Текст книги "The Bone Tree"
Автор книги: Greg Iles
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Текущая страница: 35 (всего у книги 58 страниц)
“How’s it hangin’, Spanky?”
“Not too good,” the deputy replied. “Seems like the whole world’s turned upside down.”
“You’re goddamned right it has,” Snake muttered.
Ford looked over his shoulder, then whispered, “I’ve got a message for you.”
Snake glanced back at Sonny, then said, “None too soon. Let’s hear it.”
“Forrest says to hang tough. He’s gonna get you out today. He’s got a lawyer on the way. Just hang tight, he said.”
“Hang tight?” Snake spat on the floor near Spanky’s boots. “I’ve got a message for the young colonel, Spanky. You be sure and remember every word. Tell Forrest I said, ‘Go fuck yourself.’”
Spanky Ford’s eyes went wide.
“Tell him we’d better be out of here in an hour. One fucking hour, you hear me?”
“Yeah.” Ford was sweating now, clearly fearful of any further interaction with Forrest Knox—especially this kind.
“And one more thing. You tell him I’ve got Tom Cage.”
Spanky gulped.
“Yeah, you heard right. Tell Forrest I’ve got the doc, and what I decide to do with him will be based on what Forrest does in the next sixty minutes.”
Ford looked ready to bolt. “Is that all of it?”
Snake chuckled. “You don’t think that’s enough?”
Ashen-faced, Ford hurried out of the cellblock.
Sonny waited for Snake to back away from the bars. Then he said, “Do you think that was the smart way to play it?”
Snake looked down at Sonny, his eyes cold. “Are you kidding? Who do you think put us in here, Son? The same guy who’s promising to get us out today. Grabbing Tom Cage last night was about the smartest thing I’ve done in a long time. All we gotta do now is sit tight and watch Forrest jump to it.”
Snake chuckled, then walked back to the bars.
“Listen up, boys,” he said. “We’re gonna be out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. We all know that dope was planted on us. All you gotta do is sit tight and keep your mouths shut. Most of you are pretty good at that, and the ones that ain’t . . . well, you know the price of flappin’ your gums.”
“Damn straight,” said an older Eagle named Will Devine, a contemporary of Frank Knox’s, and the seventh Double Eagle initiated into the group. “We know what to do, Snake.”
“Good man, Will. Everybody just take this chance to catch a nap. Meanwhile, I’ll be thinkin’ on how we’re gonna pay back the fools who put us in here. Okay?”
A low murmur of agreement passed through the concrete cells.
Sonny stretched himself flat on the hard mattress of the bottom bunk. He shivered as the stink of mildew entered his lungs. He had a feeling they might not be leaving these accommodations quite as quickly as Snake expected.
CHAPTER 55
WALKER DENNIS HAS reclaimed his desk, and now Kaiser sits before the furious sheriff like a supplicant, just as Henry Sexton and I did three days ago. Walker has deigned to give the FBI agent ten minutes to make his case, unless the Double Eagles can be processed and booked in less time than that. Kaiser’s face was taut with anger when he first came back into this office, but he’s managed to calm down and present his objections without quite accusing Sheriff Dennis of planting evidence on the Double Eagles. Walker has listened with surprising patience, though he’s checked and sent several text messages during the monologue.
“Agent Kaiser,” Walker says during the first sufficient pause, “I realize you’ve questioned a lot of serial killers and such, and that’s real important work. But what we’ve got here is a drug trafficking case. Open and shut. And I’ve got some personal experience in handling that kind of case.”
Dennis points at me. “Mayor Cage here also has considerable experience handling felony cases. In the big city, too. From drug cases right up to capital murder. And he’s been duly deputized by me as a special deputy of Concordia Parish, so there won’t be any bullshit about jurisdiction from the ACLU.”
“Sheriff, let me stop you there,” Kaiser interjects. “Penn has not come here to solve civil rights cases, or even drug trafficking cases. He’s here to save his father.”
I feel my face reddening.
“And while I can empathize with that goal, I can’t allow it to torpedo criminal cases of historic significance.”
