Читать интересную книгу The Devils Punchbowl - Greg Iles

I think Caitlin is actually blushing.

“What about you, Mr. Garrity?” Kelly asks. “I know you didn't come all this way to twiddle your thumbs.”

“That'’s a fact,” Walt says. “I came because my old comrade-in-arms was in trouble.” He nods at my father. “And I do have a plan. But I tend to play a long game. I like to move slow and careful and let my prey come to me.”

Carl is listening closely. Undoubtedly, a sniper can relate to this philosophy.

In a good-natured voice, Walt says, “I'm sure that after tonight, I'’ll be redundant personnel. But no matter what happens, this is the last time you folks will see me. I'm like an actor playing a part. Once I get into the role, I don'’t break character. I almost didn't come tonight, but I wanted to see what this mess was really about. I'm glad I did.”

“Is there anything we can do to help you?” Kelly asks.

“I have only one request, and it’s for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I rather you not tell your employers about my involvement.”

“No problem.”

“Why not?” asks Caitlin. “You don'’t trust Blackhawk?”

Walt spits on the concrete floor and looks off into the shadows. “Blackhawk is a Texas outfit, and they have some good men over there. But after 9/11 they ramped up pretty quick—sort of like deputizing a bunch of laymen for a posse. It’s tough to know who you’re getting when you hire that fast.”

“I wouldn'’t argue with you,” says Kelly. “Don’t lose a second’s sleep over it.”

“I appreciate it.”

Walt stands and stretches, and within twenty seconds everyone else has followed suit. As he lowers his arms, I see a leather string around his neck that triggers a powerful memory.

“You still carry that derringer with you?”

Walt smiles, then pops open the top mother-of-pearl snap on his Western shirt and lifts what looks like a child’s toy from where it lies against his chest. Kelly and Carl lean forward. The derringer is smaller than a woman’s hand, with burled-wood grips and metal dulled by years of sweat.

“Two shots?” Carl asks.

Walt smiles. “That'’s one more than you generally get, ain’t it?”

“But I'm firing a .308 round.”

Walt pulls a pin from the gun and removes its cylinder, exposing the brass tails of five bullets. “Two’s generally enough in the kind of situation where you use this thing, but you never know.”

Carl puts his hand out and touches the gun like a talisman, but Kelly says, “I thought Texas Rangers carried Colt .45s.”

Walt chuckles. “Pretty hard to hide my old Colt. I’'ve been patted down many a time without anybody finding this little lady. She’s loaded with .22 long-rifle rounds. They do the job just fine.”

While Carl studies the gun, Kelly looks at me. “What’s your day look like?”

“I'm scheduled to present a citizenship award on the bluff at the Ramada Inn at two p.m. There’s always a big crowd there on Sunday, watching the balloons. Barbecue, lots of city employees, kids.”

“It’s public knowledge that you’re doing this?”

“Sure. Printed in the paper. Why?”

“I may stop by to get a look at whoever’s covering you.”

“You going to give me one of those Star Treks?”

Kelly laughs and passes me the one from his pocket. As I take it, he turns to Walt and says, “How about you, Mr. Garrity? You want one?”

The old ranger smiles. “Where I'm going, they’d just take it off me. A gun they might not mind, but radios are a big no-no.”

“Just making sure.”

“Thanks, but I work alone. Kind of a habit.”

Kelly laughs suddenly, as though at Walt’s expense.

“What is it?” Garrity asks, a little edge in his voice.

“I’'ve been trying to remember something all night. Something my uncle used to say.”

“What’s that?”

“‘One riot, one Ranger.’ That'’s the motto, isn’t it?”

Walt sighs like a man who’s heard this line a thousand times too many. “That'’s the myth, not the reality.”

Kelly says, “I understand,” and offers his hand.

Garrity takes it and shakes firmly. “Good luck to you, soldier. And keep your eyes peeled for dogs.”

“I'’ll hear the dogs,” Kelly assures him.

“No, you won'’t. Dogfighters are like the dopers now. Once upon a time, they used guard dogs to warn you away and alert them to run. Now they sever the vocal cords so there’s no bark to warn you.”

A chill races across my skin.

“My God,” says my father.

“They’re on your throat before you even know they'’re there,” Walt says. “A lot of cops have been hurt like that this past year. Some killed.”

“Thanks,” Kelly says. “I’'ve heard of that before, but I’'ve never seen a dog it’s been done to.”

“I have,” I say softly. “Jonathan Sands has one.”

Everyone turns to me.

