Текст книги "The Bone Tree"
Автор книги: Greg Iles
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“And yet,” Kaiser interjects, “despite all that power, in 1963 Carlos found himself under mortal threat from the attorney general of the United States.”
Stone nods grimly. “As attorney general, Robert Kennedy initiated the most aggressive battle against organized crime in U.S. history. He attacked several mob bosses, but none with more personal animus than Marcello.”
Kaiser takes the baton from his mentor. “In 1959, Carlos was called before the McClellan Committee. Senator John Kennedy was a committee member, but Bobby was its chief counsel. You should see the film. Bobby barks and growls like a pit bull, and Carlos treats him with utter contempt. Carlos pled the Fifth a hundred and fifty-two times and smirked throughout the hearing. He claimed he was nothing but a tomato salesman, and on paper he was—through his Pelican Fruit Company.” Kaiser laughs dryly. “Salary, fifteen hundred bucks per month.”
“Carlos lived to regret that performance,” says Stone. “As soon as JFK made Bobby attorney general, Bobby set out to destroy Marcello. He attacked the don on two legal fronts. The first was an IRS case for back taxes. If fraud could be proved, that would land Carlos in federal prison. But the more dangerous prosecution involved Carlos’s immigration status. Unlike his brothers, Carlos had never bothered to become a citizen, which kept him out of the army and making millions during World War Two. But in the end that cost him dearly. To gain some legal status, he’d bribed the government of Guatemala—the source of his fruit and marijuana imports—to issue an official birth certificate. But that lie also made Carlos vulnerable.”
“I know about Bobby Kennedy illegally deporting Carlos to Central America in ’61,” I tell them. “As a prosecutor, I read quite a bit about his anti-Mafia tactics.”
Stone looks grateful that he can skip the details. “As soon as Carlos got back from that little excursion, Bobby indicted him for falsifying his birth certificate, and United States versus Carlos Marcello was set in motion. Between 1961 and 1963, Carlos did all he could to put off the day of reckoning, while Bobby and the INS steadily ratcheted up the pressure. Marcello’s Washington lawyer was Jack Wasserman, former chief counsel of the INS. He was the best immigration lawyer in the country, but there was only so much he could do. Carlos had bribed the Guatemalans, and Bobby’s team could prove it.”
“If Marcello played that immigration case by the rules,” Kaiser says, “he was guaranteed to lose. And the result wouldn’t be simple deportation. If he was forced out of the country, he would lose his empire. That’s why he had another lawyer on his payroll—a New Orleans lawyer. One who played by New Orleans rules, by which I mean no rules at all.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” says Stone, holding up a hand. “What matters is that Bobby had Carlos dead to rights. Carlos knew that if he was deported, the remaining Marcello brothers could never hold his empire together. So long as Bobby Kennedy headed the Justice Department, it was only a matter of time before Carlos’s stranglehold on the South was broken and his multibillion-dollar kingdom was carved up by his fellow dons. For Carlos Marcello, deportation was the equivalent of death.”
“I get it. So that’s the basis of your theory? Marcello had the president killed to sabotage RFK’s prosecution?”
“Yes,” Stone says simply.
“Tell him the dog story,” says Kaiser. “It always makes me think of Brando playing Vito Corleone.”
Stone waves his hand almost angrily. “It can’t be verified. I don’t want Penn thinking about Hollywood bullshit. This is history.”
Kaiser looks suitably chastised, and this brings me some satisfaction.
“Try to imagine the rage Carlos must have felt at this state of affairs,” Stone says. “Unlike mainstream America, he’d never bought into the myth of Camelot. He knew this country was corrupt to the marrow. He’d bought and sold politicians in Washington, put senators at the head of major committees. He knew that Joe Kennedy had made his fortune as a bootlegger. To Carlos, JFK was a bootlegger’s son, no more, and Bobby was a self-righteous hypocrite.”
