Natchez Burning (104 page)

His words stung like a swarm of hornets, because they were partly true. He got up and flattened his hands on her desk, his lips pale with emotion. “Are you seriously willing to keep my father’s life at risk so that you can beat everyone else into print with this story?”

Penn’s unfiltered anger was hard to withstand, but she found strength in her conviction that only the truth could gain justice for the victims who had suffered so long. “I think your father has always had it in his power to resolve this situation. If Tom is going to be saved, it won’t be by us. He’s going to have to do it himself. All we can do is what we think is best, each by our own lights. That’s why I have to write this story.”

“How can you face Annie and my mother if you do that?”

She turned up her palms. “I think we’ll both have a lot to explain, if it comes to that.”

He sagged against her desk. “Maybe it’s a blood thing. Maybe if it was
your
father running for his life, you’d feel like I do.”

She was too exhausted to think anymore. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t.”

Caitlin glanced at her watch. The absolute deadline was coming at her like a train out of a dark tunnel. “I really have no more time. None. Not if we’re going to get this mess out tomorrow.”

Penn regarded her with disconcerting intensity. “It’s your decision. You know how I feel. Do what you think is right, and we’ll go on from there … if we can.”

She felt dizzy. “Are you serious?”

He reached out and took her left hand. His skin felt cold. “We’ve been together for most of the past seven years,” he said. “That’s a long time to be involved without getting married. And if we really look at what’s kept us from taking that last step … it was your career. We met during the biggest murder case this town ever saw. You won your Pulitzer for your coverage. But deep down, you’ve always felt constrained here. Every couple of years, you’ve had to break out and hitch your wagon to some shooting star of a story to keep from going crazy. And that’s okay. But I also think it says something about what’s most important to you.”

Caitlin was trembling. She knew he could feel it through her hand. “That’s really going around the world for an insult. I think I’ve made my case tonight. And I think a lot of people would say my motives are purer than yours.”

“Now who’s talking like a lawyer?” he asked gently. “You’re right about one thing: this story is huge. But what matters in it are the people involved, not the articles written about it. You know me, Caitlin. I won’t let Brody Royal escape punishment for the things he did.”

“You promised him that you would.”

“I’m not bound by a promise to a murderer. In the end, justice will be done, no matter who prints the story. I’ll make sure of that. Kaiser will, too.”

“What’s written about it matters,” Caitlin insisted, her voice quavering. “The story matters.”

Penn nodded, but she could see that he didn’t agree. Not really. And if she were brutally honest with herself, she didn’t only want the story told;
she wanted to be the one to tell it
.

“Tell me one thing,” she said. “Did you mention ‘Huggy Bear’ to Royal? Or ‘Gates Brown’? Did you tell Royal there was a witness who could put him inside Albert Norris’s store on the day of that murder?”

“Yes. I had to frighten him into a corner.”

Her cheeks felt cold. “Did you promise to give Royal that man’s name?”

“I don’t even know his name!”

She shook her head slowly. “Brody might not need the name. You know? Just the Detroit Tigers baseball cap, or the Detroit connection. That might be all a man like him needs to find and kill that man, whoever he is.”

“I didn’t give him that stuff!”

“It won’t be hard for him to find out. That’s why I haven’t published a plea for ‘Huggy Bear’ to come forward, or to call my cell. I knew the risk was too great.” Caitlin suddenly knew what she had to do. “I’m standing by my story,” she said in a flat voice. “I’m printing it all in tomorrow’s edition. I’ll show it to you now, if you want to read it.”

Penn dropped her hand and stared at her in disbelief.

“I protected your father. But I didn’t spare Brody Royal anything.”

She stepped behind her chair and laid her quivering hands on its back, as though it were a shield. “I’ve got editors standing by at nine papers, and every one’s on overtime. I’m seriously pissing my father off to make all this happen. Please let me get on with it.”

Penn walked to the credenza, picked up his pistol, and went to the door. With his hand on the knob he let out a long sigh, then turned back to her. “Are you coming home tonight?”

“I can’t—not with all this going on. As soon as the story goes up online, we’re going to have people calling from around the country. Around the world, probably.”