“It’s white, and it’s

big.

I think the breed is called a Bully Kutta.”

I’'ve rarely seen astonishment on Kelly’s face, but I see it now. “That'’s a Pakistani breed,” he says. “A war dog. It’s related to the Bully Ker. I’'ve seen those fight in Kabul. The tribesmen fight them against

bears.

Two dogs against a bear, and the dogs always win.”

“Who the hell are these people?” Dad asks.

Kelly pats my father on the shoulder. “I don'’t think we’ll know that until we find out how Jonathan Sands spent the first part of his life.”

“Are we going to find out?”

Kelly nods. “The British government can stonewall Blackhawk all

they want, but I’'ve got personal friends in the SAS, vets who served in Northern Ireland. We’ll have the story before long.”

“By tonight?” Caitlin asks.

“Maybe. In any case, I think we should get out of here. It’s going to be a long day, and an even longer night. Everybody know what their job is?”

After everyone nods, Kelly reaches into his gear bag and brings out two more walkie-talkies. One he gives to Danny McDavitt, the other to my father. Then he looks at Caitlin and me.

“You two are together for the duration, right?”

She nods, and I see color in her cheeks.

“Glad to see it,” Kelly says with a smile.

“I am too,” says my father. “Too bad it takes a goddamn crisis to bring them together.”

“Dr. Cage,” Kelly says, “I’d appreciate it if you’d scope out some safe houses for us, on both sides of the river. Think you can do that?”

“This time of year, I'm sure I can. Both of my partners’ lake houses are empty.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing at Kelly. “Caitlin and I are together until tonight. Then I'm with

you.

”

CHAPTER

28

If it were any other year, this would be my favorite day of the Balloon Festival: the “barge drop” event as seen from the Ramada Inn above the Mississippi River Bridge. The flashy trappings of the festival stand a mile away at Fort Rosalie. Here there is no grand stage, no headline act or spotlights, no carnival rides. But the Natchez Ramada Inn, a monument to bourgeois America, commands one of the most breathtaking views of the Mississippi River on the continent. Soon it will be leveled to make way for yet another casino hotel, but for locals it remains the beating heart of the Balloon Festival. A strong pilot presence gives it the buzz of a military command center from Friday until Sunday evening. You can smell the pork ribs being barbecued by the swimming pool even before you get out of your car. Every room with a river view has been rented for a year in advance, many by local organizations who use the event as an excuse for three days of uninterrupted partying.

The object of the “barge drop” is for a balloon crew to drop a beanbag onto a white cross marked on the deck of a barge holding position in the Mississippi River. Many end up landing—sometimes crash-landing—on the grounds of the hotel itself, or in the neutral ground at the foot of the massive hill the hotel stands on. But the true center of the festivities is the long hill that falls precipitously

from the hotel pool toward Highway 84 and the river. Here hundreds of families gather on blankets and lawn chairs to watch their children slide hell-for-leather down the slope on flattened cardboard boxes, toward a concrete drainage ditch. Each sally is potentially life-threatening, and beyond the concrete lies a much longer slope covered with a thick mat of kudzu. I’'ve seen fathers in their forties make twenty or thirty trips up that hill dragging a scarred Maytag box behind them, with a toddler or two still clinging to it like princes on a magic carpet. It’s a miracle the hotel’s owners allow this ritual in our hyperlitigious age. That a dozen lawsuits don'’t arise from this activity every year says more about the crowd than anything else. They’re the kind of parents who, if their son broke his arm, would tell him it was his own damn fault for not stopping short of the concrete and to suck it up until they could get Dr. Cage away from his bourbon long enough to splint the bone.

I spent my first thirty minutes anxiously searching the crowd for Daniel Kelly or signs of people following me. Several times I felt someone

was

watching me, but whenever I turned, I saw nothing suspicious. Ten minutes ago, I presented the citizenship award to Paul Labry, who had no idea he had been voted the honor. I actually saw tears in Labry’s eyes as he accepted the brass plaque, but my mind was only half on the presentation, because five minutes before my speech, my father had called on Kelly’s Star Trek and told me that Jewel Washington, the coroner, was at the Ramada and had something important to give me. I spotted Jewel right after the speech, serving barbecue under a tent, but she gave no sign of recognizing me, so I decided to stick around until she felt an approach was safe.

Caitlin is roaming the crowd, just in case Jewel sees her as an obstacle to our communication. She has my backpack slung over her shoulder, and in it the satellite phone and my gun. We’'ve done a good job playing the role of reconciled lovers; I only hope Libby Jensen’s not here today. Normally, Libby would be able to handle the situation, but with her son in jail, she might make a scene.