Stone gives me a piercing stare. “Many scholars dismiss the idea of mob assassination because in some crime families it was forbidden to murder any state official, even a prosecutor. They figure that since mobsters balked at killing judges or even cops, killing a president was totally beyond the pale.”
“The exception to that rule,” says Kaiser, “was betrayal in a criminal enterprise. And that’s what this conversation is really about. The actual relationship between Carlos Marcello and John Kennedy.”
“Did they have a relationship?”
“Of course they did,” Stone replies. “It was carried on at a distance, but it was as valid as any other, and it had very clear rules—though John Kennedy doesn’t seem to have understood that. The crux of it was Cuba. As I said, the Kennedys had used the CIA and the Mafia to try to murder Fidel Castro, and Carlos was part of that.”
“And Castro was a head of state,” says Kaiser.
Stone nods. “That Kennedy-CIA effort legitimized the assassination of a head of state as a tactic in Carlos’s eyes. It lowered his threshold of action to almost zero.”
“But John Kennedy was a president,” I remind them. “Not a gangster.”
“Carlos saw himself as a head of state,” Stone says. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. In his own mind, he was the equal of John Kennedy.”
“I think that’s a stretch, Dwight.”
“Do you remember Joe Valachi?”
“Sure. The first ‘made man’ to testify about the workings of the Mafia.”
“One month before the Kennedy assassination, Valachi was asked on the stand about Carlos Marcello. He said only that he’d once planned to visit New Orleans during Mardi Gras, and as a formality he’d mentioned his plans to Vito Genovese. Genovese told Valachi not to go. The Mafia boss of New York told a made man that nobody was allowed to travel in Marcello’s territory without Carlos’s express permission—not even Genovese himself. ‘It was an absolute rule,’ Valachi said.” Stone holds up a shaking finger. “Carlos Marcello was the only don in America who could make men without approval from the national Commission. He was sui generis, Penn. And nobody crossed him.”
“Except Bobby Kennedy,” I say softly.
Stone nods. “JFK’s ingratitude after Giancana’s election help was serious, but that’s politics. His failure of nerve at the Bay of Pigs lost the mob a lot of money, but that was business. But Robert Kennedy’s single-minded quest to permanently deport Carlos was a matter of survival. By pushing that trial to its limit, Bobby Kennedy signed his brother’s death warrant.”
For the first time since entering this room, I feel a chill racing over my shoulders.
“Christ, what I’d give for a shot of scotch,” Stone says. “Of course it would kill me, but that might not be a bad way to go.” The old FBI agent looks like he’s about to laugh, but instead he clenches his jaw in pain.
A strange silence has fallen on us. Though I fight the urge, I glance at my watch again. Three-quarters of an hour has already slipped by. “Guys, we’re still a long way from Dealey Plaza, and I haven’t heard one thing about my father.”
Stone holds up his right hand. “You’re about to. But do you accept the premise that Marcello had sufficient motive to kill John Kennedy?”
I shift on my chair, a little reluctant to say anything that might upset my old friend. “I can see why he would hate the Kennedys. I’m not sure that takes us to the assassination of a president as a means of stopping his little brother.”
“Tell him the dog story,” Kaiser says again.
“I know the fucking dog story!” I snap. “Carlos was supposedly ranting about Bobby Kennedy once, and some goombah said he ought to kill him. Carlos said, ‘If a dog is biting you, you don’t cut off its tail. You cut off the head. Then he don’t bite you no more.’”
“Who told you that story?” Kaiser asks.
“Half the prosecutors in Texas know it! Jesus. Just like the one where Marcello supposedly said in Sicilian, ‘Will someone take this stone from my shoe?’ The problem is, I heard he didn’t know any Sicilian.”
“He knew it,” Stone says with authority. “He was raised by Sicilian parents. He just didn’t speak it.”
“Whatever. Look, I didn’t come here to listen to a radio version of the History Channel. If you guys have any evidence of contact between my father and Marcello, it’s time to tell me about it.”
Stone takes a deep, labored breath, then turns and looks at Kaiser. “He’s right.”
“We haven’t even started on Oswald and Ferrie,” Kaiser objects.