Dennis starts to reply, but Kaiser beats him to the punch. “Sheriff, I know you lost a relative a couple of years back—a deputy you believe Forrest Knox had a hand in killing. You also lost two deputies to that booby trap at the warehouse. I’ve lost agents, myself. I lost fellow soldiers in Vietnam. A lot of them. But you can’t give in to the hunger for quick payback. It never works out like you think it will.” Kaiser glances at me, then back at Dennis. “What I want from these sons of bitches is the truth, no matter who gets jailed or exonerated. The truth, men. That’s why if anybody goes in to question them today, it should be me.”
“But you’re not even convinced they should be questioned,” I point out.
Kaiser shrugs. “Obviously, we can’t unbreak that egg. They’re in custody now.”
“Damn straight,” Sheriff Dennis says.
“But I need you to understand something, Sheriff. I’ve been working to nail these bastards longer than you think. I know things about them that even Henry Sexton didn’t know. With all due respect, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“I know the Knox family, all right.”
“Do you?” Kaiser reaches into a thick leather bag beside his chair and drops a stack of worn files on the sheriff’s desk. “Why don’t we see how well you know them?”
Dennis sighs heavily, glances at his watch, then motions for Kaiser to get on with it.
As I pray I won’t have to listen to a rehash of the file I read last night, Kaiser pats the top file with the flat of his right hand, then launches into a more concise version of exactly that. Sheriff Dennis appears surprisingly interested in this information, particularly the tales of mutilation carried out by Knoxes serving in the armed forces.
“There were official records of this?” he asks, taking a pinch of Skoal and tucking it into the right side of his lower lip.
“Absolutely,” Kaiser says. “And they weren’t unique to the Knoxes. The practices were so widespread that the brass couldn’t stop them. In 1944, one ‘picture of the week’ in Life magazine showed a U.S. sailor’s girlfriend writing him a thank-you note for a Japanese skull he’d sent her from the Pacific. Vietnam vets took a lot of heat over severed-ear stories, but that kind of savagery has always been a part of war—especially in societies that value hunting as proof of masculinity.”
“Like the Deep South?” I ask.
“The South has no monopoly on brutality,” Kaiser says without missing a beat. “A Pennsylvania senator gave President Roosevelt a letter opener made from the arm bone and tanned skin of a Japanese soldier. Roosevelt only returned the gift after a scandal broke about it. Hundreds of gold teeth and ears were taken by American soldiers on Guadalcanal, sometimes from living owners.”
“So you’re saying that normal men committed these kinds of acts?”
“Yes—if the word ‘normal’ means anything when it comes to war. But the Knoxes don’t belong in the middle of the curve.” Kaiser lets me see the passion behind his eyes. “I believe the Knoxes are sociopaths—all of them, to one degree or another. And I believe that America’s wars—and later the civil rights struggle—offered them an arena in which to exercise their particular appetites.”
“Henry Sexton had a similar theory,” I tell him.
“The damned thing of it is,” says Sheriff Dennis, “it sounds like Forrest Knox was a hell of a soldier. Killing all those VC out on his own like that, and leaving half-dollars in their mouths . . . he scared the hell out of the Cong.”
Kaiser smiles strangely. “Sociopaths often make effective soldiers, at least in small-unit actions. Killing is the objective, after all. But over time, their various paraphilias have a corrosive effect on morale.”
Dennis gives a somber nod. “I swear to God, when I read Caitlin’s article this morning, about the Double Eagles slicing off those black boys’ service tattoos, I damn near puked. Anybody who did that to a vet ought to be hung.”
“I’m working on it,” Kaiser promises. “Just like Henry was.”
“I thought the Double Eagle gold piece was the Eagles’ sign,” Dennis says, glancing at his watch. “Why did Forrest use half-dollars on the VC?”
Kaiser smiles like a patient college professor. “Only the older guys had gold pieces. The mints stopped pressing the Double Eagle in 1933. All the younger members carried ’64 JFK half-dollars. Confidentially, that may have had to do with the Kennedy assassination.”
