Cemetery Road. Greg Iles
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good. And once Buck saw that Wailes map, nothing was going to stop him from digging.”
“And a week ago, the county conveniently finished tearing down the old factory. Even the parking lot, right?”
“Yep. Of course, no one was going to give him legal permission to dig there. The Chinese won’t either, once all the papers go through.”
“And soon there’ll be a billion-dollar paper mill sitting on top of it. So he did it guerrilla style.” Nadine smiles with fond admiration. “Who bailed him out of jail? I’m guessing you.”
“I should have left him there. Maybe he’d still be alive.”
She sips her tea and checks on the French tourists. “So why hasn’t the state come in and roped off the site?”
“Normally they would. But that mill—plus the interstate and the new bridge to service it—is going to transform all of southwest Mississippi. It’s like the Nissan plant going to Canton. The goddamn governor is going to be out there in an hour blessing the ground. Trump’s commerce secretary is flying in for a photo op, for God’s sake. In a perfect world, MDAH would have shut it down yesterday, if not over the weekend. Buck’s case was very strong. As I wrote in the article, a lot of archaeologists believe Poverty Point was a pre-pottery culture. That its builders only used carved stone bowls obtained from other tribes. But the potsherds Buck found help support the theory that Poverty Point was the original pottery-making center of the Lower Mississippi Valley. There’s no tempering material mixed into the clay of the fragments he found. He also found drilled beads that match Poverty Point artifacts, as well as what are called Pontchartrain projectiles. He had no doubt about what he’d discovered. But a boatload of academics could be hired to refute his assertions. So. While the Department of Archives and History may have the legal power to act in this situation, we live in the real world.”
Nadine laughs. “You call Mississippi the real world?”
“Sadly, yes. The only thing that could change the equation is bones. And that’s what Buck went back last night to find.”
She looks confused. “I thought Buck died in the river.”
I shake my head. “Quinn told me he went back to the mill site last night.”
“You think he was killed there, then dumped upstream?”
“We found his truck at Lafitte’s Den, half an hour ago.”
“We?”
“Denny Allman. My drone pilot.”
Nadine shakes her head. “I know that kid. Reads way over his age level.” The bell on the front door rings, but Nadine only glances in that direction. “So who would have caught Buck at the mill site? There aren’t lights out there anymore, right? It’s Bumfuck, Egypt.”
“The night after I ran my story about Buck, somebody posted guards out there. They patrol all night.”
“Who?”
“Maybe the Chinese? Maybe the county. I don’t know yet.”
“You think security guards killed him?”
I shrug. “Seems unlikely, and risky, but who knows? That could explain the body being moved. Guards at the mill site would have to explain how he died.”
Nadine purses her lips, pondering all I’ve told her. “Tell me why finding bones would make such a difference.”
I’m about to answer when a short man wearing a coat and tie steps up into the banquette. He’s about sixty, and he’s holding a James Patterson novel, but he’s staring intently at me. He looks oddly familiar (as have hundreds of people I’ve seen since getting back to town), but I can’t place him. Then Nadine says, “Hello, Dr. Bortles.”
He gives her a tight smile but keeps his eyes on me. “Do you remember me, Mr. McEwan?”
“Sure,” I tell him, racking my memory for anything to add. “You’re the … dentist, right?”
“Orthodontist. I came over because I was very disheartened to read your story on Buck Ferris’s recent digging by the river.”
Oh boy. Here it comes. “The Watchman prints the news, Dr. Bortles.”
He smirks at this. “Bad news, in that instance.”
“I could debate that. But even if you’re right, what’s your thesis? I’m not supposed to print bad news?”
He makes a sour face, as though he’s being forced to converse with an idiot. “You know, it’s easy for you to stir this up. You don’t live here anymore, not really. After your father passes, you’ll go back to Washington and spend your nights on TV, telling people how smart you are. What do you care if this town dries up and blows away?”
“I happen to care a lot about that.”
“Then stop printing stories about crazy Buck Ferris and his Indians. Keep it up, and you can rename this town Poverty Point. Nobody will have a job that pays more than minimum wage.”
Anger flares in my gut, but I force myself to stay in my seat. I look closer at him, at the meticulous comb-over, the plastic surgery around his eyes, the Apple watch with the $5,000 band. “Buck Ferris wasn’t crazy,” I tell him. “But you don’t have to worry about Buck anymore. Somebody killed him.”
Shock blanks the orthodontist’s face. “What?”
“The next thing I’ll be printing about Buck is his obituary.”
Dr. Bortles stands blinking like a rodent after someone hit the lights in a dirty kitchen, disoriented but not entirely unhappy. “Do you mean that he died? Or that someone killed him?”
“Read tomorrow’s paper and find out.”
Bortles shakes his head. “Well. You can’t say he didn’t ask for it.”
My right fist tightens, and I’m halfway out of my chair when Nadine touches my arm and gives me a sharp look.
“Why don’t you let us finish our conversation, Doctor?” she says in a syrupy Southern voice that bears little resemblance to her own.
The round-faced Bortles looks surprised, then indignant. He’s clearly unaccustomed to being dismissed by anyone. “You’ve certainly gotten rude all of a sudden, Ms. Sullivan.”
Nadine gives him the too-broad smile of a woman whose mouth wouldn’t melt butter. “I never knew you were an asshole before, Doctor. Now I do.”
Bortles draws himself up to his full five feet six inches and in a pompous voice announces, “I will never buy another book in this shop. You have lost my patronage, Ms. Sullivan. Forever.”
The French tourists are watching from their table.
“Then why are you still standing here?” Nadine asks. She waves in Bortles’s face with mock solicitude. “Toodle-loo. You have a blessed day.”
Bortles huffs a couple of times but doesn’t manage any coherent response. Then he marches out, dropping his book loudly on a display table before slamming the door and filling the shop with the high clanging of the bell.
“Well,” I say. “You are something, Ms. Sullivan.”
She waves her hand in disgust. “The only reason I can do that is because I have some money. If I relied on this store to put food on my table, I’d have had to sit here and listen to that shit.”
I nod, dispirited. “That prick is probably an accurate reflection of how most people in town will feel about Buck’s death.”
“Were you telling the truth? Is Buck’s obit the next thing you’ll write about him? Or are you going to blow this story wide open tomorrow?”
“I don’t know. I need more facts before I can do anything.”
She