“Oswald?” I cry, getting to my feet. “Are you kidding? I don’t care about that little rat.”
When Stone looks to Kaiser again, as though for permission, I finally lose my patience. “Goddamn it, guys. That call I took earlier? Before I came in here? That was Sheriff Dennis. Claude Devereux had just told him the Double Eagles will be in his office at seven A.M. tomorrow for voluntary questioning.”
Both men stare at me as though I’ve just announced the Second Coming.
“Bullshit,” says Kaiser. “I don’t believe that.”
“They’re coming. Devereux claims they’ve got nothing to hide.”
Kaiser is angrily shaking his head. “Nothing to fear, more like. They wouldn’t be coming if they had anything to worry about. Something’s wrong, Penn. Forrest has put in the fix somehow. You and Dennis are walking into a trap.”
“What kind of trap?”
“I don’t know. But I know Forrest Knox.”
“John’s right,” says Stone. “This is trouble. The Knoxes have more to hide than you can possibly imagine.”
After staring at both men in stony silence for a few seconds, I sit back on the edge of my chair. “Tell me what you know about my father and Marcello. Then I’ll decide how to handle tomorrow’s meeting. Otherwise I walk out now. I’m sorry, Dwight, more than you know. But that’s the way it is.”
Kaiser starts to argue, but Stone raises his hand to silence him. Then he lifts the top page of his legal pad, picks up a white sheet of paper, and passes it to me. It appears to be a photocopy of a small rectangular business form. The image quality is poor, but at the top of the rectangle a logo reads “TBC.” That means nothing to me, but at the bottom I see a cursive signature I instantly recognize.
Thomas J. Cage, M.D.
“What’s this?” I ask, my face tingling with heat.
“An excuse form,” Stone informs me, almost sadly. “From the Triton Battery Corporation in Natchez, Mississippi.”
“Notice the dates?” asks Kaiser.
Despite my father’s scrawled handwriting, I can just make them out: Nov. 18–22, 1963. Below this line are the words Chronic Hepatitis.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” says Kaiser.
“John,” Stone says sharply. “We don’t know what it means, Penn. What we do know is that your father signed a medical excuse for Frank Knox to be absent from work at the Triton Battery plant from the Monday prior to John Kennedy’s assassination through the Friday he was killed in Dealey Plaza.”
“A full week,” says Kaiser. “Plenty of time to reconnoiter Dealey Plaza and settle on the Dal-Tex Building as his sniper’s nest. You see? Frank Knox wasn’t the primary shooter. Oswald was already set up to use the School Book Depository, and Frank was his backup.”
“No, I don’t see. Not at all.”
“Slow down, John,” says Stone. “Penn, we obviously need to know whether your father had any idea what Knox was actually doing on those dates.”
My ears roar as I shake my head in denial. “Can you prove Frank Knox was in Dealey Plaza on that day?”
“No.”
My head snaps up. “Can you prove he was even in Dallas?”
Stone slowly shakes his head. “We can’t even prove Frank Knox was in Texas. Not yet, anyway. Of course we just got on this track. All we know for sure is that he wasn’t at work, and he almost certainly wasn’t at home.”
“That’s not all we know,” says Kaiser.
I look back at the paper in my hand. “How did you even get hold of this? There’s no way Triton Battery saved this kind of crap from 1963.”
“You’re right, of course,” Stone concedes. “Your father’s written excuse form was in Knox’s personnel record. It turns out I requisitioned a copy of that back in 1965, while working some other cases. Knox was still pretending to be part of the mainstream KKK at that time, and for some reason I decided to keep his file along with a few others. If I hadn’t done that, we might have solved the Kennedy assassination years ago.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the concerted efforts of our team—some of the best investigators in the world—were stymied by the kind of clerical accident that often sways history, without anyone being the wiser. When I was fired from the Bureau in 1972, that record I’d requested in 1965 was still in the Jackson, Mississippi, field office. The murders I had investigated were still open cases. When the Working Group came together in the mideighties and began investigating cold cases, its members couldn’t request Bureau files. They had to rely on what files they’d kept—illegally—or whatever active agents would photocopy or smuggle out for them. We did send an agent into the Mississippi field office to locate all the old civil rights records he could—which included Double Eagle files—and he got quite a few. But he was told that some had been shipped back to Central Records in Maryland. He took a quiet look around the building for them, but he found nothing. That excuse remained lost.”