Penn only nodded, but his eyes said,
Which is exactly the way you want it. You and your paper at the center of a media storm.

“Please don’t leave this building by yourself,” he said. “If you do decide to come home, get one of the guys to drive you.”

“I will.” She stood in the awkward silence, searching for words that could magically separate them without pain. “I hope Forrest Knox cancels that APB, anyway.”

Penn started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and went out, quietly closing the door behind him.

For the first time in what seemed a very great while, Caitlin felt tears running down her cheeks. As she tried to catch her breath, Jamie Lewis flung open her door and walked in, a sheaf of paper in his hand.

“Shit!” he cursed. “I thought you guys would never finish. Where are you on the hub story?”

Caitlin shook her head, then looked up and tried to blink away the tears.

“Jesus,” Jamie said. “Are you
crying
?”

CAITLIN LEFT HER EDITOR
standing openmouthed in her office and raced for the back door, hoping to catch Penn before he left the employee parking lot. She didn’t really expect to overtake him, but when she threw open the door, she saw him standing about ten feet away, as though waiting for her. Blessed relief surged through her, until she saw two men standing beside Penn with pistols in their hands. There was blood over Penn’s left eye, and a cop lying prostrate on the ground behind him. She felt herself backing up even before she knew what she was doing.

“If you go back inside,” said one of the gunmen, “we’ll shoot him right here.”

“Go, Caitlin,” Penn said firmly. “Right now. Lock the door and call 911.”

The older man raised his pistol and pressed the barrel against Penn’s right temple. The gunman’s face was pale and bland beneath his long hair, and appeared to be without mercy or even concern.

Go,
Penn mouthed silently.
I love you.

“What is it you want?” Caitlin asked.

“Mr. Royal wants to talk to you,” said the younger gunman, who had a crew cut and looked slightly less ruthless than his partner. “Both of you.”

Brody Royal.
Caitlin saw a van parked beyond the men, smoke puffing from its tailpipe. Penn stared into her eyes with chilling urgency. Then he shook his head.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, “but she stays here. If we don’t go soon, one of Chief Logan’s squad cars is going to circle through this lot.”

“He’s right,” said the younger man.

“Just a second,” said Longhair. He was looking at a cell phone while he covered Penn with the gun in his other hand. “This is going to be good. Watch.”

“Go, Caitlin,” Penn said again.
“Right now
.
”

She wanted to obey, but deep within her brain, a bundle of nerve fibers told her that if she tried to flee, the tall man would kill Penn while his partner went after her. Penn’s eyes fairly blazed out an order to run, but before she could make a decision, someone flung her purse through the door behind her, then pulled it shut. She heard the bolt slide home.

What the hell?
she thought, unable to believe that one of her employees would participate in her kidnapping. Then a thought flashed through her—

My .38’s in that purse!
Her heart began to pound.
Should I grab for it, or just act like I’m casually picking it up?

The younger gunman made the decision for her. Aiming his automatic at her head, he lunged forward and snatched up the purse.

“Get in the fucking van!” he shouted.

With a last desolate look at Caitlin, Penn turned and walked to the van’s side door as though in complete surrender. As Longhair slid the door open, Penn hurled himself backward and shouted, “
Run, Caitlin! Run for the street!
”

She broke to her left, then hesitated as Longhair hammered his pistol against Penn’s neck, knocking him to the concrete. Her hesitation doomed her. The younger man was two steps faster than she, and fifteen yards down the wall he rode her into the cement. When she struggled to her knees, he punched the side of her head, and she felt her jaw rattle. Blinking away tears, she tried to clear her head, then toppled over like an animal darted with a tranquilizer.

The hands that grabbed her armpits felt made of stone, and they lifted her without effort. The last thing she remembered was the sound of duct tape being ripped from a roll.

WHEN HENRY’S MOTHER
finally reached his secret treatment room, she took off her 1950s-vintage hat and began sobbing as though he were dead. He tried to reassure her, but any embrace was prevented by the hastily assembled equipment that surrounded his hospital bed.

