Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

Caitlin pulls onto the shoulder fifty yards from the entrance, then gets out and walks into the parking lot of the adjacent business, a small engine-repair shop. Its parking lot is crowded, making a covert approach to the car lot easy.

Ten yards from the border between the lots, she sees Darla gesturing vehemently at a silver-haired, red-faced man. They’re standing between a van and a large SUV, apparently to shield their conversation from anyone in the trailer that serves as the dealership’s office, but Caitlin has a good view of them both. She creeps along the side of a trailer until she hears Darla call the man Pastor Simpson.

That'’s got to be right,

Caitlin thinks, because now she remembers Simpson from the story she did on charismatic religions.

Having heard enough to be sure of what she’s seeing, Caitlin steps out of cover and walks right up to the pair. “Pastor Simpson?” she says. “I’d like to speak to you for a minute.”

Simpson looks up sharply, as though prepared to respond angrily, but then he mistakes Caitlin for a customer.

“Ma’am, I'm busy just now, but if you’ll wait a minute, I'’ll be right with you.”

“I'm not here about a car.”

“That'’s

her,”

Darla says anxiously. “The newspaper lady.”

“Aw, hell,” Simpson says. “What do you want with me?”

“I'm here about Linda Church.”

“I don'’t know who you’re talking about. I never heard a nobody by that name.”

Caitlin sighs wearily. “I find that hard to believe, since the first person Darla ran to after I questioned her about Linda was you.”

“Well, you flustered this poor girl. I'm her pastor. She’s afraid you’re going to put her in the newspaper or somethin’.”

Caitlin holds up both hands in a placating gesture. “I'm not here to put anybody in the newspaper.”

“That'’s a bald-faced lie,” says Simpson with conviction. “That'’s

what you live for, to see your name in the paper. I remember the story you did on our church, don'’t think I don'’t. You twisted the truth ever which way to make us look like fools. I got nothin’ to say to you.”

Caitlin steps closer and speaks with all the sincerity she can muster. “Sir, my only concern is the safety of Linda Church. She’s a material witness to a major crime, and I believe her life is in danger.”

“Well, what’s that got to do with us?”

“I believe you helped Linda. I think you got Darla to carry a note from Linda to Penn Cage.”

“What makes you think that?”

“The mayor and I are very close friends.”

Simpson snorts. “Livin’ in sin is what you mean, ain’t it?”

“Mr. Simpson, I believe you acted as a Good Samaritan to Linda, just as your faith teaches, but I'm not sure you understand how dangerous the people who are looking for her are. If you really want to help Linda, you’ll tell me how to find her. I'’ll make sure she receives around-the-clock protection.”

Simpson stares at Caitlin for a long time, as though about to come clean. Then he says, “It’s hard to stay protected when you’re on the front page of a newspaper. I tell you what, missy. If Linda Church had asked me for help—and I'm not saying she did—I woulda got her straight outta town where no slimy sons-of-bitches could hurt her. Okay? Now, that’s all you’re gonna get from me without the sheriff.”

Caitlin turns to Darla, but before she can speak, Simpson interposes himself between them. “You leave this girl here alone too, or I'’ll have some law on you. We don'’t take kindly to harassment on this side of the river, especially by the likes of you. Now, get off my lot.”

Caitlin tries to step around Simpson to address Darla directly, but he steps in front of her and shoves her backward.

“That'’s assault,” Caitlin says quietly.

“You don'’t get your ass off my property,” Simpson snarls, his eyes blazing, “I'’ll show you some battery too. Git!”

Caitlin holds her ground for a face-saving moment, then turns and walks back to her car.

CHAPTER

42

Walt Garrity blinks in surprise as he’s ushered into Jonathan Sands’s office. He expected the antebellum decor to be uniform throughout the boat, but this room could be the office of a European investment banker. The play that brought him here is simple: He’s told the pit boss that he needs to speak to the manager about a special group event, one the standard event planner won'’t be able to okay without the manager’s approval, and since that’s the case, he’d rather talk directly to the man with the power to answer his questions.

Sands looks bigger than he did walking the casino floor. He has an imposing density that Walt has seen in natural fighters, and he has a fighter’s eyes as well, always probing for vulnerability. Yet when he rises from his desk, the watchfulness recedes, and he offers his hand with a smile. Walt takes it, gauging the power in it. It’s the hand of a laborer or an infantry soldier.

“Hello, Mr. Gilchrist,” Sands says in a cultured English accent. “It’s good to have a real gambler aboard.”

“Aw, you must see my type all the time.”

“You’d be surprised. The average player on a Mississippi boat loses about fifty dollars. Our average is higher, because we have a higher percentage of table games, and we draw the affluent clientele that does exist. But still. It’s good to have a real player aboard.”

“Winning, losing, hell, it’s all the same after a while. It’s the risk

that keeps you going. Just like the oil business. I hate a duster, but, goddamn, it just makes it all the sweeter when you hit that pay sand on the next one. You know?”

“A man after my own heart,” Sands says. “A man who can live out Kipling’s famous advice about victory and defeat—to treat those two impostors as the same.”

Walt laughs. “You Brits sure have a way with words. I'’ll bet the ladies just fall over and beg for it when they hear that accent, don'’t they?”

Sands smiles and takes his seat. “What business are you in?”

“Oil.”

“Not too much of it left around here, is there?”

“More than you’d think. And with the price through the roof, the numbers on old wells look a lot better than they used to. Course, you’re right. In the fifties and sixties, they found some fifty-million-barrel fields over here. Most of them are still producing. But I'm rambling. Times have changed, that’s for sure.”

“You mentioned a group event in the future.”

“Right. But it’s not your standard-type junket.”

Sands smiles expansively. “I always have time for a man with an interesting proposition.”

“I'm the same way myself. You never know what’ll come your way if you keep your ears open.”

“What sort of event do you have in mind?”

Walt hesitates as he once did when asking a pharmacist for a condom, but inside he’s feeling a too-long-absent thrill. He loves nothing more than facing his mark and winging it, which is what he’s always done best. If you look a criminal in the eye and come right at him—tempt him toward a crime as though it’s your idea—he frequently forgets to doubt you. Of course that can get into entrapment issues, these days. But in the heyday of the Rangers, there’d been a lot of latitude when it came to that kind of thing, and not much concern about procedure. Case notes tended to be spare, running a line or two every couple of days. “Drove from Austin to Dallas. Located suspect in barn. Killed him at dawn. Returned to Austin” was one Walt remembered fondly. Times have changed of course, but this meeting has some of the flavor of the old days.