“You said something about that in the hospital yesterday morning,” Dennis recalls. “What’s the deal on that?”
I sigh wearily, dreading a Kaiser soliloquy on his pet conspiracy theory, but he says, “We don’t have time to go into the details, Sheriff. And I don’t have the authority to give them to you. Let me just say that one or more of the men in your jail at this moment may know who killed John F. Kennedy. They may even be related to the assassin. Most important, they may possess evidence that could prove his guilt.”
Dennis can see that Kaiser is serious, and he’s appropriately impressed. “Well, since they’re facing mandatory thirty-year sentences, why don’t you take this opportunity to squeeze the truth out of them?”
Kaiser takes his time with this question. The idea must surely be tempting to him. But his response is exactly what I expect.
“Because,” he says, “anything I get them to say based on a threat that might later be proved, ah . . . less than genuine, shall we say, would be inadmissible in court. I can’t risk a case that big under those circumstances.”
Dennis has the grace not to take this as a personal insult. “Those charges are going to stick, Mr. Kaiser. And they should stick. Because those bastards have been selling that poison in this parish for years. And people have died from it.”
“I know they have, Sheriff.” Kaiser fans through a file without looking at it. “But the men you’re trying to nail aren’t simply meth dealers. Nor are they merely violent racists. They’re serial rapists and murderers related by blood and tribal ties. I don’t think there’s any comparable case in the literature, at least not on this scale. The linking crime signature is the trophy taking. It crosses all the generations. Two separate sources have mentioned that Elam Knox had a Bible bound in human skin, possibly given to him by his youngest legitimate son, Snake.”
“Holy Christ,” Dennis says, as if finally appreciating the scope of the battle he has taken on. “I should have gone ahead and crushed that asshole’s windpipe back there.”
“Then we’d be booking you for murder,” Kaiser observes. “Sheriff, I’m begging you to look at this thing objectively. If you won’t postpone these interrogations, at least let me handle them. I’m an expert on the Knox family, and I have far more experience than either of you at questioning sociopaths.”
“On that point,” Dennis says, “unless I’m mistaken, you also nearly killed a convict you were interrogating as part of an FBI research project. A handcuffed convict.”
Kaiser’s face colors. “That’s true. He was trying to get under my skin, and he did. He described a little boy he’d violated and killed eight years earlier with a power drill. I snapped and went for him, just like you did earlier with Snake. It was a mistake, and I’m lucky he didn’t die. You should—”
Someone has knocked at the office door.
“What is it?” bellows the sheriff.
A tall deputy pokes his head in. “Everybody’s printed and processed and locked up tight.”
“I’ll be there in a second, Silas.”
“Who you want first, Sheriff?”
“Snake fucking Knox.”
Kaiser clears his throat. “Sheriff, could I have another sixty seconds before you make that decision?”
Dennis tells the deputy to wait for confirmation on who to bring to the interrogation room.
After the door closes, Kaiser looks back and forth between us. “You two probably figure that Snake Knox is the leader of the Eagles that we have here and therefore possesses the most information. You’re right on both counts. But Snake is also the toughest of all six suspects. You just threatened to kill him, and he spit your threat right back in your face. He’s not worried about that crystal meth, Sheriff. You can’t break a guy like that. Not legally, anyway. And maybe not even with torture.”
Dennis’s face darkens. “Well, who would you question first, hotshot?”
“Sonny Thornfield. He’s got a daughter and two grandkids that I know about, and maybe more. One grandson is in the army. Sonny was probably present at most of the Eagles’ worst crimes, but nothing in his background indicates the kind of sociopathic behavior that the Knoxes and some others have displayed. Sonny’s also got severe heart disease, and he knows he’d never survive prison. Hell, he nearly died three days ago after Dr. Cage and Garrity questioned him in that van. If any Eagle ever had incentive to cut a deal, it’s Sonny Thornfield. I think that’s why Dr. Cage picked him.”
Sheriff Dennis turns up his palms as if it makes no difference to him. “So I’ll start with Sonny. Thanks for the tip.”
