Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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the others, was billed at eight hundred dollars per day.
After hearing the details of our situation, the senior member of the detail suggested the following plan. One operative should remain with my mother and Annie at all times, another with my father, and one with me. The fourth would sleep at the hotel for six hours, then relieve one of the other men, beginning a continuous rotation. I agreed, and chose Daniel Kelly as my guard.
After my interview at the police station, Kelly and I stopped by the offices of the Examiner, where we found Caitlin doing her best to handle a barrage of phone calls from other newspapers. She stopped working long enough to tell me that her father had called from Richmond and demanded to know what the hell she thought she was up to, then ordered her aboard the first Virginia-bound aircraft leaving Mississippi. Caitlin told him he had better get ready to mount a libel defense, because she was sticking by her story, and if he fired her, he should prepare to read further installments of the Payton story in the Washington Post. I didn’t envy Mr. Masters. Caitlin had been preparing for this day for a long time.
Thirty minutes before the courthouse closed, Leo Marston filed suit against myself and the Natchez Examiner for a grand total of five million dollars, his complaint drafted in record time by his junior law partner, Blake Sims. Actually, they filed two separate suits—one for slander and one for libel—neatly severing my fate from that of the Examiner, which, as part of a media group, will have a battery of attorneys on retainer, many of them First Amendment specialists. A deputy served me with the papers just as our family was leaving the motel for dinner at the Shoney’s Restaurant across the street.
I invited the Argus men to eat with us, but they took their jobs too seriously for that. Two stood in the front parking lot near their cars, like businessmen shooting the breeze after an early dinner, while Daniel Kelly covered the rear entrance. I hadn’t felt that safe in a long time. The Argus men made quite an impression on Annie too. She’d spent most of her waking hours since the fire on my mother’s lap, but during dinner she began to loosen up, using the Shoney’s crayons to play each of us in games of tic-tac-toe.
Ruby’s death hung over the adults like a pall, but we tried to focus on the good times we’d had with her, which were countless, as they spanned thirty-five years. My father had stopped by Ruby’s house earlier to give her husband, Mose—a retired pulpwood cutter—a substantial check and a gallon of Wild Turkey. They talked for half an hour, shared some whiskey, and Dad left the house wondering how long the old man would survive without Ruby around to take care of him.
Caitlin’s articles had upset my mother, but Marston’s lawsuit terrified her. I tried to reassure her by explaining that my intent had been to force just such a lawsuit, but she refused to be mollified. Like most people who have lived any length of time in Natchez, my mother believes that Leo Marston is untouchable, and that anyone who tries to hurt him is doomed to failure or worse.
I kept the good news of the day to myself. Just after noon Special Agent Peter Lutjens had called the motel from a pay phone in McLean, Virginia, and asked me to call him back from a pay phone. When I did, he told me he’d been stewing about the Payton case and had decided to try to photocopy the sealed FBI file. He still had his security pass to the proper archive. The problem was the staff. The “friend” who had reported his initial inquiry to Portman worked every day but Sunday, so Sunday was Lutjens’s only shot. And he was due to report in Fargo on Monday. I thanked him profusely and tried to reassure him that what he was doing would ultimately serve the Bureau, not undermine it. He told me he’d call me Sunday if he wasn’t in jail, and hung up.
When we got back to the motel after supper, I found two old-fashioned handwritten messages waiting: “Call Livy” and “Call Ike.” I had no idea what Livy could want, other than to curse me for vilifying her father in the newspaper, but I called Tuscany anyway. The number of the Marston mansion hadn’t changed since we were kids, but the fact that it had remained in my memory for twenty years probably said something about my buried feelings for Livy. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as the phone rang, but I resolved to tell Leo to kiss my ass if he answered.
“Marston residence.” A maid.
“Yes, could I speak to Liv, please?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Her husband.”
“Just a moment, Mr. Sutter.”
After a few moments Livy came on the line and said, “John?”
“It’s Penn.”
“Oh. Just a minute.” Her voice was under tight control. I heard the clacking of heels on hardwood, then her voice again, more relaxed. “I’m glad you called back. How’s Annie doing?”
“Better. Look, I know you must be upset about the paper.”
A strange laugh. “Things are pretty crazy around here. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. But I know why you’re doing it.”
I said nothing.
“Penn … hurting my father won’t make up for the years we lost.”
“I know that.”
“I hope so. Because I called to tell you that, as bad as all this is, I don’t want to let him come between us again.”
We both waited in the vacuum of the open line, each hoping the other could somehow bridge the chasm my accusations had opened between us. I imagined her sitting alone in the Italianate palace that had sheltered her throughout her childhood. She had often portrayed it to me as a prison, but I never bought into this. She wouldn’t have traded Tuscany for anything.
“Livy?”
“I’m here.”
“You haven’t asked where I got my information about your father. You haven’t protested his innocence.”
“Of course I haven’t. It’s ridiculous. My father murdering a black man? He’s probably the least prejudiced man in this town.”
“Del Payton’s death may not have been a race murder. Tell me something, Livy. What would you do if you found out your father ordered the burning of my parents’ house?”
“That’s insane.”
“Just pretend it was true. What would you do?”
“Well, obviously, I’d be the first one to call the police.”
Maybe she didn’t even know she was lying. “I need to go, Livy.”
“Can we see each other tonight?”
I couldn’t believe she wanted to be within ten miles of me after the newspaper story. “Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
Images from the day before filled my mind: Livy floating naked in the pool, kissing me passionately as we sank slowly through the green water, her thigh pressing against me. “We’d better play it by ear. There’s a lot going on right now.”
“That’s all the more reason to stay close. Just remember what I said about my father. I meant it.”
“I will.”
I hung up and dialed Ike’s cell phone before thoughts of Livy could overwhelm me. I wanted to call her back and say, “Pick me up in twenty minutes.” But the past had finally caught up with us, and Ike the Spike was growling in my ear.
“Meet me where I wanted to last night,” he said, meaning the warehouse in the industrial park by the river. “One hour.”
“What about?”
“What about? About whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing, man. This town’s going crazy. One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Damn straight you will.”
I’ve been sweating in the dark warehouse for twenty minutes, breathing the stink of fertilizer