Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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everybody in the place stare at you.”
“I’m pretty used to the fishbowl lifestyle now.”
“Natchez is a lot smaller bowl than Houston. Even small waves seem big here.”
“Come off it. A week from now, who’ll give a damn about that article?”
“Everybody, ace. How much do you know about the BASF deal?”
I shrug. “A little.”
“That chemical plant means salvation to a lot of people. Not just blue-collar either. These doctors need patients with private insurance to keep the gravy train running. Everybody’s on their best behaviour, trying to sell Natchez as a Southern utopia. We’re pushing our opera festival, the literary celebration, the hot-air balloon race. And this morning you tossed a toad right into the punch bowl.”
I glance around the room and instantly find what I’m looking for: Caitlin Masters, deep in conversation with two older men. “You see that girl?”
Sam cranes his neck. “Caitlin Masters?”
“You know her?”
“I know she’s fine as wine and worth a few million bucks.”
“She printed a little more than I intended her to.”
“Fess up, man. You were just being you. At your pompous best.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
“Speaking of your old man, I’m surprised he came.”
Before I can ask what Sam means, someone taps me on the shoulder. Sam hides a smile behind his drink. I turn and look into the luminous green eyes of Caitlin Masters.
“Are you going to slug me?” she asks.
“If you were male, I might consider it.”
“I know I angled that story in a way you didn’t expect.”
“Angled it? Try sensationalized it. Remember the words ‘off-the-record’?”
Her lips part slightly in surprise. “I honoured that request.”
“About the Hanratty execution. But as for Del Payton—” I force myself to shut up, not wanting to argue the point in front of a crowd.
“Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” she suggests. “I’d like to help you understand why I did what I did.”
I want to say no, but just as yesterday, something about Caitlin Masters makes me want to see her again. The jade dress is linen, and it lies against her skin like powder. She is a study in elegance and self-possession.
“Is that a no?” she asks.
“Once burned, twice shy,” Sam chimes in.
“I like Wilde’s quote better,” Caitlin rejoins.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“The burnt child loves the fire.”
She winks at me, then turns on her heel and walks away, ignoring the gazes of half the people in the room, who have watched our exchange with intense interest.
“You sure know how to liven up a town,” Sam says, his eyes glued to Caitlin’s retreating form. “And she knows how to fill out a dress. A shiksa from dreamland, that one.”
I step hard on his toe. “You already married one of those, remember? What were you saying about my dad?”
“I’m surprised he came, is all.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure Judge Marston is on the guest list.”
I feel a sliding sensation in my stomach. A quick survey of the room yields no sign of either Marston or my father. Squeezing Sam’s shoulder, I push off through the crowd. Natchez is a funny town. People involved in running feuds frequently socialize together. Men who’ve gutted each other in business disputes leave their rancor at the doors of certain seasonal soirées, and it’s not unheard of to see a woman who has caught her husband in bed with someone else pouring punch for that woman—or man—at a party.
Leo Marston and Tom Cage are different. The judge once made it his mission to try to ruin my father’s medical career, and Dad hates him with a fury that will brook no false bonhomie. He behaves, in fact, as though the judge were dead. Since Dad rarely goes anywhere other than his office or the hospitals, he rarely crosses paths with Marston, making that illusion easy to maintain. But if Sam Jacobs is correct, that might change tonight. Dad has already drunk one bourbon, probably two by now. If Marston provokes him, Dad is capable of swinging on him. With that thought my blood pressure plummets, because with it comes the memory that my father is carrying a gun tonight.
Catching sight of a silver head a few inches taller than the others near the bar, I move quickly forward, take Dad’s arm, and pull him into the kitchen. It’s empty save for a black maid, who smiles and nods when she sees us.
“What’s going on?” He takes a sip of his bourbon and water sans water.
“Judge Marston’s on the guest list. He may already be here.”
Dad blinks. Then his cheeks turn red. “Where is he?”
“Dad, this isn’t the time or the place.”
“Why not? I’ve avoided that SOB too many years already.” His breathing is shallow, and his motions have a jerky quality that might be the result of anger or alcohol.
“That’s the whiskey talking. You’re a hundred percent right about Marston, but if you talk to him now, you’re going to hit him.” Or shoot him. “And I’ll have to spend all my time at home defending you on a battery charge. That’s after I bail you out.”
“What do you want me to do? Leave?”
“Considering what we have to do in the next few days, I think you should.”
That brutal reminder of the blackmail situation gets his attention.
“What about talking to Mackey?” he asks.
“I already did. And this isn’t the place to discuss it.”
His eyes flit back and forth; then he dashes his plastic cup against the stainless steel sink. “Goddamn it. Let’s go.”
“Stay close to me.”
I take his forearm, lead him into the hallway, and freeze. Twenty yards away, in the open front door, stand Judge Marston and his wife, Maude. The odds of getting through that door without anyone making a smart remark are zero. I drag Dad back toward the kitchen.
“Where the hell are we going now?”
“The back door’s closer to where I parked.”
“You saw Marston, didn’t you?”
He tries to pull free. I tighten my grip and hustle him toward the back door, knowing that if he really tries to resist me, I won’t be able to stop him.
“Goddamn it, I’m not running!”
“That’s right, you’re not. You’re taking the advice of your lawyer.”
“You’re not licensed in this state.”
“Actually, I took the Mississippi bar exam when I graduated, and I’ve paid the licensing fee every year.”
He is so distracted by this information that he allows himself to be pulled through a side garden to the street.
“Here’s the car.” I unlock my mother’s Maxima—the damaged BMW having been consigned to the garage—and practically push him into the driver’s seat.
He looks up at me, eyes anxious. “You felt Mackey out?”
“Yes.