Kaiser shakes his head wearily. “No . . . if you do that, you’ll tip Snake that we know Sonny is the most vulnerable. The thing to do is start with Snake, but don’t truly go after him. I’ll show him the gun we pulled out of Luther’s Pontiac, maybe a bone or two. I’ll keep hammering at him with that, and he’ll keep stonewalling. Then we swap him for Sonny. But once Sonny’s in there, we show him what we really have. Not the meth, but everything I know about the Double Eagles and the Knoxes.”
“Compared to the meth, that’s nothing,” Dennis says. “If you had enough to nail him, you’d have arrested him already.”
“Sonny won’t forget about the meth,” I think aloud, as I realize what Kaiser is doing. He’s not going to make himself party to using planted evidence, but he doesn’t mind exploiting the fear that evidence has produced.
“Trust me, Sheriff,” Kaiser says. “If I make it plain that Sonny’s going to spend the last years of his life in Angola if he doesn’t turn state’s evidence—and at the same time offer him and his family federal witness protection—Thornfield will crack.”
Kaiser is right. In terms of planning his interrogation, Walker Dennis probably never got much past walking in, slamming the meth down on a table, and giving Snake an ultimatum. And that would be effective enough to accomplish my initial goal—distracting Forrest from hunting my father. But if Kaiser is willing to use the fear created by the planted meth, and pile what he knows on top of that, then Sonny might actually agree to flip on his comrades. If he does that, we might learn not only where Dad is, but also who killed Viola—not to mention getting enough testimony to send Forrest and Snake to prison. Closing deals like that often takes days, of course, not hours; but if I don’t at least admit the logic of Kaiser’s argument, he’ll suspect I was part of the planted meth gambit from the start.
“He’s making sense, Walker,” I say, still wondering if Sheriff Dennis condemned himself to prison by planting meth at Billy Knox’s residence.
Perceiving my wavering support as a betrayal, Walker launches into an impassioned defense of his jurisdiction and his need to prove to the people of his parish that the era of police corruption has come to an end. While Kaiser suffers patiently through this, my cell phone vibrates. Slipping it partway out of my pocket, I see a text message from a number I don’t recognize. I almost ignore it, but then a little voice tells me I can’t afford to ignore anything today. Sliding the phone farther out of my pocket, I see this message:
This is Walt. Ur father’s been taken. I’m on my way to Natchez. ETA 8 mins. If we don’t find Tom quick, he’s dead. He could be already. (Yeah, it’s me, boy. We first met on the Alvarez case.)
The final parenthetical sends a chill across my neck and scalp. Someone trying to lure me outside might claim to be “Walt” or “Walt Garrity,” but no one involved with this case could possibly know that Walt and I first met during a murder case in Houston, when he worked as an investigator for DA Joe Cantor.
If we don’t find Tom quick, he’s dead. He could be already. . . .
Walker is still pontificating to Kaiser, who quietly responds in logical counterpoint that has no effect whatever on the sheriff. While this clumsy dance continues, my mind slips quietly but inexorably free from its moorings. Too much has happened too quickly over the past few days, and I’ve had too little rest to process this new information with anything like objectivity.
“Penn?” says Sheriff Dennis. “Did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry. What?”
Kaiser is watching me with an inquisitive gaze, and I can’t summon a mask to put him off. All I can think about is marching back to the cellblock and sticking a gun in Sonny Thornfield’s mouth and forcing him to tell me where my father is. Given the circumstances and the time frame, it seems the only logical thing to do.
“Penn?” asks Kaiser. “What’s the matter?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, blood pounding in my ears. Walt’s desperate text message is unspooling continually across my field of vision, like the news crawl on CNN. “I just hit a wall. All this talk . . . not enough sleep.”
Sheriff Dennis is watching me with equal concern from behind his desk. Before Kaiser can say anything else, Walker leans forward and says, “Agent Kaiser, you’ve gathered a lot of valuable psychological information. And you seem to have had it for quite some time. I suppose you were going to act on it sometime in the future, but in the meantime, Henry Sexton is dead. Sleepy Johnston is dead. And two of my deputies are, too.”
