Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

where Kelly has the blond locks of a tennis pro. Before I can speak, the operator passes me a handwritten note and a typed sheet of paper. The note reads,

I'm Jim Samuels. There were two men watching your house. They’re alive but neutralized. We took their guns and cell phones. We need to get the packages moving in under ten minutes. Are they ready?

I nod, then hold up my hand and splay my fingers to indicate five minutes. Leaning up to his ear, I whisper, “How did you guys get here so fast?”

Samuels smiles briefly, then whispers, “Dan Kelly called me and told me to gun it all the way.”

While I say a silent thank-you to Kelly, Samuels points to the typed sheet in my hand. It reads,

Daniel Kelly should arrive Natchez in approximately 40 hours. We’'ve rented room 235 at the Days Inn. Kelly’s gear bag is waiting for him there. There’s a satellite phone in your kitchen pantry, detailed instructions with it. There’s a number programmed into the phone that you can call for updates on your mother and daughter. We’ll be encrypted on our end, but be careful where you use the phone. Kelly told us to make absolutely sure that you don'’t want to come with us and wait until he gets here before you proceed with anything.

I look up and shake my head, and the Blackhawk man acknowledges with a sober nod. Leaning forward again, I whisper, “Do you feel confident about getting out of town safely?”

Samuels gives me a thumbs-up with such assurance that I suddenly wish I were going with them. Then he leans in close and says, “We were gentle with your watchers, to minimize reprisals against you. You’ll have to decide how best to handle the situation. We left them behind the house.”

It takes a moment to absorb that. “May I have their cell phones?”

Samuels digs in his pocket and brings out two identical BlackBerrys. I lay them on the side table. “Thanks.”

“We can get you the phone records on those numbers, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate it. What about their guns?”

He shrugs. “It’s your call. They’re going to be pretty angry at whoever they see next.”

“I'm better off giving the guns back, I think.”

Samuels goes to my kitchen and returns with two Glock automatics. For a puzzled moment, I watch him crouch quickly and slip the guns into the side table’s bottom drawer. Then I realize my mother is escorting Annie down the stairs.

Annie’s wearing the clothes she had laid out to wear to the balloon race, and she’s carrying the “grandma’s house” suitcase that she packs for weekends with my parents. My mother has put on slacks and a light sweater, and her gray hair is pinned up in a bun.

I'm not quite sure how to handle this situation, but Samuels walks right up to my mom and introduces himself calmly and quietly. It’s easy to believe these guys spend their days guarding traveling CEOs and foreign heads of state. After a few seconds, Samuels breaks away from Mom and speaks quietly beside my ear.

“In sixty seconds, our escape vehicle will pull onto the sidewalk in front of your door. My partner’s in your kitchen now, covering our flank. We’ll take your mother and daughter out in a quick rush, then my partner will return for the bags. If we have any problems, we’ll leave the bags and buy whatever they need at the destination. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Dad steps up beside me, but before he can speak, Samuels gives us both a look of surprising empathy. “You’ve only got twenty seconds to say good-bye,” he says. “Don’t show any fear. They’re going to be as safe as the crown jewels. Give them a smile to remember until they see you again.”

Dad moves quickly to Mom and Annie, but my mother steps past him and looks at me with utter clarity. “I know whatever you’re doing must seem important, but please remember this. You are the only parent that little girl has left. She’s the most important thing in this family. Tom and I are old now. She needs you. Nothing matters more than Annie, Penn.

Nothing.

Not honor or justice or anything you learned in school. Your flesh and blood.” Mom reaches up and touches my cheek. “I'm only saying what Sarah would if she were alive. Sometimes men forget what’s important. Don’t.”

“I won'’t,” I promise, knowing that despite my best intentions, I have done so before. But that’s why I'm acting decisively now.

“Time,” says Samuels.

“Daddy?”

I step past Mom and sweep Annie up into my arms. At eleven, she’s no longer a little girl, but I could still carry her five miles if I had to. Her eyes are crusted with sleep, but even now they project the perception I know so well.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“It’s a surprise. I'm coming to see you soon, though. Will you take care of Gram?”

Annie smiles. “You know I will. I sure hate to miss the races. I wanted to fly in a balloon.”

“When you get back, I'’ll get Mr. Steve to take us up. As many times as you want. Okay?”

She nods, but balloon races aren'’t what’s on her mind. She pushes her mouth close to my ear and says, “Will you tell Caitlin I’'ve been missing her?”

I close my eyes and force down the emotion welling up from within.

“Mr. Cage, our ride’s coming up the block. We’'ve got to move.”

I hug Annie tight and murmur, “I'’ll tell her,” in her ear. Then I hand her to Jim Samuels, who carries her to the front door while Annie stares back at me over his shoulder.

Another hard shoulder brushes past me, and Samuels’s partner joins him at the door. He’s wearing an earpiece, and he seems to be receiving updates from it. He and Samuels communicate with hand motions; then Samuels tells my mother something, and she nods. He looks back at me, raises his hand to indicate five seconds, and ticks his fingers down one by one.

My heart tries to race ahead of itself, then the door is open and the Blackhawk men are rushing Mom and Annie across the open space like the royal family through a tunnel of paparazzi. I glimpse a big black Suburban before the door slams, then the growl of a modified V-8 roars loudly enough to shake my front wall and wake everyone on the street. With a screech of rubber the Suburban blasts up Washington Street like an Abrams tank heading off to war.

“Good God,” Dad says, still staring at the front door. “What now?”

“You go to work.”

“What are you going to do?”

I take the confiscated guns from the side table and shove them into my waistband. “Return some personal effects.”

“Who do those belong to?”

“The men who were watching the house. The Blackhawk guys took them.”

“Jesus. Don’t you want me to come with you?”

“Nope. I'm just going to give them a friendly message for their boss.”

Dad studies me for some time, then takes his keys from the tabletop. “I have my cell phone. Call me if you need me.”

I give him a smile of gratitude. “I did.”

He smiles back. “I guess you did. Okay. I'’ll take care of that other thing.”

I'm puzzled for a moment, but by the time Dad says, “The medicine for your heart,” I’'ve remembered:

Walt Garrity.

With three guns in my waistband, I grab a paring knife from the kitchen, then walk out my back door, wondering what I'’ll find.

The previous owners installed a stone fountain on my back patio, and this morning two men wearing dark windbreakers are sitting on the bricks, leaning back against the fountain’s basin. Their hands and feet are bound with plastic restraints, and their mouths are covered with black tape. When they see me, their eyes bulge with anger, but fear as well.

I walk slowly toward them, making sure they see the guns in my belt. Both men have the thin legs and overdeveloped upper physiques of bodybuilders. The right breasts of their windbreakers read MAGNOLIA QUEEN. Above the letters is an embroidered paddle wheeler; above this a pair of dice. I squat before the men and smile.