Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“Are we off-the-record?”

Necker points at a headset on the floor to indicate that Major McDavitt cannot hear us. “Unless I'm dictating a press release, I'm always off-the-record.”

I take a deep breath and look out at the spire of St. Mary’s,

growing larger in the chopper’s windshield. “I don'’t think you’re going to find out who fired those shots, Hans. But I may know already. Who ordered it, anyway.”

“I'm listening.”

“That was a message telling me to keep my nose out of something. Or my mouth shut. I'm not sure which yet. It had nothing to do with you or the race. I can’t give you details. I wish I could, but I can’t. It’s just not an option.”

“You don'’t think any other pilots are in danger?”

“No. Not unless we get some nutty copycat or something.”

Necker’s appraisal of me is cold and swift. “This isn’t something personal, is it? Like diddling somebody else’s wife?”

“Hell, no. It’s criminal activity. That'’s all I can say. If you could help me, I’d tell you more, but you can’t. Not with this.”

“I know a lot of people, Penn.”

“So do I. This isn’t that kind of problem. Money and connections won'’t help. In fact, money is the problem.”

“This is why you were late this morning, isn’t it?”

I nod.

“Your family’s okay?”

“They are now. They weren’t this morning.”

Necker winces again, then nods slowly. “I see. Okay. Tell me what I can do to help you. There has to be something.”

I think for a moment. “Honestly?”

“Yessir.”

“I need this helicopter for the rest of the weekend, and I need Major McDavitt flying it. From now till Sunday night.”

Necker shifts his leg, grimaces in pain. “You’ve got it.”

“I'’ll pay for his time, of course. I—”

“It’s already paid for. What else?”

“I think that’s all you can do for now. Other than that, I’d just ask that you not let this thing affect your view of the town, if that’s possible.”

Necker smiles. “Hell, I’'ve run into strong-arm stuff in Minneapolis. You get that everywhere. I only wish you’d let me help you. I take it personally when somebody shoots at me. I’d like a few words with the son of a bitch myself.”

“If I have my way, you’ll get your chance.”

Necker glances out the window at the hospital as we descend. “I won'’t keep you, then. I'm going to be on crutches for a while anyway. Go do what you have to do. Anybody asks, I'’ll say I think that shooting was some kids that got out of hand.”

“I appreciate it, Hans.”

“Would it help you to know where those shots came from?”

“It might.”

“I'’ll get somebody to truck that balloon over here, and I'’ll have a look at it. I know our altitude when we were shot. If the shots were through and through, I can figure the angle and probably where the shooter was standing. Approximately, anyway.”

The chopper touches down on the roof like a butterfly alighting on a leaf. Necker smiles. “A lot better than our last one, eh?”

Paramedics yank open the side door and motion for me to exit the cabin. As I leave, Necker grabs my arm and says, “I'’ll tell Danny to be on call for you.”

“Thanks.”

Paul Labry is waiting for me on the helipad. I’'ve never seen him this upset before. “What the hell happened up there, Penn?”

“I told you on the phone. Somebody took a couple of shots at us. Necker had to set down hard.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. How many people know what happened?”

“Are you kidding? With cell phones? I'’ll bet most of the pilots know by now, and the town won'’t be far behind.”

“Caitlin?”

“I don'’t know. How do you want to handle this? Some people are already saying we should cancel the rest of the flights. Today’s

and

tomorrow’s.”

“Pilots?”

“No. Couple of county supervisors.”

“I'm not surprised, but I'm not sure we should cancel. I think this was probably an isolated event. Necker agrees. The pilots are going to want input on the decision. We need to call a meeting—a closed meeting—pilots and the committee only. Let’s give them long enough to get down and packed up.” I look at my watch and give Paul a time.

He nods. “Where? The Ramada convention room?”

“That'’s fine. I need you to handle the press on this, Paul. I'’ll be at the meeting, but you’re the point man for now.”

“What? I don'’t know anything!”

“Necker can give you the details.”

Labry looks more upset than when I first got out of the chopper. “Where are you going to be?”

“You can reach me on my cell.”

Labry groans as he follows me to the hospital’s roof door.

“Go on ahead,” I tell him. “I have to make a call.”

“Don’t you need a ride back to your car?”

“My dad’s giving me a ride. He’s working downstairs. You go ahead.”

Labry starts through the door, then stops and looks back at me. “Hey, I almost forgot. I got those names you wanted.”

I pause, momentarily confused. “Names?”

“The Golden Parachute partners. That'’s where I was when you called. My garage. I didn't want to say anything on the cell, you were so cloak-and-dagger about it. I had to write the names down so I wouldn'’t forget. There are six partners sharing the five percent stake.”

“Are two of them Chinese?”

Labry nods, then produces a scrap of paper that looks like part of a grocery bag. I shove it deep in the same pocket that holds Danny McDavitt’s number. “Go on, Paul. You’re going to have a lot to deal with. Talk to Necker first.”

As Labry shakes his head and walks into the hospital, I speed-dial 1. Seamus Quinn answers the phone with a note of amusement in his voice.

“Seems like we spoke only this morning,” he says, chuckling.

“What the fuck are you trying to do?”

I shout.

“What would you be talking about?”

“You just tried to kill me!”

“How could I do that? I'm having a pint on the

Queen

as we speak.” Quinn obviously assumes I'm taping the call.

“Look, I don'’t get it. I told you, I'm going to do what you want. I'm going to find your disc. But I can’t do it if I'm dead.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Quinn says airily. “Unless it’s that balloon crash I just heard about.”

“What else?”

“Well, you must be exaggerating. If somebody really wanted to kill you, they’d have blown your fuel tank.”

“If you were trying to send me a message, I don'’t understand it.”

“No message. But now that I have you on the phone, I do recall someone saying you had other things to do this morning than go riding in a balloon.”

So that was the message.

Quinn continues, “I also recall telling you to leave your cell phone switched on.”

“A reporter’s been bugging me. I had to shut it off.”

“Not my problem. I like to know where my mates are, remember. Gives me a sense of security.”

I can’t even think of a response.

“Got to run now, mate. Business is picking up, now the balloons have landed. You call back soon. I like to hear good news.”

When the connection goes dead, something lets go in me, and I wobble on my feet. Delayed shock, probably. I grab the doorknob to steady myself, then back up and sit down on an air-conditioning unit. Hugging myself to stop the shakes, I wonder how I'm going to get downstairs to meet my father.

My cell phone is ringing in my pocket. I'm already wishing I hadn'’t switched it back on. This time it’s not Caitlin or Labry.

“Penn, it’s Chief Logan. I heard you had some trouble.”

“A little bit.”

“Nobody hurt too bad, I understand. Lucky break.”

“Yeah.”

“I was wondering if you could swing by headquarters for a minute.”