Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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“Is that really the point, Judge?”
I hear the clink of ice against glass, a hurried swallow.
“Judge, I have the publisher of the Natchez Examiner with me, and the events I described are all on videotape. She’s taping right this minute.”
“Christ on a crutch. What do you want me to do, counselor?”
“Call the police and have them come straight to Marston’s house and confiscate those files. And I’d like you to come with them. You might just prevent bloodshed.”
“I’ll do it, Mr. Cage. But you get your tail off Leo Marston’s property right this minute, before he puts a load of rock salt in your butt. Or worse.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I click End and touch Caitlin’s arm. “She’s sending the police.”
“They won’t make it in time. The gate’s closed, and they won’t be able to get through.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Make Marston want them to get here.”
She pulls free of my grip and bulls her way through the hedge. Seconds later, the sound of shattering glass reverberates across the floodlit lawn.
Leo goes rigid before the fireplace, his ears pricked. Caitlin’s rock smashed the window of another room, and he is unsure of what he heard.
Then another hundred-fifty-year-old pane smashes, this one less than ten feet from Marston. He stares at the broken window, looks back at the fireplace, then hurries out of the room.
Caitlin is standing in the drive like a pitcher on the mound, right arm cocked, a rock in her hand. She may not know what Leo is going after, but I do. And from the gallery Marston could pick her off firing from the waist.
I charge through the prickly hedge and run onto the lawn. “Get your ass under cover!”
Her cocked arm fires, and another pane shatters into irreparable shards. I spring the last few yards and grab her arm, dragging her toward a thicket of azaleas. Just as we plow into the bushes, the front door of Tuscany crashes open and Leo bellows into the night:
“Where are you, you gutless sons of bitches? Come out and fight like goddamn men!”
I have to give him credit. At this moment most Natchezians are huddled in their houses, terrified of a race war. For all Leo knows, a gang of crazed rioters smashed his windows and is now waiting to pick him off from the bushes. Yet there he stands, shotgun in hand, defending his castle like Horatius at the bridge. He shouts twice more, then fires blindly into the night. I cover Caitlin with my body as the shotgun booms through the trees like a cannon. After five shots Leo shouts a final curse, then goes back inside, slamming the door behind him.
God only knows what Maude and Livy are thinking. Surely one of them must have called the police and opened the gate by now.
“Get off,” Caitlin groans from beneath me. “I can’t breathe.”
I roll off and scrabble to my knees in the azaleas.
She smiles up at me, breathing fast and shallow. “That wasn’t exactly how I’ve pictured us getting horizontal together.”
“Me either.”
The smile vanishes. “Marston can still burn those files before the cops get here.”
“There’s nothing we can do to stop him.”
“Give me your gun.”
“No way, no how. You’re a menace.”
She sighs in frustration and rolls over to watch the mansion while we wait for the police.
Before long, three uniformed cops come racing up the driveway on foot. They rap on the great door, which Leo answers shouting at full volume, condemning the police department as a useless bunch of fools and high school dropouts. From their body language, the responding officers do not appear to be reacting favourably to his words. As he continues his tirade, two squad cars roar up the drive and stop before the front steps, which are bookended by Negro lawn jockey hitching posts. A black patrolman gets out of the first cruiser and opens his passenger door.
Circuit Judge Eunice B. Franklin emerges, looking like hell warmed over. She’s wearing boxy blue jeans, an Ole Miss sweatshirt, hair curlers tied beneath a blue scarf, and she looks pissed. I pull Caitlin to her feet and hurry toward the gallery. When we arrive, Leo is lambasting Judge Franklin in the same superior tone he used with the police. Franklin seems to be enduring it with remarkable equanimity.
When Leo recognizes me standing behind the judge, his face flushes bright red. There’s murder in his eyes, and everyone on the gallery sees it.
“Did you smash my windows, Cage?” he yells.
“Don’t say anything, counselor,” Judge Franklin orders me. She turns back to Marston. “Leo, the issue tonight is files. Did you remove any files from your office tonight and attempt to burn them?”
At last comprehension dawns in Marston’s eyes. “Did that bastard tell you that?”
Caitlin aims the video camera at Leo’s face. “I have it all on tape, Judge Franklin. You can watch it right now, if you’d like.”
Franklin looks back at Marston. “You want to rethink your answer, Leo?”
Marston draws himself up like a feudal lord being forced by a priest to deal civilly with serfs. “I brought some files home from my office. Old junk. Tax records, bad-debt files.”
Franklin nods patiently, but her jaw is set. “Then you won’t mind if these officers take them down to my chambers for safekeeping. I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding, but it’ll save you the trouble of hauling away the ashes.”
Leo blocks the door with his considerable bulk, his arms outstretched from post to post. “Eunice, I think you and I should have a private word.”
Franklin glances at the video camera. “Turn that off, Ms. Masters.”
“I’m sorry, Judge, but the First Amendment of the Constitution guarantees my right to do what I am doing now.”
Judges do not react well to defiance. Eunice Franklin reddens a shade, and for a moment I fear she is about to order Caitlin’s arrest. To my surprise, she turns to Marston and says, “Clear that door, Leo.”
Marston’s hard blue eyes lock onto Franklin’s. “Eunice, you’d better think about what—”
“Officer Washington,” she cuts in, “go in there and confiscate whatever files you find. Take them straight to my chambers.”
Two cops push past Marston, whose only choices are to stand aside or defy the orders of a judge by assaulting police officers. He stands aside, his face red with fury. Eunice Franklin will pay a heavy price for this, but my sympathy is limited. Dilemmas like these are the price of backroom politics. With a final savage glare in my direction, Marston stomps back into the dark reaches of his mansion.
Judge Franklin pokes me in the chest, her eyes cold. “I want you in my chambers at nine a.m., mister.” She points to Caitlin. “I want that videotape there as well.”
“Will Marston be there?” I ask.
“That’s not your concern.”
“Destroying evidence is a felony, Judge.”
Franklin’s lips tighten until all I can see is the spiderwork of lines around her mouth, the result of years of smoking cigarettes. As we stare at each other, a patrolwoman carries a charred box of files through the front door.
“Go home, Mr. Cage,” orders Judge Franklin. “And you will pay restitution for any physical damage to this property.”
I am about to follow her advice