Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

While concealed in the shadows between two mausoleums, I used the Blackhawk satellite phone to check on Annie and my mother. They had already reached Houston, and were nearly to the safe house that awaited them. I gave the Blackhawk dispatcher the names of the five percent investors in Golden Parachute and asked if the company could check out the two Chinese investors for me. After promising this would be done, the dispatcher informed me that Daniel Kelly could arrive in Natchez in twelve to fifteen hours, depending on certain variables. This was faster than I’d hoped, and welcome news. During bad times, Kelly makes good things happen, and when he can’t manage that, he at least deters those who would like to make things worse.

Knowing that the missing disc is all that might bring my family safety from Sands—or give me the weapon I need to destroy him—I prepare to continue my search, but the sheer size of the task is

overwhelming. I see why Quinn was so anxious for me to take it on. It would take strangers weeks to search this graveyard.

When my cell phone rings, I half expect to hear Seamus Quinn’s voice, but the caller is Paul Labry.

“Penn, you need to get over here,” he says.

“Where? The Ramada?”

“No, we moved the pilots’ meeting to the Visitors’ Center. We needed the space. All the pilots know about the shooting, and they all want a say in what happens next.”

“Well, that’s the city’s decision. The pilots can stay or leave as they will.”

“Most of them want to hear what happened from the horse’s mouth before they decide. I really need you to get over here. The meeting is controlled chaos right now. Another fifteen minutes, and it could be a riot.”

“I'm on my way.”

The Natchez Visitor and Reception Center looks like the student union building of a junior college. Cut into a slope in the shadow of a Hampton Inn and a casino hotel, it’s almost invisible as you cross the bridge from Louisiana to Mississippi. When large events are held here, access is virtually impossible. Nearly a hundred pickups with balloon trailers have wedged themselves into the parking lot. There would be enough room were it not for the regiment of cars that have filled every remaining space in the lot and even the grassy shoulders. The license plates tell me these are local people drawn to the scene by the rumor of this morning’s shooting. Making my way up the sloping asphalt, I realize it could take me a half hour to get through the milling crowd of locals. As I near its periphery, though, Paul Labry texts me to walk around to a service door behind the center, where he will be waiting.

True to his word, Labry admits me to the building and rushes me down a bland corridor to the main meeting area, which looks like a breakout meeting room in a convention hotel. A hundred men and half as many women sit in folding chairs before a lectern on a small riser. Eddie Jarvis, one of the city selectmen, is speaking to them, and everyone seems amazingly calm. Labry is talking in my ear, but it takes me a few moments to register the import of his words.

“Hans Necker just saved our ass. He called some key pilots as soon as he got out of surgery and told them he thought the shooting was a freak accident, some kids out hunting who got out of hand. About half the pilots wanted to keep flying anyway. The weather hasn’'t been this good in years, and there’s always the prize money.”

“What’s the festival committee say?”

“What do you think? Balloons in the air means money, especially tomorrow. Sunday without balloons is always a dud, financially speaking.”

“Do I need to talk at all?”

“Just a quick word of thanks. Show them you’re all right. Reassure them.”

Many in the crowd have noticed me, and they'’re watching me now, not Eddie Jarvis. Jarvis waves me forward, and I take the lectern.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for getting here on short notice. What happened to Hans Necker and me today has rattled everyone, I'm sure. But I want you to know that I agree with Hans. I feel sure this was an isolated occurrence. I think everyone should make his or her own choice about whether to continue flying, but we intend to go on with the festival. Law enforcement will have a strong presence along the course this afternoon and tomorrow.”

“Will you be flying this afternoon?” someone calls, and there’s some muted laughter.

“I will. But I'’ll be aboard a sheriff’s department helicopter, helping to scout the course. I don'’t want to put any of you good people at risk by asking you to fly me. It could be that today’s gunman was a disgruntled constituent of mine.”

There’s more laughter this time. Balloon pilots are an intrepid bunch, but not all of them seem reassured.

“I was in the balloon behind you guys,” says a mustached man in the fourth row. “I heard the bullets flying, but no gunshot. Do the police think the shooter used a silenced rifle?”

There’s some murmuring at this.

“I was in the service,” the man explains. “That'’s what it sounded like to me.”

“The police and the sheriff’s department are looking into all the available evidence. If we learn anything that bears on the safety of

future flights, you’ll all be informed immediately. I'm going to arrange the helicopter flyovers now. Thank you again for all you'’ve done to help make the festival a success. Mr. Jarvis?”

I wave and leave the lectern, joining Labry by the door.

“That was just right,” he says. “Best you could hope for.”

“How many do you think will keep flying?”

“Half. And half is plenty. If half of them fly, and this weather holds, the festival could still break a record.”

“I need a phone, Paul. Not your cell either. A hard line.”

He gives me a strange look. “What’s with all the cloak-and-dagger this weekend?”

“Nothing. I just don'’t want anybody hearing our security arrangements.”

Labry steers me toward a door, then pushes it open and speaks to a middle-aged woman sitting at a desk inside. “Could we borrow your office, Margaret? City business.”

“Of course,” she says, picking up her purse and coming around the desk. “Glad to see you’re all right, Mr. Mayor.”

“Thank you.”

I motion for Labry to follow her out, then take Danny McDavitt’s cell number from my pocket. He answers immediately.

“Do you know who this is?” I ask.

“I do.”

“Where are you, Major?”

“Adams County Airport. Topping up the tank.”

“Can you pick me up somewhere close to town?”

“No problem. Where?”

I think quickly. “There’s a big field right in the middle of town, on the north side. It’s right behind the Children’s Home on Union Street. Not a lot of people know about it. I'’ll be waiting there. If you touch down just long enough for me to jump on, nobody watching from a distance will even know you landed.”

“Got it. I'’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

When I leave the office, Labry is there to escort me back to my car.

“Keep your head down as we pass the crowd,” he says. “Caitlin nearly beat down the door to get access to that meeting. She’s liable to have an ACLU lawyer out there.”

We exit the building at the rear, beneath the whipping flags of England, France, Spain, the Confederacy, the United States, and of course Mississippi, which still sports the Confederate battle standard in its top left corner.

Making a wide circle around the crowd outside, we move down a row of cars toward my Saab. We’re thirty feet away when Caitlin steps from behind a balloon trailer with a cell phone held to her ear.

“Well, here you are at last,” she says. “Paul, I need a minute with the mayor.”

Labry looks at me. I sigh in exasperation, then wave him off. He moves back toward the Visitors’ Center at a vigorous march.