“Then how did you locate it?”
Kaiser leans forward and says, “This morning, after I convinced the director that Stone’s group is onto something, I sent two agents up to the Jackson field office in a pickup truck. By this afternoon, I had six crates of files dating back to the 1960s. They found them in the basement. One of those crates contained Frank’s Triton Battery file. It had been sitting there since 1965, with that medical excuse inside it.”
The irony is obvious, but something else is tickling my brain. “Is this excuse form all you have on Frank Knox that relates to Dallas?”
Stone shakes his head. “We put Frank and Snake Knox through the wringer years ago. They became suspects in the Kennedy investigation the moment we learned that Frank was listed on the CIA payroll of JMWAVE/Operation Mongoose.”
I faintly remember Henry Sexton telling me this. “Frank Knox worked for the CIA?”
“It wasn’t as cloak-and-dagger as it sounds. The agency ran its own anti-Castro training camps prior to the Bay of Pigs. As for the private camps, the agency didn’t want to have to rely on what the bosses like Marcello and Trafficante told them. So they paid some vets to hire on as instructors. To Frank Knox, that just meant two paychecks instead of one. All he had to do was give his CIA contact a call now and then and update him on progress in the camp.”
“Would Marcello have known Knox was doing that?”
“No. Frank wasn’t stupid. The point is, we discounted Frank and Snake Knox as suspects in the JFK assassination years ago. We figured them for racist rednecks who’d killed a lot of black people, but not much more. Even after we came to suspect Marcello, we didn’t see Frank as a soldier or employee of his, because in theory he’d been informing on Marcello to the CIA.”
“They didn’t know about the Brody Royal connection,” Kaiser explains. “Royal was the cutout between Marcello and the Knoxes in later years. But once Glenn Morehouse exposed that connection, everything clicked into place. Marcello’s plan to lure RFK here in ’68 and use the Eagles to kill him was like a billboard pointing back at 1963.”
“When I saw that medical excuse,” Stone intones, “I knew Frank had done it.”
“This is bullshit,” I insist. “There’s no way my father knowingly took part in a criminal conspiracy, much less a presidential assassination. No way in hell.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Stone says softly.
Everyone in this room knows my father probably withheld critical knowledge about the murders of Albert Norris and Dr. Leland Robb for nearly forty years. But that doesn’t change my conviction.
“Is this all you’ve got?”
Kaiser starts to say something, but Stone stops him. “The thing is, Penn, even if Tom didn’t knowingly assist Frank Knox in wrongdoing, he may know things of critical importance. He just might not know he knows them.”
This is slightly more palatable, but I can’t tell whether Stone really believes it.
“In any case,” says the old agent, “I’m certain that one or more surviving Double Eagles know what Frank Knox did in 1963—most likely his brother, Snake. Snake might even have helped Frank bring off the assassination. Even if he didn’t, he may well know the truth about your father and that medical excuse.”
“Where was Snake on November twenty-second?”
“We don’t know. Some people have told us he was at work, but we can’t verify that. Nevertheless,” Stone says, his voice wearing away my resistance like a steady flow of water, “now you can see why all the Double Eagles must be handled with the utmost care.”
In my mind’s eye I see Walker Dennis, the ex–baseball player and newly appointed sheriff, clumsily trying to break Snake Knox in a CPSO interrogation room. The prospect makes me light-headed.
“Now you’re getting it?” says Kaiser.
Shit.
