The Quiet Game. Greg Iles
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to hear it. Justice should be better served than it was in Natchez in 1968, but this isn’t some old trial with an all-white hung jury. This is an unsolved murder. A capital murder. No defendant. No suspects, as far as I know. No crime scene. Old or dead witnesses—”
“Nobody said winning a Pulitzer is easy.”
A light clicks on in my head. “Ah. That’s the plan? Winning a Pulitzer before you’re thirty?”
She gives me a sly smile. “Before I’m twenty-nine. That’s the plan.”
“God help this town.”
Her laugh is full and throaty, one I’d expect from an older woman. “Did you know that some of the Sovereignty Commission files are going to remain sealed?”
“No.”
“Forty-two of them. Some of them on major politicians. I heard Trent Lott’s was one of them, but that turned out to be wrong.”
“That’s no surprise. A lot of the most sensitive files were destroyed years ago.”
“Why haven’t you explored any of this in your novels?”
“A sense of loyalty to the place that bore me, I suppose. A lot of people would have to die before I could write a book like that.”
“So, until then you write fluff and take the easy money?”
“I don’t write fluff.”
She holds up her hands in contrition. “I know. I did a Nexis search on you. Publishers Weekly named False Witness the fourth-best legal thriller ever written.”
“After what?”
“Anatomy of a Murder, The Caine Mutiny, and Presumed Innocent.”
“That’s pretty good company,” I murmur, painfully aware that False Witness was four books ago.
“Yes, but it just seems so obvious that you should be writing about all this. Write what you know! You know?”
Caitlin picks up the check and walks over to the cash register, her movements fluid and graceful despite the phenomenal energy that animates her. The restaurant is empty now but for the cashier and our waitress, who chooses this moment to come forward with her copy of False Witness. I take the book, open it to the flyleaf, and accept the pen she offers.
“Would you like me to personalize it?”
“Wow, that would be great. Um, to Jenny. That’s me.”
“No last name?”
“Just Jenny would be cool.”
I write: Jenny, I enjoyed meeting you. Penn Cage.
She blushes as she takes back the book, then glances at Caitlin, who stands waiting for me. “I’d love to talk to you sometime,” she says in a quavering voice. “Ask you some questions, maybe.”
I recognize the nervous tones of an aspiring writer. “I’ll be in again. A friend of mine owns the place.”
“Wow, okay. Thanks.”
I join Caitlin as she walks out onto the brightly lit street.
“Did you get enough for your piece?”
“More than enough.” She tucks her copy of False Witness under one arm and buttons her jacket. “AP will probably pick it up, and it’ll be reprinted all over the South. They like fluff as much as anybody.”
I sigh wearily.
“I’m joking, Penn. God, take it easy, would you?”
“I guess I’m a little tense.”
“A little?” She takes False Witness in both hands, then bends at the waist and touches the book flat against the sidewalk, displaying a limberness that makes my back hurt and draws looks from several passersby. “Mmm, I needed that.”
“If I tried that, they’d hear tendons popping across the river.”
She smiles. “Not if you practiced. We should do this again. You can be deep background on Southern crime and psychology.”
I start to decline, then surprise myself by saying, “I might be able to help you with that.”
Her eyes sparkle with pleasure. “I’ll call you. And I’m sorry again about the airplane. Tell Annie I said hello.”
She holds out her hand and I take it, not thinking anything of it and so being all the more surprised by the shock I feel. When our eyes meet, we recognize something in each other that neither expects and both quickly look away from.
“The story will probably run Wednesday in the Southern Life section,” she says in a flustered voice, and awkwardly releases my hand. “I’ll mail some copies to your parents. I’m sure your mom still clips everything about you.”
“Absolutely.”
Caitlin Masters looks at me once more, then turns and walks quickly to a green Miata parked across the street with its top down. I am acutely aware of her physical presence, even across the street, and inexplicably glad that she suggested another lunch. With that gladness comes a rush of guilt so strong that it nauseates me. Seven months ago I was standing at my wife’s deathbed, then her coffin. Seven seconds ago I felt something for another woman. This small and natural response causes me more guilt than sleeping with a woman out of physical necessity—which I have not yet done. Because what I felt was more than physical. A glacier consumes whole forests by inches. As small as it was, that glimmer of feeling is absolute proof that someone else will one day occupy the place Sarah held in my life.
I feel like a traitor.
My father wakes me by slapping a newspaper against my forehead. After I rub the sleep from my eyes, I see my own face staring up from the front page of the Natchez Examiner, above the fold. They’ve scanned my most recent author photo and blown it up to “this man assassinated the president” size. The headline reads: PRODIGAL SON RETURNS HOME.
“The goddamn phone hasn’t stopped ringing,” Dad growls. “Everybody wants to know why my son is disparaging his hometown.”
Beneath the author photo is a montage of smaller shots, like a family album: me as a lanky kid with Dad’s arm around my shoulders, printed in a Father’s Day issue in 1968; as a high school baseball player; as the flag runner in the annual Confederate pageant; my Ole Miss graduation photo. I quickly scan the columns, recognizing most of what I said yesterday, laid out in surprisingly faithful prose.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Have you been in Houston so long you’ve forgotten how things are here? Bill Humphreys said you set back thirty years of good race relations.”
“I didn’t say anything you haven’t said a hundred times in our kitchen.”
“The newspaper isn’t our kitchen!”
“Come on, Dad. This is nothing.”
He shakes his head in amazement. “Turn the page, hotshot. You’ll see something.”
When I turn the page, my breath catches in my throat.
The banner headline reads: 30 YEARS LATER “RACIST COWARDS” STILL WALK STREETS. My stomach flips over. Underneath the headline is a photo of a scorched Ford Fairlane with a blackened corpse seated behind the wheel. That picture never ran in the Natchez Examiner in 1968. Caitlin Masters must have dug up an old crime-scene photo somewhere.
“Jesus,” I whisper.
“Harvey