Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“I think it’s worse. And the nausea’s worse. I vomited twice after I called you.”

“Wonderful.” Dad glances toward the bathroom counter. Between the two sinks are the articles I assembled while I waited for him: my keys; a black Nike warm-up suit and running shoes; Annie’s MacBook computer, booted up with Microsoft Word on the screen; a Springfield XD nine-millimeter pistol, and a short-barreled .357 Magnum. “I brought you some Ativan,” he says, “but I want to listen to your chest first.”

“Do you mind if I get in the bathtub? I want to clean myself up.”

“That'’s fine. Just get your shirt off.”

I nod and turn on the cold-water tap, then strip off my clothes and pull on the warm-up suit. Dad moves in front of the computer as I pull on the top and pecks out the words

What the hell is going on?

He steps aside for me to type my response, and we begin a sort of waltz in place, during which I explain our dilemma. He always typed much slower than I, but it’s worse now because of his hands; it hurts to watch him struggle to strike the keys.

Tim Jessup was murdered tonight. It has to do with his work at one of the casinos. The man behind his death just threatened to kill Annie. The motive is too complex to explain like this. They threatened Mom’s life, and yours too. Even Jenny, and she’s on the other side of the Atlantic.

Who are these people?

People I misread very badly.

They really killed Jack Jessup’s boy?

I left his body under the bluff an hour ago. I think they tortured him.

Christ. Do the police know?

Yes, but I'm not sure I can trust them. One word in the wrong ear, and these people take or kill Annie. They have a lot to lose.

What about FBI?

First priority is getting Annie and Mom to safety. We’'ve learned that the hard way, haven'’t we?

Dad nods slowly, and I know his memories mirror my own: I see the house that he and my mother lived in for thirty years going up in flames, and the maid who raised me and my sister in agony on a table in the emergency room.

“Take a deep breath,” Dad says in his medical voice, as though

he’s listening to my heart with his stethoscope. “Again…okay…again.”

There’s only one real option,

I type.

I'm going to call Daniel Kelly’s firm in Houston. Blackhawk. With any luck they’ll be able to send a team our way almost immediately. They’ll take Mom and Annie somewhere safe—to an actual safe house, just like the movies.

Dad’s face goes through subtle changes of expression as he absorbs all this, but in a short while he nods and types again.

All right. What about Kelly himself?

He’s in Afghanistan.

Where do the girls go? Houston?

I'm not sure. But wherever it is, you should go with them.

His contemptuous expression tells me his answer to this, but he types:

Kelly’s people will take better care of them than I could, and I have three patients dying right now. One in hospice and two in the hospital. I'm not going anywhere. You haven'’t called Kelly’s people yet?

I have to leave the house for that. Was waiting for you.

Where are you going?

Not far. I should be back within 15 minutes, but don'’t panic unless I'm gone an hour.

He digests this, then types:

What if somebody tries to break in while you’re gone? Is that what the guns are for?

I pick up the big revolver and slip it into his arthritic hands.

Can you still fire a pistol?

He eyes his crooked fingers doubtfully.

If they bust in here, I guess we’ll see. It can’t be any harder than giving a goddamn prostate exam. You don'’t have a shotgun, do you?

Sorry. Wish I did.

He shrugs philosophically.

If someone does come, shoot before you talk. I'’ll come running, and I should get here fast enough to be of help.

Dad sucks his teeth for a few seconds, and I know he’s thinking of options. With a grunt he bends and types:

There are a couple of guys I could call to help out. Old patients. Ex-cops.

Not this time. The bad guys might believe I panicked and called

you for some Ativan, but if anybody else shows up, we’re asking for trouble. We have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Dad shakes his head and types:

Like Matt Dillon and Festus spending the night at the Dodge City jail, by God.

That'’s about the size of it. I figure you’re more Doc Adams than Festus.

I'm older than Milburn Stone ever got on that show, I'm afraid.

I smile, then type:

I still trust you with Annie’s life.

Something hard and implacable comes into my father’s eyes as he reads the words, and I know that the first person who tries to break into my house will take a lethal bullet from a man who knows exactly where to aim.

I'm going now,

I type.

Hope for 10 minutes, but give me an hour.

“You’re heartbeat’s slowing a little,” Dad says. “How do you feel?”

“Better. I think I just want to sit here in the tub awhile.”

He nods understanding. “I'’ll just go watch some TV in the den. If the nausea doesn’'t ease up, give a yell, and I'’ll give you a shot of Vistaril.”

“Thanks, Dad. Jesus, this really scared me.”

“Don’t thank me. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

I start to walk past him, but he grips my arm with startling force, pulls me back to the MacBook, and types:

What if you don'’t come back?

He’s right to ask. If I leave this house, no matter how stealthy I try to be, I might be signing my death warrant.

If I don'’t come back, I'm dead or taken. Call 911 and start screaming there’s a home invasion in progress. Then call every cop you ever treated and put a ring of steel around this house.

I start to leave, but then I add,

And raise Annie like you know I would. Like you raised me.

He stares at the screen for a long time, and I see his jaw muscles flexing. Then he shakes his head and types:

Go fetch the cavalry, Matthew. I'’ll hold the fort.

I use the rear basement window to leave my house. The lower halves of those windows sit in a narrow concrete moat that sur

rounds the house, and I am thankful for it tonight. I see no one as I sneak out of my backyard, but as I prepare to slip across Washington Street two blocks from my house, a cigarette flares at the corner of my block, illuminating the pale moon of a beardless face. Knowing the watcher will be night-blind for a few moments, I dart across the road and into the foliage of a neighbor’s yard.

My destination is Caitlin’s guesthouse, a renovated servants’ quarters that can be opened with the same key that opens her front door. I move carefully between my neighbors’ homes, using my knowledge of pets and gardens to steer clear of problems. When I reach Caitlin’s backyard, I experience a moment of panic, thinking she returned while I was making my way here, but what I thought was her car is simply three garbage cans lined up for collection.

A rush of mildewed air hits me when I open the guesthouse door. Leaving the lights off, I move carefully across the dark den, toward the glowing red light in the kitchenette. With all hope suspended, I lift the cordless phone and press the ON button. A steady dial tone comes to me like a lifeline thrown into a black ocean.

Taking my cell phone from my pocket, I check its memory for the number of Kelly’s employer in Houston, then enter it into the cordless landline. The phone rings twice, then a cool female voice answers, “Blackhawk Risk Management.” She’s wide-awake at two thirty in the morning, and this gives me some confidence.