CHAPTER 35
AS CAITLIN COASTED along the great concrete crescent before Quentin’s Tudor mansion, she saw faint light glowing at the edges of one of the window blinds on the side of the house. She wished she had some way to warn Tom that she was no threat to him, but honking the horn might alert neighbors she couldn’t see. As she got out of her car, she realized that it had been four days since she’d seen Penn’s father. Last Sunday, she and Penn had taken Annie over to eat a late dinner. Peggy had pulled out all the stops and cooked one of her classic southern feasts, including “Ruby’s Fried Chicken.” Now, only four days later, the world in which such a simple domestic scene could occur had been blown apart by the actions of the family patriarch, whom she would confront in less than a minute. Trying to stay calm, she walked around the house to a side door and knocked three times, as normally as she could.
Nothing happened.
She knocked again, this time giving the child’s version of a “secret knock.”
Putting her ear to the door, she was surprised to hear a shuffling sound behind it. Then a woman’s voice said, “Who is it?”
“Melba, it’s Caitlin Masters,” she said loudly. “I’m alone.”
Several seconds of silence followed. Then she heard a dead bolt slide back, and the door opened to reveal Tom Cage standing in the crack with a pistol pointed through it. Caitlin could see Melba’s tall form in the foyer behind him.
“Jesus Christ!” Tom gasped. “How did you find me?”
He looked back at Melba to see whether she had betrayed him.
“I had an employee following Melba. Shouldn’t we get inside before some FBI helicopter sees the light?”
Tom grunted and backed out of the gap so she could pass through. When she had, he closed the door and led her into a contemporary kitchen area she recognized from a party photograph she had seen at Tom and Peggy’s house. Melba stood by the counter, looking wary.
“Is Penn with you?” Tom asked anxiously.
“No.”
“Where is he?”
Caitlin saw nothing to be gained by mentioning Dwight Stone and the FBI at this point. “He’s with Peggy and Annie, somewhere safe. He’s sleeping.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know myself. For safety’s sake.”
Tom processed this, then nodded. “Good thinking.” He set the pistol on the counter. “Why didn’t you tell him you’d found me?”
“At first I wasn’t positive that I had.”
“And now?”
“I want to hear what you have to say. I guess Melba and I have a lot in common.”
The nurse gave Caitlin a sidelong look.
“Tom, if I can find you, the bad guys can, too.”
“You’re right,” he said, looking preoccupied. “I need to move as soon as Walt gets back.”
“Have you heard anything from him? Has he made any progress?”
Tom glanced at Melba again. “He’s made some, but he can’t move right now.”
“Well, I don’t think Colonel Griffith Mackiever can do much to help you. He’ll be lucky to save himself. He’s about to be forced to resign over a scandal that was probably manufactured by Forrest Knox.”
In the silence that followed this statement, she realized that the towel over Tom’s left shoulder concealed a broad wrapping of gauze bandages. “How bad is your wound?”
“He ought to be in the hospital,” Melba said. “Or at the very least home in bed.”
“I’m fine,” Tom insisted, taking a seat on one of the heavy leather bar stools. “It’s a through-and-through, and Melba and Drew gave me better treatment than I’d have gotten at the hospital.”
“Did this happen anywhere in the vicinity of that dead state trooper?”
Tom met her gaze but did not answer.
Caitlin wanted to get Melba out of the room before asking certain questions, but she didn’t want to be rude. She decided to edge toward the difficult questions. “Will you answer one question?” she asked. “Off the record?”
“That depends.”
“Why in God’s name did you jump bail? It seems completely counterproductive for your case.”
Tom sighed and braced his elbows on the dark granite counter. “It was my best option at the time.”
“Were you afraid you would have died in Sheriff Byrd’s jail?”
“That’s certainly possible.”
“But that wasn’t your reason?”
“Let’s just say that . . . at that time I had options I no longer have.”
“Because of the dead state trooper?”
“Mostly. Once he was killed, there was no clean way out for Walt and me.”
Caitlin laid her hand on his back. “Forrest Knox’s police obviously hope to kill you before you can get into custody. Why are you making it easier for them?”
