Four hours ago, Tim walked past the door of The Devil’s Punchbowl whistling “Walking on the Moon,” by the Police. The song was a coded signal, arranged last night after Tim met with Penn Cage. If Tim had whistled “Every Breath You Take,” it would have meant, “Get out now. Don’t wait for anything.” “Walking on the Moon” meant Linda should work until the end of her shift, then throw her cell phone in the river, get into her car, and drive three hours to New Orleans, to her aunt’s house. Tim would call her in transit using a pay-as-you-go cell phone he’d bought at Wal-Mart, and she would answer with the same type of phone. Hers was in her car now, under the front seat.

“Walking on the Moon” was supposed to signal that everything was going according to plan, but the moment Linda recognized the tune, her insides had started to roil with apprehension. She’d forced herself to keep doing her job, even though she had to remain on the boat an hour after Tim’s shift ended. She’d almost snapped at midnight and simply run down the exit ramp as he left the boat, but that would have busted them for sure.

“I shouldn’t even

be

here,” she says almost silently, ever conscious of the hidden microphones. The Devil’s Punchbowl usually closes at 11:00 p.m., but Sands has ordered all the food service to run on extended hours during the Balloon Festival.

The door bangs open again, and Ashley calls, “Darnell just came by and asked why you weren’t on duty. She’s on the warpath. You’d better get back out there if you can walk.”

Sue Darnell was the personnel manager, a cast-iron bitch from Dallas. “Almost done. I'm just fixing my face.”

“Down there? I'm looking at your heels, girl.”

“I'm coming, Ash! I got vomit on my blouse.”

“It’s your funeral, honey.”

Don’t even think that,

Linda says silently. With a handful of tissue she wipes clammy sweat from her face and forehead, then gets to her feet and checks her uniform for any signs of vomit. She was lucky.

The ladies’ room opens into Slot Group Seven, a jangling circus of

noise filled with smoke and drunk gamblers. The extraction fans don'’t work for shit up here. Linda smooths her skirt against her thighs and tries to walk with something like grace as she moves through the suckers and back toward the Punchbowl.

She’s thirty feet away when she realizes something is wrong. Ashley and Janice are standing by the cash registers, talking to each other without any regard for three patrons waiting to be seated. Ashley’s mouth forms a perfect

O,

then Janice nods and begins chattering. When Ashley catches sight of Linda, she motions her over with a quick wave.

“What is it?” Linda asks, fighting the urge to bolt for the main-deck gangplank.

“Janice just got a text from her ex-husband. He’s up at Bowie’s. He said some guy fell off the bluff up by Silver Street. He was goofing on the other side of the fence or something, and he fell. He’s

dead.

Some people are saying he jumped.”

Linda blinks, trying to absorb this, but a low ringing has begun in her ears.

“Drunk, probably,” Janice says. “Jimmy’s drunk, anyway. You couldn'’t get me on the other side of that fence even if I was toasted. There’s only about a foot of concrete, and then

nothing.”

“A whole lot of nothing,” Ashley agrees. “I wonder who it was.”

“A tourist, I bet,” says Janice. “Somebody here for the race. Wait.” Janice takes a cell phone from her pocket and checks a message. “Now Jimmy says somebody threw the guy off the bluff. Jesus.”

Linda is looking at Janice, but what she sees is Tim flying through the air, head over heels, spinning through the dark—