Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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to call Peter Lutjens at his home in Washington. His phone rings five times before he answers, but his voice is wide awake.
“Peter, this is Penn Cage.”
Silence.
“I had no idea this thing would boomerang on you like this. I am so sorry.”
“Shit. I don’t blame you. I gave you the list, didn’t I?
“Peter, if there’s anything I can do—”
“Can you get Portman fired?”
“I don’t—” Suddenly an idea hits me. “Maybe I can.”
“What?”
“Peter, have you wondered why Portman would punish you so severely for what you did?”
“He hates you, that’s why.”
“It’s the Payton file. Portman flew to Huntsville, Texas, tonight to warn me off the Payton case. And asking about the Payton file is what got you into trouble. Right?”
“Yes.”
“I think Portman is concealing some illegality about that case. If he is, and you can find out what it is—”
“Stop right there. Are you suggesting that I go back and try to look at that file myself?”
“Have they barred you from the building?”
“No, but—”
“When do you leave for Fargo?”
“Don’t even say that word, goddamn it. And I’m not losing my pension for you. Cowboy time is over.”
“Peter, if that file is damaging enough, it might get Portman thrown out of the directorship. It might buy your old job back.”
“I’ve got a wife and kids. And I’m not out to trash the Bureau.”
“I’ll shut up, then. I really called to apologize anyway.”
“That makes me feel so much better.”
The phone goes dead in my hand.
Caitlin puts the phone back between the beds for me. “He wouldn’t try it?”
“No.”
“Let’s just forget it all for tonight, then.”
She picks up the remote control and flips through the channels, finally settling on a showing of To Catch a Thief. Grace Kelly and Cary Grant zoom across the screen in a vintage sports car.
“Okay with you?”
Staring at Grace Kelly, the coolly luminous Princess Grace, I recall my earlier thought that she and Livy Marston look more than a little alike. The similarities go deeper than looks too, for despite her cool exterior, Grace Kelly had a dark and promiscuous sexual history.
“It’s fine,” I say absently.
Caitlin turns up the sound, and we watch from our chairs while Annie snores away on the bed. My mind is so full I cannot think clearly, but one image is predominant: Livy Marston in the Baton Rouge airport, seemingly as beautiful and untouched as she looked at seventeen. But when is anything ever what it seems? As beautiful as Livy was, she was not untouched. No girl that radiant survives adolescence without attracting the attention of every male in the three grades above her. And nature being what it is (and the seventies what they were), sex usually follows. I didn’t understand this so clearly then, of course. At sixteen, though I was as perpetually and mindlessly horny as the rest of my compatriots, I was also ready to place some lucky (or unlucky) girl on a pedestal of mythic proportions. When, after a showing of Looking for Mr. Goodbar, Livy tearfully confessed to me how she’d lost her virginity—a date rape by a senior with whom I played football—she installed herself on that pedestal with the permanence of a pietà.
Once she occupied this place of reverence in my psyche, it became impossible for me to see her clearly. Her public image was flawless. Queen of the elite private school in a city with five high schools, she was wanted by every male student in the city—not merely lusted after, but actually worshiped—and thus floated above the usual tortured angst of high school life. What I didn’t understand then was that, to a girl like that, the most exciting company would be guys who didn’t care what she said or thought, and who treated her accordingly.
Everyone knew Livy Marston occasionally went out with boys from the public schools—rough, handsome guys who straddled the line between “hoods” and outright criminals—some of whom were so dumb as to boggle the mind. It was hard to imagine what Livy could find to talk about with these guys. What I didn’t understand then—or was too afraid to admit—was that she was not interested in talking to them.
It was something of a tradition for St. Stephens boys to sleep with girls from the public schools, who we thought to be “looser” than the ones we saw in class every day. Whether this was true or not, I’m still not sure. Some public school girls defended their virtue like Roman vestals, while many St. Stephens girls led active romantic lives, to say the least. In any case, it was understood, according to a time-honored double standard, that boys slept around as a rite of passage into adulthood. When girls did it, they entered that unjustified but unforgiving territory known as sluthood. When Livy Marston did it, she confused everybody. To the point that no one really believed she was doing it. Everyone thought she was putting on a show. Acting wild. Driving her uptight father crazy. Now, of course, I understand it perfectly. In the time-honored tradition of Southern women of a certain class, Livy was taking her pleasures downward.
When she opened to me like a flower in the spring of our senior year, I accepted her attentions like a divine gift. For girls that age, having sex is usually so tied up in the desire to be accepted by peers that true motives are impossible to fathom. But for Livy Marston acceptance was not an issue. When she gave herself, it was because she wanted to, and that knowledge immeasurably dilated the experience. That her skills did not seem virginal I wrote off to her being as gifted sexually as she was in so many other ways. I submerged my self into hers, basked in the glow of being seen with her, of being known to be loved by her. I cared as little for what lay ahead of me as for what lay behind, and so set myself up for the fall of my life.
“Penn? Are you awake?”
I blink and look over at Caitlin. She’s watching me from her chair, her face flickering in the television light.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing. Everything.”
An enigmatic smile. “Livy Marston?”
“God, no,” I lie, thinking that Caitlin was absolutely right when she told me she had lethal instincts.
“I’m going to bed,” she says, rising from her chair. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”
I get up to walk her to her room, amazed by how tired I feel. Witnessing death up close saps you like a day under the sun. It also stokes the sexual fires, urging toward procreation. As we stand outside her door, Caitlin looks up at me, her face tilted perfectly for a kiss, and I realize again how beautiful she is. But I no longer see her as I did last night in the restaurant. I’m looking through the distorting memory of Livy Marston. Caitlin lowers her chin, and the moment passes.
“What do you think Dwight Stone knows?” she asks.
“More than we do. Maybe he knows everything.”
She opens the door and slips through without looking back, leaving me alone with my ghosts.
Crested Butte, Colorado, is a tiny village nestled nine thousand feet in the Rocky Mountains, twenty-five miles from Aspen as the crow flies, three hours by car. The easiest way to get there is to fly into Gunnison and drive north up the valley for half