Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

sick.

”

“‘Game dogs,’ you said. Is that what they call fighting dogs?”

“No, no. ‘Gameness’ is a quality that a dog has or doesn’'t have. If a dog is ‘game,’ that means he’s willing to fight to the point of death, no matter how badly injured he is. Truly game dogs will keep fighting with two broken forelegs.”

“Jesus.”

Caitlin stands, outrage animating her. “Apparently pit bull terriers are among the most loyal dogs in the world, and it’s that loyalty that these assholes twist to create animals that will sacrifice their lives to please their masters. You should see some pictures. When they'’re not fighting, these dogs live on heavy three-foot chains or on the breeding stand. That'’s it. And they don'’t live long. You know what happens to dogs that aren'’t considered game?”

“I can guess.”

She nods. “They kill them. Kill them or use them for practice. ‘Practice’ means letting other dogs tear them to pieces, to give them a taste for blood. If it’s the first option, they shoot them, hang them, bash in their skulls with bats, electrocute them, run them over with trucks. Sometimes they just let them starve.”

“It’s hard to grasp,” I say, knowing this is hardly adequate. “I need my clothes.”

“They’re in the dryer. I'’ll get them. Though I kind of like seeing you this way. It’s been a while.”

This is what you get with a journalist like Caitlin. She can talk about horrific details in the same sentence with her desire for food or sex. I guess it’s like doctors talking about suppurating infections while they eat. After a while, they just don'’t think about it.

“Yes, it has,” I agree.

She looks at me for a few moments more, then leaves the bathroom.

The hook has been set. She will not let go of this story until she finds everything there is to know. This probably puts her in more

danger than she was in before, but at least now she knows what she’s dealing with, and I will be close enough to protect her.

After I dress, we take my backpack and slip out a side window, then through a neighbor’s yard to a street two blocks away. There a female reporter named Kara picks us up in her Volkswagen. She drives us to her apartment on Orleans Street, tells Caitlin to be careful, and disappears. Then Caitlin takes the wheel and follows the directions I’'ve given her.

Our destination is a hundred acres of gated land called Hedges Plantation. Just off Highway 61 South, it’s owned by Drew Elliott, my father’s first junior partner, and a friend of mine since grade school. Dad is supposed to have got the key so that he can let us onto the property at 4:30 a.m. Danny McDavitt and Kelly are flying in from Baton Rouge, and McDavitt can probably set the chopper down there without anyone being the wiser. Though Hedges is surrounded by the newest residential developments on the south side of town, it’s mostly wooded, and protected from casual observation on every side. Drew originally planned to build a home here, but now I hear he plans to build a high-end subdivision. Modern medicine in a nutshell. There are a couple of aluminum buildings on the property, and it’s one of these that I’'ve chosen for our rendezvous.

“Is that the one?” Caitlin asks, pointing to a narrow gravel road just past the entrance to an antebellum home on the right.

“No, the next one.”

“I see it. Okay.” She slows the car, and the wheels crunch on gravel. “The thing about dogfighting,” she says—it’s standard procedure for Caitlin to return without warning to a previous discussion—“is that when the police do bust fights, which is rarely, they always turn up evidence of other crimes. Drugs, weapons, prostitution. The gambling goes without saying.”

“Kill your lights.”

“What?”

“There’s enough moonlight to get us down this road.”

She switches off the lights but keeps talking. “I don'’t mean random stuff either. The same criminals who run drugs and guns and girls love fighting dogs. It’s like the ultimate expression of the male lust for power and violence.”

“Your Radcliffe education is showing.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“I know. That'’s why I called Kelly.”

She gives me a tight smile. “Yeah, I get it now.”

As we roll up to a metal gate, a tall, white-haired man steps from behind some cedar trees to our right. My father. Caitlin smiles and starts to roll down her window, but Dad pulls open the gate and motions for us to drive quickly through. After we do, he locks the gate behind us and comes to the passenger door of the Volkswagen. I get out and squeeze into the back, leaving the front seat for him.

“Well, Kate,” he says, his eyes glinting as he looks at Caitlin. “It’s sure been dull without you around.”

“No more boredom,” she says with a smile. “I guarantee that, at the very least. Have you heard from Peggy and Annie?”

Dad shakes his head. “We’re talking as little as possible. And only on the satellite phone.”

“I have it with me,” I say. “We can get an update after this meeting.”

“Good. I have a surprise for you, Son.”

“What’s that?”

“Walt’s here.”

“Garrity?”

“Right.”

“What do you mean ‘here?’ In Natchez? Or

here

here?”

“He’s in the shed now, talking to Kelly.”

For the first time, I feel a rush of real optimism.

“The sly son of a bitch just appeared in my house,” Dad says. “Almost gave me a coronary. I have James Ervin watching me, and he had no idea Walt was even there.”

James Ervin is a black cop my dad used to treat. “That'’s not encouraging.”

“Walt’s pretty slick,” Dad says.

“Who’s Walt Garrity?” Caitlin asks.

“A Texas Ranger,” Dad explains. “Met him in Korea, when we were still boys. He’s semiretired, but I guess once you learn to sneak past Indians and Mexicans, retired city cops aren'’t much of a challenge. This will be the only night we see him. He wants to work totally apart from everyone else.”

As well as I got to know Walt in Houston, there are many things

I don'’t know about him. For example, I know that my father saved Walt’s life during the Korean War, and that Walt later returned the favor, but I don'’t know the circumstances of either episode. Both men belong to a generation that doesn’'t talk about certain things without a compelling reason.

“I'm sure Walt knows best,” I say. “We’ll talk about your security later.”

Dad ignores this and motions for Caitlin to continue up the road. She gives his hand a squeeze, then begins driving us deeper into the forest.

We’re meeting in a sixty-by-forty-foot shed of galvanized aluminum, the kind you see along highways all over the South. My father leads Caitlin and me past a ski boat on a trailer, a 1970s-vintage Corvette with a hole in its fiberglass, an orange Kubota tractor, a zero-turn lawn mower, and various other power machinery used for grounds maintenance. Near the far end of the building, sitting in folding lawn chairs beneath two camouflage-painted deer stands, are Danny McDavitt, Carl Sims, Walt Garrity, and Daniel Kelly. At first glance, they look incongruous, like an illustration of different American types: an astronaut, an NFL cornerback, a cowboy, and a surfer with a blond ponytail. I'm surprised to see Carl Sims here, but before I can ask about his descent into the Devil’s Punchbowl, Walt Garrity drawls, “Look what the cat drug in.”

Rising from his lawn chair, Walt catches sight of Caitlin and quickly doffs his Stetson. “Ma’am. I didn't realize we’d be having female company.”

Kelly rises to give Caitlin a hug. They met seven years ago, when we were drawn together by the Delano Payton case. “What do we have here, Penn?” Kelly asks. “The Seven Samurai?”

Carl Sims smiles from his chair. “Kind of looks like it, if you count the lady.”