“I don’t have a choice. Walt wouldn’t be in this fix if he hadn’t tried to help me. There’s no way I’m letting him go to trial for that.”
“But there’s no other way out of this. Griffith Mackiever can’t wave a magic wand and make that murder charge go away.”
Tom looked back at Melba and said, “Mel, is there any chance you could make some tea?”
The nurse looked glad to have something to do.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” Caitlin said, as Melba held a kettle under the tap. “There are FBI agents at the Examiner, and the longer I’m gone, the more suspicious they’ll get. Plus, Penn could decide to come looking for me.”
“Then get back to work. There’s nothing to be learned here.”
Caitlin felt a stab of anger. “Tom . . . it was Viola’s death that started all this. If you didn’t kill her, nobody can prove you did.”
“Centuries of history would beg to differ.”
“Oh, Christ. Yes, people get wrongly convicted. But not with the kind of lawyers you’d have in your corner. Penn? And Quentin Avery?”
With obvious effort Tom turned the stool toward her. “Even if I were to fight the murder charge on Viola—or plead guilty to a reduced charge—that dead trooper would still be dead, and Walt’s life would be at risk.”
The idea that Tom might plead guilty to a lesser charge made her curious. “Will you tell me what really happened at Viola’s that night?”
“No offense, Cait, but if I wouldn’t discuss it with Penn, I’m not going to tell you.”
Caitlin glanced at Melba, who was gazing at Tom like a worried wife. She wondered then if there was more between the doctor and nurse than friendship. It seemed odd that in this time of crisis Tom would repeatedly call upon his black nurse; yet somehow Caitlin had known to have Melba watched. Was Melba Price the new Viola Turner?
“I need to ask you some personal questions,” Caitlin said. “Very personal. I have to. And you might prefer to be alone. Sorry, Melba. It’s up to Tom.”
Tom shifted on the stool as though his shoulder had sent a bolt of pain through his body. Then he looked over at his nurse, who was watching the kettle on the gas stove.
“Mel, do you mind watching TV in the bedroom for a few minutes?”
“I’ve got a glass of wine over on the coffee table,” the nurse replied. “I’ll finish it on the back patio.”
“It’s pretty chilly,” Caitlin said.
“I could use some air,” Melba said, a little curtly. “Can you finish making the tea?”
“Sure.”
“I’d rather you stay inside, Mel,” Tom said. “This house is huge, and we don’t know who might be outside. Caitlin found us, after all.”
“Doc, if anybody’s out there, we’re done for already. I guess I’ll be the back-door lookout.”
Melba collected her wineglass and walked toward some double doors behind a broad curtain. Then she slipped through the crack and went outside.
Fighting the temptation to look away from Tom, Caitlin said, “Exactly how close are you and Melba?”
He looked so genuinely shocked by the implication of her question that Caitlin instantly realized her error. “You asked Melba to leave the room for that?”
“No. Tom, last night Penn and I were nearly murdered. Brody Royal almost killed us. Henry Sexton saved us.”
“I know.” He motioned toward the sofa. “Melba brought me a copy of this morning’s paper.”
“Before he died, Brody told us two things about you. He said that you saved Viola’s life back in 1968. And he said you killed her four days ago.”
Tom’s lips parted slightly.
“Brody had no reason to lie, Tom. He thought we were going to die. And he thought the irony was hilarious.”
Tom turned away and shook his head. “Brody Royal . . . that psychotic bastard.”
“I agree. But why would he say that to us, Tom?”
Tom looked down at his hands for some time, then raised his head and looked into Caitlin’s eyes. “He told you the truth, Cait. But don’t ask me any more about it.”
Caitlin suddenly felt cold. “You . . . you killed her, Tom?”
“As I said before, I’m not going to speak about what happened in her sister’s house that night. If I couldn’t tell Penn, I certainly can’t tell you. No offense.”
“Then what the hell are you going to do? Just sit here until they come for you?”
“That’s my concern, not yours.”