“Do you know what the FBI agent outside told me?” his mother asked, after they’d both regained their composure.

“What?”

“Not to tell you Sherry had passed away.” His mother suppressed another sob, wiped her eyes. “As if I would lie to my own son.”

Henry nodded. The FBI still seemed intent on keeping him in the dark about Sherry’s fate. They probably meant well, but he resented it nonetheless. “I guess they think I’m a basket case,” he said. “And maybe they’re right.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, her jaw setting with anger. “They’re the ones who let you get shot!”

“You’re right.” They fell into a tense but companionable silence. After what seemed to Henry a couple of minutes, he said, “Did you bring the things I asked for?”

She nodded, worry etched in her face.

“Good. We may not have much time. Can you help me with these IVs?”

A retired nurse, Mrs. Sexton had no problem removing the IV lines from his hands, then placing bandages over the infusion sites. “Compress that left one,” she said. “The problem is your cardiac leads. As soon as we disconnect them, somebody’s gonna come running.”

Henry had already solved this problem. “Uh-uh. You’re going to put them on in my place. You know exactly where they go, don’t you?”

His mother sighed, then nodded in resignation. “I hope you know what you’re doing. You know I don’t believe in violence. Not without grave provocation, anyway. Old Testament provocation.”

Henry met her gaze and uncloaked a small fraction of his anguish.

His mother shut her eyes, then turned away.

“But you brought what I asked for?” he repeated. “Everything?”

“Yes.”

Lifting a shopping bag from the floor, she removed three items Henry had requested and laid them gently on the bed. Then she unbuttoned her blouse and unsnapped her brassiere. When both she and Henry were ready, she rapidly transferred the cardiac sensors to her own body. An alarm tripped for a few seconds, then returned to normal.

“You’d better go now,” she advised.

On his first try to rise from the bed, Henry got so dizzy that he fell back on the mattress. His mother told him to forget it, but he only redoubled his efforts. The second time, with her help, he managed to get to his feet. The pain took his breath away—worse in his head than in his belly, where the knife had gone in.
Probably from the bullet,
he realized.

While waiting for his mother, Henry had shaved his mustache, his goatee, his lower legs, and the backs of his hands, thanks to a cup of water and a toiletry kit begged from Irma McKay. From his mother’s handbag he took her extra wig and fitted it over his head. She made a few small adjustments, then lay back on the bed. Finally he donned an old raincoat of his father’s that resembled the coat she’d worn into the hospital. He hated wearing anything that reminded him of that man, but tonight he was willing to bear it. The coat pockets held a pair of sturdy sandals, which he carefully donned by dropping them to the floor and sliding his feet into them.

“You’re not on IV pain meds anymore,” his mother said. “I had some OxyContin left at home from my last surgery, so you’ll have to make do with that. But it’s not the same as Dilaudid or fentanyl.”

“I’ll be all right,” he assured her, his head feeling like a water-filled balloon. “Just as long as I make it past the guard at the side door.”

His mother rose up far enough to put an arm around his waist and gently hug him. “I wish I could help you more. But I know God is watching over you. If he wasn’t, you would have died tonight.”

With great effort, Henry bent and kissed the top of her head. Then he put on her hat, picked up her purse, walked slowly to the door, and gave her their prearranged signal: the “okay” sign.

“You take care of yourself, honey!” his mother called loudly. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Don’t you bother these nurses too much, all right? They need some rest, too.”

“I won’t,” Henry said in a dull voice.

Then he opened the door and, with his chin touching his chest, walked right past the FBI guard stationed outside, who sat in a folding chair, typing a text message. Henry made his way down the hall to the right, aping his mother’s painful stoop with an ache that he didn’t have to fake. With his mother’s purse hanging on his arm, he brushed back the hair of the wig with what he fancied an authentically feminine gesture and padded slowly toward the hospital’s side exit. The pain wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, thanks to the Dilaudid still coursing through his system, no doubt. But soon that cushion would vanish. All the way down the hall, he waited for the cry of “Halt!” like a POW trying to escape from some prison camp. But the FBI agent never called out. Nobody did.