Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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dark line of the levee, waiting for the headlights of Ike’s cruiser.
I am unarmed but not unprotected. Daniel Kelly is covering me. After asking four times if I really trust Ike Ransom, Kelly parked his rental car behind the warehouse and told me to forget he was there. I parked the BMW out front so that Ike would see it when he drove up.
What I take for the sound of another tugboat suddenly resolves into a car engine. A set of headlights descends the levee, pulls into the parking lot of the warehouse, and stops beside my car.
It’s Ike’s cruiser.
He gets out, his brown uniform looking black under the single security light, and walks towards the warehouse door. Halfway there he stops, turns, and watches the levee for nearly a minute. Maybe he senses Kelly’s presence. Whatever the reason, he resumes walking toward me. When he’s ten yards away, I step into the light, holding both hands in plain view.
Ike draws his pistol faster than I would have believed possible, recognizing me just as the barrel lines up with my chest. He quickens his step and shoves me back into the shadows.
“You ought to know better than that,” he mutters.
“Why are you so jumpy?”
The whites of his eyes flick left and right in the darkness. “You ain’t jumpy? After somebody burned down your house and took your kid?”
“Who set that fire, Ike? Who took my daughter? Ray Presley?”
“Could have been.” He holsters his pistol. “But I don’t know for sure. Not yet.”
“Why are we here?”
“So you can tell me what the hell you think you’re doing in the paper. You crazy? Making statements like that?”
“You’re the one who told me Marston was guilty.”
“Jesus. Is that the way you did it in Houston? Shoutin’ shit in the papers before you got any proof?”
“Take it easy. Everything’s under control.”
“Under control? Shooting your mouth off about local law enforcement coming forward?”
“I’m pursuing this the way I think best. As far as the newspaper story goes, I wanted Marston to sue me, and the story accomplished that.”
“You what?”
“I wanted the right to request everything from personal papers to phone records from Marston under the rules of discovery.”
A gleam of recognition. “That lawsuit means you can ask for Marston’s personal shit? And get it?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay … maybe you ain’t crazy. You get the judge’s legal files, you’re liable to find all kinds of illegal shit.”
“Marston’s legal files are protected under client confidentiality rules. But everything else is fair game.”
“How long you got to answer his suit? At least thirty days, right? That should give you plenty of time for fishing.”
“I’m going to file my answer tomorrow.”
His mouth drops open. “Why you gonna do that?”
“By proceeding aggressively, I force Marston to conclude that I either have evidence in my possession or that I know people willing to come forward and testify against him.”
“But you don’t.”
“Don’t be so sure. I’m building a case.”
Ike’s eyes narrow to slits. “What you talking about? What kind of case? You holding back on me?”
“What if I am? You’ve been holding back on me from the start.”
He raises a warning finger but says nothing, and instead begins a staring contest. His bloodshot eyes are so jerky that he can’t focus in one direction long, and he soon looks away.
“What are you taking, Ike? Speed? What?”
“I take me a drink now and then. So what? Have you talked to Stone again?”
“Yes, but he’s just like you. Scared to tell what he knows.”
“I told you, man, I know Marston done it, but I don’t know why.”
“How do you know, Ike? How can you know he did it if you don’t know why?”
He grunts in the dark. “I know what I know. Why’d you slam Portman in the paper? You go pissing off the head of the FBI, you’re asking for some serious payback.”
“I did it to protect myself and my family. That newspaper story threw a lot of light on Portman. On me too. It makes it harder for him to retaliate.”
“Yeah? I heard somebody tried to poison Ray Presley. Who the hell you think did that?”
“I figured Marston ordered it. You think it was Portman?”
“Sure as hell wasn’t the tooth fairy.” Ike scrapes the tip of a boot along the cement floor of the warehouse. “Stone say anything about surveillance?”
“Why?”
“There’s somebody watching me.”
A shiver runs along my forearms. “How long?”
“I picked him up today, but he could have been there longer.”
“Stone’s under FBI surveillance himself. He thinks Caitlin and I are too. Phones, the works. But why would the FBI be watching you?”
“Maybe ’cause of your damn newspaper article.”
“I didn’t mention your name. Why did you warn me away from the FBI? Have you tried to talk to them about the Payton case before?”
“Say what?” He takes out a cigarette and taps it against his palm but does not light it. “Why don’t you focus on some shit that’ll get you somewhere? Like Marston’s papers. There’s bound to be something in there to prosecute him on. He’s had his hands in all kinds of shit for years. I mean, who cares what he goes down for, ’long as he rots in Parchman.”
“I care. To get out from under this slander charge, I’ve got to prove Marston guilty of murder. Not campaign finance fraud or any other bullshit. Murder. Do you comprehend that?”
Instead of answering, Ike flips open his lighter, ignites it, and puts the flame to the tip of his cigarette. As the orange glow illuminates his face, something incomprehensible happens. The flame reaches toward me as though sucked by a wind, and Ike slams his shoulder into my chest, punching the air out of my lungs and knocking me to the cement floor.
As he lands on top of me, gunfire erupts outside the warehouse and echoes through the metal building. Two shots, I think. Then a third, the sound quick and flat.
“Get off,” I grunt, unable to draw breath with Ike on top of me.
He rolls off and up into a kneeling position, his pistol pointed through the warehouse door.
“What happened?” I ask.
“There’s two guns out there. One silenced.”
“I’ve got a man out there, Ike. Maybe one of the guns was his.”
He whips his head around. “What man?”
“A private security guy. From Houston.”
He peers into the darkness the way he must have done in Vietnam, with absolute concentration. “I can’t see shit,” he hisses. “But some lardass ex-cop ain’t gonna help us one bit, I know that.”
“He’s not what you think.”
After a minute of silence, he works his way toward the edge of the door.
“What