Caitlin felt a hot rush of anger. She walked away from the counter, then turned and spoke with more hostility than she’d intended. “Penn met Lincoln Turner yesterday. And then again today. Did you know that?”
Tom turned and squinted as though a bright light had been shined in his face. “Penn and Lincoln, together?”
She nodded. “For close to an hour in a nightclub out in Anna’s Bottom. Lincoln told Penn that he’s your son. By Viola, obviously.”
Tom answered in a low voice. “I wish I could refute that, but I can’t.”
“You believe Lincoln Turner is your son?”
“You don’t?”
“No. How long have you known about his existence?”
“Since the night Viola died.”
Caitlin nodded with satisfaction. “Did Viola show you any proof of paternity?”
“What kind of proof could she offer, other than the timing?”
“Tom . . . in some ways, I respect you more than any man I’ve ever known, but you have always been a soft touch. Sharp customers have always taken advantage of you, and you’ve always let them. Peggy told me that years ago, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes many times.”
“Viola wasn’t a con artist, Caitlin.”
“No. But she was a woman. And if she truly had a son by you, do you really believe she’d have kept it secret from you for forty years?”
“Yes, I do.”
“I disagree. She knew what kind of father you are. Sooner or later, she would have told you about the boy. And if not you, she would have told the boy himself. And he would have sought you out. I don’t buy this, Tom. Not any of it.”
The kettle began to whistle. Caitlin had to tear her gaze away from Tom’s face, and she sensed that he was grateful for the break. She poured the water into the mugs Melba had set out, then dunked two bags of Earl Grey. Tom took a pink packet of sweetener from a rack on the counter, poured the contents into his tea, and gently shook the mug.
“So Viola suddenly made it up. That’s what you’re saying,” said Tom. “Why would she lie to me about that?”
“Oh, dear Lord. She was dying, and she had a son she was worried about! She knew that one word in your ear would ensure that Lincoln would never want for anything for the rest of his life. By telling you what she did, Viola provided for her son in perpetuity.”
“That’s pretty cynical.”
“I’m a woman, Tom. Just like Viola.”
“You think all women are the same?”
“No. But about the fundamental things, we’re pretty similar. I’m sure Viola was noble and selfless, but all women are selfish when it comes to providing for their children.”
“Lincoln is my son, Cait. Have you spoken to him yourself?”
“No. But I want to. One of my reporters is trying to find him right now. I hope she doesn’t, to be frank.”
Tom sipped from his mug but said nothing more.
Caitlin decided to try a different tack. “Does Peggy know about Lincoln?”
Tom’s eyes went flat, opaque. “No. Not yet.”
“I advise you to keep it that way, at least until you have a DNA test performed.”
“I’ve already initiated one.”
This shocked her. “How did you do that? Have you had personal contact with Lincoln?”
“No. And I didn’t doubt Viola, but I knew Peggy would demand proof. And Penn too—as they should, of course.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“Viola had some keepsakes from Lincoln’s childhood. One of them was a little pewter box that held a few baby teeth. I took that the night she died.”
Caitlin had a feeling Tom had said more than he intended. “Did Viola know you were going to do the test?”
“No.”
“When will it be completed?”
“Soon, I hope. I use a Baton Rouge lab for my clinical tests. I have a friend who’s a part owner. He said he’d rush it for me. Three or four days from now is possible.”
She was glad to know Tom hadn’t completely abandoned reason. “I know you said you won’t talk about Sunday night. But do you know what Penn thinks about Viola’s death?”
Tom’s silver eyebrows went up.
“He thinks Lincoln tried to euthanize his mother, but somehow screwed it up and killed her painfully. Maybe he had second thoughts and tried to revive her. Penn thinks you figured that out, and you’re protecting Lincoln out of guilt over forty years of neglect.”
The flatness in Tom’s eyes gave way to an unreadable depth, as though a crust of ice had melted away to reveal bottomless ocean. Caitlin’s first thought was that Penn’s theory had struck home, but then something in Tom’s face changed her mind.
“That’s not what happened, is it?”