Kaiser tries to interrupt Dennis’s flow, but I don’t hear a word he says. If we’re going to find my father, neither Kaiser’s tactics nor Walker’s will be fast enough. I need answers now. After closing my eyes a moment to settle my nerves, I take out my cell phone and text Walt:
Understood. Wait for me or Sheriff Dennis in the Conc. Parish sheriff’s west parking lot.
Then, after a covert glance at Kaiser, who’s speaking earnestly to Sheriff Dennis, I text Walker the following:
You have to let Kaiser question Snake. I just got a life or death message about my father. Hostage situation. I need instant answers or he’s dead. As soon as Kaiser gets going with Snake, isolate Sonny where no one can hear him scream. Retired Texas Ranger Walt Garrity will be waiting in west pking lot in 5 mins. Bring him inside to assist. Text me when it’s set up. Walt is old school, tough as a boot heel. Help me, buddy. I’d do it for you. P
Walker may not want to comply with my demand, but he can’t refuse the only man who knows that he planted drugs on the prisoners now locked inside his jail. While Kaiser continues his impassioned plea, I hold up my cell phone where only Dennis can see, then quickly lower it. Sheriff Dennis isn’t the most subtle man alive, but he manages to cover his confusion quickly enough to prevent Kaiser from noticing our exchange. When his cell phone pings a few seconds later, Walker takes it out casually and glances at it as if dealing with some routine request from one of his men. Then his big eyebrows knit like those of a wise old hound pondering some unfamiliar animal.
“John,” I say, to distract Kaiser, “you’re crazy if you don’t use the meth against the Double Eagles. You’ll never have more leverage than you do right now.”
Before Kaiser can reply, Walker sighs heavily, as though in surrender, then says, “I tell you what, Agent Kaiser. You’ve convinced me to give you a shot. One shot. Let’s walk over to the interrogation room, and I’ll have Snake Knox brought in. I’ll give you your chance to play him the way you want. We’ll see how you do. After that, we’ll reevaluate the situation.”
Kaiser blinks in surprise, but he loses no time getting to his feet and following Walker into the hall. As he leaves the office, I pick up the vibe of a man who feels he’s been manipulated but isn’t quite sure how. I shut the door and call Walt’s cell phone back.
“Talk to me, Penn,” he says. “What’s your status?”
“I’m still inside the CPSO. We were about to interrogate Snake Knox and his crew.”
“I’m real close to you. There isn’t time to catch you up on everything. From the signs I saw, I think Tom is probably being held by some of Forrest Knox’s SWAT guys, but I don’t know where. Snake Knox might, though.”
“We can’t get to Snake. But Sonny Thornfield might know, and we can get to him. Where’s Forrest now?”
“Less than five miles from you, at a house on Lake Concordia. But that Redbone’s with him, Ozan. I sneaked into the house and searched it. Tom’s definitely not there.”
“Do you think Dad could be at that hunting camp in Lusahatcha County?”
“Not likely. I just got out of there myself.”
“It’s a big place, though, right?”
“A few thousand acres, at least.”
“Then we need to get a look at it.”
“You’ll never get a warrant fast enough. These guys have connections all over Mississippi and Louisiana. We’ve got to twist the truth out of somebody who knows.”
“I’m on it. I want to check out Valhalla. With some luck, maybe I can arrange an overflight of the property. One that won’t require a search warrant. Meanwhile, you get your ass into the CPSO parking lot and wait. I’ll either come out to get you or send Sheriff Dennis out. And you be ready to twist somebody hard.”
“I’m past ready, son. Just get me in the room.”
FORREST KNOX THREW HIS StarTac phone against the wall of the lake house so hard that Alphonse Ozan jumped, and one of the two Black Team officers inside came running to the glass door.
“That double-crossing old son of a bitch,” Forrest shouted, turning to Ozan. “He told me to go fuck myself!”
Ozan didn’t know what to say.
