Cemetery Road. Greg Iles
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The Chinese would move on to one of their alternate sites. Arkansas or Alabama.”
“Is the paperwork not fully completed? They’re breaking ground in less than an hour, for God’s sake.”
“That’s all for show. Gold shovels and glad-handing. The Chinese company has an office here and reps, but nothing’s final-final. The associated state projects are finishing the planning stage. The I-14 route is on the verge of final approval, but technically the mill is at binding letters of intent. There’s still due diligence to be done. If the Chinese really wanted to, they could fold up their tents and leave next week.”
Nadine sits back in her chair. “I’d say that’s a motive for murder.”
“I’m not sure how many people truly understand that risk at this point.”
“Does it matter? Anybody who fears the worst could have killed Buck. Even some hotheaded version of Dr. Bortles.”
“I guess so. Well, the powers that be will want this to go down as an accidental death. But it’ll be tough to hide. Buck has a massive skull wound, maybe from a rifle bullet, maybe a rock.”
Nadine is studying me as though trying to see behind my eyes. “What are you thinking, Marshall? I know you. You’re going to go out there and try to dig up some bones yourself, aren’t you?”
I take another long sip of coffee. “I’m not anxious to get my skull caved in. But Buck was right. Old B. L. C. Wailes wouldn’t have wasted time drawing maps of nothing. I think there are bones out there, thousands of them. The bones of people who were living in this county four millennia ago, and maybe five or six. Right where you and I grew up.”
Nadine steeples her fingers and smiles the way my favorite English teacher used to, as if she’s about to test me in some private way. “In a vacuum,” she intones, “I’d say that’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever heard. But the way things are now …” She sighs.
“Go on.”
“Bortles is an asshole, but he raised a real dilemma. What if you go out tonight and dig up some bones? You trace out the Woodhenge and uncover a major archaeological site. A new Poverty Point. Would you kill the paper mill deal to do that? Would you kill the future of this town to do it?”
There’s surprising passion in her voice. “Killing that mill deal wouldn’t kill the town.”
“Don’t be so sure.” She raises her right forefinger, and again I flash back to school. “The new white-flight neighborhoods in the eastern part of the county have brought in some money from Jackson, and there’s some smaller commercial activity going on—indie retail, like my store—and some light industry. But to really survive, Bienville has to have something like that paper mill. Hundreds of jobs that pay sixty or seventy grand, with good benefits. God knows how many ancillary jobs will be created. The construction alone will be a bonanza for this town. Then—”
I lift my right hand to stop her. “You’re right, no question. The bridge and the interstate alone mean hundreds of millions. Even the ancillary stuff …” I look up into her bright eyes. “They killed Buck, Nadine. You know? They murdered him.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Marshall?”
I sigh heavily. “Quinn Ferris thinks the Poker Club did it.”
“The venerable Bienville Poker Club,” Nadine whispers. She raises her hands and makes a mock show of reverence. “The descendants of the hallowed founders. I’d say Quinn’s instincts are dead-on, as usual.”
“I’m about to see most of them at the groundbreaking ceremony. I may try to talk to a few.”
The front bell rings again. Nadine looks over to see a familiar customer, an older lady, who walks to the mystery section. Turning back to me, she whispers, “What does Jet say about all this?”
“I haven’t spoken to Jet.”
She looks surprised. “Why not?”
“She’s out of town today, taking a deposition in that suit over rigged construction bids. She probably hasn’t even heard Buck’s dead.”
Nadine slowly shakes her head. “That’s going to hit her hard. But she’s going to have some ideas about who did it. She knows more about the Poker Club than we ever will.”
“Because she married into it,” I say in a sour voice. I look at my watch, then gulp the rest of my coffee. “I need to get moving if I’m going to make it.”
“You want a go cup?”
“No, thanks.” I start to stand, but Nadine reaches out and catches my right forearm, holding me in my seat.
“One second.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I see something in your eyes. Something I haven’t seen before. Not even when you talked about your divorce. Or … your son.”
A cold blade slices through my heart. “I’m okay.”
“Come on. This is me. When you came in, you said the river got to you this morning. Did it make you think about Adam? The day he drowned?”
God, this woman knows me. After a few seconds, I nod. “It’s like Buck’s death pulled a cork on something, and the past came rushing out. It feels like water rising over my head.”
She nods slowly. “Should you talk to somebody?”
“I’m talking to you.”
“A professional.”
“Come on. I haven’t talked to a shrink since I was fifteen.”
“Maybe you didn’t need to. Do you want to come back here after lunch?”
“No, I’m fine.” I move to get up again, but something holds me in my place. “I think how I feel has as much to do with my dad as Adam.”
“That was the start of your problems, right? Him blaming you for Adam’s death.”
“Yeah. And it was my fault, as much as something can be your fault when you’re fourteen. The thing is, after Dad stopped hunting for Adam’s body, he finally apologized. This was like four months after the memorial service. I’m pretty sure my mother made him do it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he didn’t mean it. Dad wasn’t sorry he’d blamed me. He’s blamed me every day since. That was the central fact of my life for three years. He never said it out loud again. But he never truly made eye contact with me after that day. Not unless I caught him staring at me when he thought I was preoccupied. And when I did catch him, I could read his mind like a neon sign blinking on his forehead.”
“Don’t say it, Marshall.”
“Why are you here? That’s what the sign said. Why are you here when he’s gone? Where’s the justice in that?”
“That’s your guilt talking,” Nadine insists. “You’re flagellating yourself. Your father’s a good man. He just couldn’t—”
“Sure, sure,” I say angrily. “A hero to millions. The Conscience of Mississippi, right? But to me? He was a living rebuke. Never mind that the tower climb could have killed Adam just as easily.”
Nadine takes my hands in hers. “Don’t you get it? This is why you’re back here. You didn’t come only because your mother needed you, or even because he’s sick. You came because you have to settle this between you. You have to forgive each other before he goes.”
I appreciate Nadine’s efforts, but very gently I remove my hands from hers. “That’s not going to happen. I’ve been alone with him several times now, hard as that is, and he hasn’t said one word about it. He just sits there and yells at the television. The news, of course.”