Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“Caitlin…nothing I say is going to make you feel better.”

“No, I want to hear your rationale. Is there something more than the ‘good German’ defense here?”

“Yes, unpalatable though it may be. Edward Po represents a greater threat to a larger number of people than Sands. If the only way to nail Po is to let Sands walk, then that’s what the government will do. They’re choosing to stop the greater of two evils. If that sounds lame, let me tell you something. When I was an ADA, I once had to go down to the port and walk into a ship container that held twenty-seven bodies. They were Mexicans who’d died of dehydration. Five extended families, all dead. Men, women, children. Put Chinese faces on those bodies, and you get an idea of the kind of thing Edward Po is into for profit.”

Caitlin is shaking her head in frustration. “But you’re just taking their word about Po. What do you really know about him?”

“We got Po’s history from Blackhawk before they sold Kelly out. The bottom line is that however crazy Sands may be, he’s protected right now. That'’s a fact of life. And if he feels threatened, he won'’t hesitate to kill my father, my mother, my daughter, or even you. It would be insane to risk that.”

“I told you not to use me to justify murder. Don’t use me to justify chickening out either. Aren’t you putting an awful lot of trust in a bureaucrat you'’ve never met, to keep Sands in line?”

She’s right about that much,

I think, as we cross the black strip of asphalt in the night. Carl’s probably watching us through his night scope from the helicopter and wondering why we’re risking this walk across open ground without Kelly.

As we draw close enough to hear the slowly turning rotors whoosh through the air, she says, “I really feel down. I can’t explain it. It’s more than just what happened tonight.”

“No, it’s not. After I told off Hull, you were flying high. Now, facing reality, you’re depressed. I know I’'ve disappointed you. But I have too much at stake to fight Hull and Sands. You want me to leave you out of my calculations? Okay. The bottom line is this. I have a child, you don'’t. That was a big part of my reasoning about executing Sands, as well. Until you have a child of your own, you can’t understand the absolute imperative you feel to protect that innocent life.”

Caitlin stops short of the helicopter and looks up at me, her eyes bright and wet. “I

want

a child. I wanted one with you. I always have. That'’s why I’'ve been treading water for a year and half, even though I'm almost thirty-five. You think

I

can’t deal with reality? What about you and your fantasy of saving Natchez?”

I reach out to take her hand, but she slaps mine away. “You told me you ran for mayor to save your hometown. That'’s what you told yourself, your parents, Annie, and everyone else. Well, I wasn'’t sure it could be saved from the things you wanted to take on. Not by one person. But I know this: It damn sure needs saving now. And what are you doing? Folding your tent. Pissing on the fire and calling in the dogs, as they say down here.” She shakes her head and starts to turn away. “Honestly…I don'’t think I’'ve ever been more shocked in my life. Or more wrong about someone.”

At this point, a wise man would offer an apology and get into the helicopter. But something’s been nagging at me ever since the argument about killing Sands.

“As long as we’re being honest,” I say to her back, “let me ask you one question. When you argued so passionately against killing Sands, was that really because you believe it would be morally wrong to do it?”

“Of course!” she snaps, whirling on me. “What did you think?”

“I wondered whether you might be arguing that way because, if we’d gone that route, you’d never have been able to write the story. Not as it really happened, anyway.”

Caitlin has pale skin, but what little color she has drains from her face. “You son of a bitch.” She looks as if she’d like to gouge my eyes out, but instead she simply turns and climbs into the cabin of the helicopter.

I look back at the road, where my father’s nine-year-old BMW is swinging onto the asphalt to head back toward Mississippi. No matter what I told Caitlin, there’s no escaping one unalterable reality: Despite my deal with the devil, Tim Jessup’s blood still cries out from the ground. And I am not deaf. Only one thought brings me solace now.

My daughter is coming home.

CHAPTER

35

Linda is sitting in the front pew of the church, near the wooden rail. Pastor Simpson sits facing her, his hands hanging between his knees. He looks like a laborer forced to put on a suit for a funeral, but when you feel his hands, you know he hasn’'t done real labor in years. He’s a talker, soft-spoken and sincere. He’s been talking to Linda about the totality of God, but she can’t keep her mind on the words. She’s burning up, her leg is throbbing, and her ride is late, hours late, picking her up.

“I'm sorry it’s taken so long, honey,” Simpson says for the twentieth time. “That dern nephew of mine can’t hardly get no work, and now he gets called out to rig like this…and after what you said, I didn't think we should tell nobody else but Darla about you being here.”

“I understand,” Linda says, trying to keep her mind clear through the fever. “But the Bargain Barn closed a long time ago.”

“I told you, hon, Darla sits with sick folks sometimes after she gets off, and tonight she had to check on a patient. Somebody probably ran off and stuck her with their mama or something. Happens all the time. Darla don'’t charge half of what professional sitters charge, so people are all the time taking advantage.”

“Where exactly are we going?”

“Oh, you’re gonna love it. My brother’s got a place way out in

the country. Ain’t nothing there but trees and ponds. Nobody to hurt you, or even see you. Just an old cabin. You can stay out there however long you need, till the coast is clear.”

“All by myself?”

“Well, Darla can stay awhile to get you fixed with food and sundries. But after that—” Simpson falls silent at the sound of an engine. “See there? All that worry for nothing.”

Linda feels a dizzying rush of relief. The pastor reaches out and steadies her. “She’s gonna knock three times, so we’ll know it’s her. Okay?”

“Okay. You said Mayor Cage got my note, right?”

“That'’s what Darla said. Now, let’s get on down the aisle.”

As Simpson helps Linda to her feet, three loud knocks reverberate through the cold church, like someone banging on a castle door.

“Come in,” the pastor calls. “We’re coming.”

The door opens, and Linda sees a tall silhouette in the door. Darla, for sure. But as the silhouette moves forward, Linda perceives its narrow waist and broad shoulders. Then a shaft of light falls on the handsome face of Seamus Quinn.

Linda’s stomach heaves in terror, and she whirls toward Pastor Simpson, who’s looking at her with terrible shame on his face.

Quinn strides up the aisle with two big men flanking him. Linda recoils and tries to run toward the altar, but her torn knee gives way and she collapses in the aisle. The two men rush forward and lift her to her feet.

“How can you do this?” she asks, her eyes on Pastor Simpson. “You’re a man of God!”

“Just a man, Linda. I'm weak, like everybody else. I sin like everyone else. It’s the curse of my life.”

Simpson turns to Quinn and says, “We’re square now, right? That'’s what you said? All debts canceled?”