“Snake’s taken Tom Cage!”
“What?”
“I had trouble reaching the Black Team guys in Garrity’s van this morning, but I put it down to the crappy reception down near Monterey. I guess you’d better send those two inside back down to the oil field and see what the damage is.”
Ozan’s face had gone dark. “You don’t think they shot any of our guys. . . .”
Forrest thought for a moment. “I don’t think Snake is that crazy, but you never know.”
“If he snatched Cage from the Black Team, there’s no way they’re gonna let that pass. They’ll kill his ass.”
Forrest snorted. “They had their chance last night, apparently, and they didn’t manage it. It never pays to underestimate Snake Knox.”
Ozan started to open the glass door, but Forrest said, “You know what? I’m worried Dr. Cage is already dead. Snake’s wanted him dead since Monday afternoon.”
“Yeah,” Ozan agreed. “I got that feeling myself.”
“We’ve got to find out. If he is alive, we can still use him. We have to think about where Snake could stash him and feel like he was safe on ice.”
“You don’t think the FBI could have the doc, do you?”
Forrest felt a chill run up his back. “Hell, no. If they did, why would Snake tell us he had him?”
“He might be working with ’em.”
Forrest considered this for exactly three seconds. “No chance. He’d castrate himself first. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fuck me if he thought I betrayed him. And he said I’d better have him and his crew out of jail in an hour.”
“Ain’t no way,” said Ozan. “Not with that much dope hanging around their necks. Not unless we take over the whole damned department.”
Forrest nodded. “I was considering that last night, but now that Dennis has pulled this meth switch, and with the FBI involved—and Snake being my uncle—there’d be too damned much scrutiny.”
Ozan grunted in agreement.
“Still no word on Mackiever resigning?” Forrest asked.
The Redbone shook his head. “Nobody’s texted or e-mailed me.”
“All right, then. If we’re going to bust Snake out of there soon, we’re going to have to think outside the box. We need reliable people, but they have to be several layers removed from us.”
Ozan nodded but offered no names.
Forrest looked out over the lake and considered the problem for a while. The low December sun had finally hit the water, and he could see fish jumping among the cypress knees. As he watched them, an ironic idea came to him. Ironic, and inspired.
“I think I know just who to call,” he said.
“Who?” asked the Redbone.
“You’ll find out. But we need to keep up the appearance of playing by the rules. You don’t have any word on Claude Devereux yet?”
“Nothing.”
“That lying Cajun. I’m going to roast him over a slow fire when this is all over.”
“Amen to that,” said the Redbone. “He’s always gotten on my nerves.”
“Then find him, Alphonse.”
Ozan nodded and punched a new number into his phone.
CLAUDE DEVEREUX WAS HALFWAY to Lafayette, Louisiana, driving a careful seven miles over the speed limit. It had taken him longer than he’d hoped to pack, but that came from not preparing sooner. He should have known that after Brody Royal’s death, the old order would start to break apart, with all the attendant chaos and risk that accompanied such changes.
He was taking a risk going to Lafayette, but he couldn’t bear to leave the country without seeing his grandchildren one last time. Given the crimes in which his employers had embroiled him, he might have to stay away for some time, years even, and at his age, he could easily die before he got a chance to return. In case of that eventuality, there were certain papers Claude wanted to give to his daughter. He could have mailed them, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same. He wanted to see Adeline’s lovely face when he told her there were millions that she had no idea existed, and that every dollar would pass to her someday.
The problem was, traveling from Vidalia to Lafayette meant driving through Baton Rouge (unless you wanted the trip to take twice as long as necessary), and Baton Rouge was Forrest’s home base. Still, Claude figured he had a couple of hours before Forrest realized something was really wrong. By then, he would have hugged his family, given them their gifts, and headed west to Houston, where he would board a plane bound for the Cayman Islands.
Devereux’s Catholic faith had lapsed more than six decades ago, but as he reached the outskirts of Baton Rouge, Claude began a litany of Hail Marys that would not cease until he had passed over the Atchafalaya Swamp to the west.