“Mr. Mayor?” someone says nervously from behind me.

Turning, I look into the cornflower blue eyes of a girl of about twenty. She’s mousy-haired and round-faced but pretty in her way, a hillbilly girl who will soon lose her looks along with the blush of youth. She’s either tall or wearing very high heels, because I'm look

ing almost straight into her eyes. My first coherent thought is that someone should teach her how to apply eye makeup, because she could take off half of what she’s wearing and look twice as good.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you enjoying the festival?”

The girl smiles, but her eyes are filled with confusion, or even fear. Something about her seems familiar. Before I can figure out what, she shoves something into my front pants pocket. The contact startles me, but the crowd around us is intent on two balloons that are flying too close together as they sweep in off the river.

“Don’t read that until you’re by yourself,” the girl says. “It’s superimportant.”

“Are you—”

“I gotta go,” she says, then turns and moves into the crowd. I see her leather jacket for a couple of seconds, then only a blur of bodies.

“Who was that?” Caitlin asks, suddenly appearing at my side. She’s staring after the girl, but I can no longer distinguish her from the other people swirling between us and the hotel swimming pool.

“I don'’t know.”

“What was she saying?”

“She stuffed something into my pocket. I think it’s a note. She said to read it in private. Jewel must have sent her over. Somebody must be watching Jewel.”

“Or you.”

“Yeah.”

Caitlin takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

I look around the grounds of the hotel. Unless you have a room, there’s no privacy to be had. “We shouldn’t leave until we’re sure I have whatever Jewel needs to give me.”

“Have some barbecue, Mr. Mayor!”

Jewel Washington’s sweating brown face appears before me so suddenly that I can’t quite tell where she came from. She shoves a Chinet plate piled high with tangy-smelling pork into my hands. Before letting go of it, she pinches the back of my hand, then adjusts the plate so that I feel something hard taped to the bottom it. It’s small and rectangular and feels plastic.

“The pork was going fast,” she says loudly. “Paul Labry told me to bring you a plate before we got down to the bone.” Jewel interposes herself between me and Caitlin, then starts talking to Caitlin

in a “girl talk” tone—probably to give me time to remove whatever it is she’s trying to pass me.

“Caitlin’s cool, Jewel,” I say softly. “What’s under the plate?”

Without breaking the rhythm of her conversation, the coroner laughs loudly and squeezes Caitlin’s arm, then pulls the two of us together and leans in as though dispensing romantic advice. “A tape of a voice memo Tim Jessup recorded on his cell phone right before he died. Shad has the phone. He has your cell records too. This case is getting crazy, Penn. You need to watch yourself.”

“You’re crazy, girl!” Caitlin says, playfully shoving Jewel’s shoulder. “But if this keeps up, I might consider moving back here.”

“You come on back!” cries Jewel. “We need you back here gettin’ on people’s case.” She backs away from us. “You two be talkin’ again, so you can share that plate!”

Jewel waves broadly, then makes her way back toward the barbecue tent. Two sheriff’s deputies standing in line watch as she approaches, and they don'’t take their eyes off her as she moves behind the serving table.

Caitlin grabs my arm and pulls me around some shrubs beside the pool. “I don'’t know what’s going on, but let’s get the hell out of here and see what we’ve got.”

Balancing the plate on my right hand, I put my left arm around Caitlin and walk toward the breezeway that leads to the hotel parking lot. Nearly everyone we pass speaks to me, and several call Caitlin by name. A local Realtor tries to stop me and talk about a zoning variance, but I plead official business and push on. The moment we get twenty yards of space around us, Caitlin says, “Is the tape in the freaking barbecue or what?”

“It’s taped to the bottom of the plate.”

“What kind of tape is it?”

“A minicassette, I think.”

“Old school. I have that kind of recorder at the office.”

“Kmart’s only a minute away.”

“Okay.” As we make our way through the crowded lot, Caitlin says, “If the tape is what Jewel had for you, then who’s the note in your pocket from?”

“Probably some nut job, if not the girl herself. There’s the car. Come on.”

Caitlin unlocks the car we drove here, a Corolla owned by the newspaper. Before we get in, I realize that if someone did follow us here, they could have planted a listening device in the car while we were gone. I feel like hammering my fist against the roof in frustration, but instead I take Caitlin by the upper arms, lean into her neck, and kiss her below the ear.