Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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you?”
He barks a laugh. “I’d be surprised if the damn thing exists at all.”
“It exists, all right,” I tell him. “Forty-four volumes. The question is, what’s in it?”
“Forty-three volumes of nothing, and my final report.”
“What was in your final report?”
He sighs and looks past us, to the front windows of his cabin. “I can’t tell you that.”
Caitlin glances at me, her lower lip pinned by her teeth, her gesture of concentration. “The file was ostensibly sealed for reasons of national security,” she says. “Can you give us any hint as to what the Payton case could have to do with national security?”
Stone taps his fingers nervously on the arm of his chair. “Del Payton was killed five weeks after Martin Luther King was assassinated, and three weeks before Robert Kennedy. Have you considered that?”
Caitlin and I share a look.
“Are you saying Payton’s death was somehow connected to those assassinations?” I ask.
“Kings climb to eminence over men’s graves, Mr. Cage.”
“Who said that?”
“A very wise man.”
“Who is the king you’re referring to?”
“I’m just quoting an old poet, son.”
“Last night I was threatened by the present director of the FBI. Why should John Portman be concerned with a thirty-year-old civil rights murder?”
“Why do you assume Payton’s death was a civil rights murder?”
At this echo of Ike Ransom, my heart twitches in my chest. “You’re saying it wasn’t?”
“I’m just thinking aloud.”
“Have you ever met Portman?” I ask, my pulse racing.
“I met him.” Stone’s distaste is plain. “He joined the Bureau a few years before I got out.”
“What did you think of him as an FBI agent?”
“He was a brown-nosing, manipulative, Ivy League rich boy with the moral sense of a cat. A good little German with obsessive ambition. After seven years in the field they promoted him to the Puzzle Palace.”
“The Puzzle Palace?” Caitlin asks.
“The Hoover Building. FBI Headquarters. The guys who work there call it SOG. For ‘Seat of Government.’ It is the perfect environment for devious, back-stabbing sons of bitches. I apologize for the profanity. I forgot about your little girl.”
Annie didn’t hear him. She’s busy examining a rock collection displayed in a glass-box end table. If she had heard him, she would have yelled, Mr. Stone said a bad word!
“Did you keep any personal notes from the Payton investigation?” I ask, recalling the habits of that cop Stone brought to mind a moment ago. “Something you didn’t turn in to your superiors, maybe?”
His gaze wanders to the rear window, where the stream rushes along the rocks. “You want to learn what I learned back in 1968?” He looks back at me, his eyes burning into mine as though striving to communicate something he cannot say aloud. “Do what I did. Talk to the eyewitnesses. Have you done that? Have you talked to the eyewitnesses?”
I admit that I haven’t.
“You didn’t convict Arthur Lee Hanratty by sitting in your office, did you? Pound the bricks. Talk to everybody who’ll talk and pressure those who won’t. That’s what we did back then. And we learned the truth.”
This statement hangs in the air like a volatile gas.
“Then why didn’t anyone go to jail?” Caitlin asks softly.
Stone’s jaw muscles clench in an effort to control his rage. “For the same reason this country is going to hell in a handbasket. And don’t ask me that again.”
“What was your partner’s name?”
“We didn’t have partners,” he says, his eyes still on me. “Not like municipal police. I worked a lot with Henry Bookbinder. He died of cirrhosis back in seventy-four.”
“I know you’re fond of quotes. Have you heard this one? ‘You yourself are guilty of a crime when you do not punish crime.’”
Stone’s right hand squeezes into a fist. “I think your half hour’s up, pardner.”
“May I ask you one more question?”
He stands and stretches his back muscles. “What is it?”
“Do you remember a cop named Ray Presley?”
Just before Stone’s eyes glass over, I glimpse an anger even more personal than that which I have seen to this point.
“I remember him,” he says in a flat voice.
“Do you think the police made an honest attempt to investigate the case?”
“That’s two questions.” Stone turns to Annie, who’s now touching a clay pot that looks like Pueblo work. “How’d you like that hot chocolate, little darling?”
“Mmmm. It was great!”
He walks to the door, leaving us little choice but to follow. I take Annie’s hand and lead her after him.
“Sorry you folks had to come all this way for nothing,” he says, opening the door to the dark vista of Gothic Mountain rising above the mesa. “Rain coming. That’s October for you.”
We’re on the porch now. The sibilant sound of the Slate beckons from the edges of the cabin.
“I don’t think it was for nothing,” Caitlin says, turning to Stone with a look of absolute frankness. “I think something evil happened in Natchez in 1968. I think you know what it was. I realize we sort of ambushed you here, and I apologize for that. But we want justice for Del Payton. I think you do too.” She takes a card from her pocket and passes it to Stone. “You’re going to do a lot of thinking after we leave. You can reach us at this number.”
His jaw tightens as he examines the card. “You’re a goddamn reporter?”
“A publisher. An honest one.”
He looks at me, his eyes brimming with outrage.
“She won’t print a word you said,” I assure him. “She won’t even print your name. She prints nothing at all until this whole mess is resolved.”
Stone shifts his gaze to Caitlin.
“I want the truth,” she says. “The truth, and justice. Nothing else. Thank you for your time, Agent Stone.”
As we walk to the Cherokee, he stands in his doorway looking—for the first time since we’ve seen him—a little unsure of himself. It strikes me that he liked Caitlin using his old rank. Despite all his deep-rooted anger, Stone is still proud to have been an FBI agent.
Unlocking the door, I hear the scuff of boots behind me. Stone has come down off the porch. He puts his right arm on my shoulder in a fatherly way and looks into my eyes.
“You’ve got too much to lose to dig into this mess, son. The world has already changed too much for it to make any difference.”
“I don’t agree.”
A strange recognition lights his eyes, and I am suddenly sure that in me he sees a shadow of the man he was years ago. “I’d like to give you one more quote,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”
“Whatever.”
“The hour of justice does not strike on the dials of this world.”
I