Turning Angel (31 page)

”And the other things tied up with it. Race problems, teenagers in trouble, big enough money to draw out-of-town predators.“

”What about this Marko kid?“ Logan asked. ”What’s his story?“

”You didn’t have him on your radar before this?“

”No.“

”He’s a Croatian exchange student who wants to be Al Pacino.“

”What?“

”Nothing. Just something Sonny Cross said.“

Chief Logan looked like he wanted more information, but I was too tired to tell what I knew about Marko Bakic. ”What’s your problem with Quentin Avery, Don?“

The chief took out a cigarette and lit it. After a couple of drags, he said, ”Avery sued my uncle in a personal injury case. Danny Richards. Uncle Danny owned a trucking company. They hauled pulpwood, mostly. Well, one of his drivers was drunk one Friday. Black, of course. Some of those guys buy two cases of beer in the morning and drink all day up in the cab. It’s crazy, of course, but how you gonna stop them? Uncle Danny checked his drivers lots of times, but you can’t be up in the trucks with them all the time. Anyway, this particular driver overcorrected on a turn and spilled a load of logs on a housewife coming back from the grocery store. Paralyzed her. Avery took the case and pushed it to the limit. The driver didn’t have anything but a mountain of debt, so he spent a few years in jail, then got out. He’s driving log trucks again.“

”And your uncle?“

”Avery shut him down. All the assets of his company were seized to pay the punitive damages. The case was litigated in Jefferson County, of course. Uncle Danny killed himself two years later. Drove into a bridge piling, stone sober in broad daylight, one-car accident.“

”I’m sorry.“

Chief Logan blew out a long stream of smoke. ”That motherfucker comes into my station, he’d better hope there’s people around the whole time. Otherwise, he just might slip on a banana peel.“

I waited for more, but the chief added nothing to his story. It’s an ancient rule: lawyers make enemies. ”I’ll see you, Don.“

He dropped his butt and ground it out on the pavement. ”Yeah.“

As I drive away from the police station, my mind constructs a montage of images I never saw in life but which I now know happened: Cyrus White being attacked by a black-masked killer; the ethereal Kate Townsend walking alone into the Brightside Manor Apartments to score drugs for her married lover’s wife. And playing beneath these images like the black-and-white filmstrips of carnage I saw in driver’s education class, the death of Sonny Cross, my own personal nightmare of muzzle flashes and panic and black blood. My feelings about Sonny remain mixed. He was a flawed man, but he did his best to protect his hometown from a scourge he knew more intimately than most of us. It was an obligation he felt deeply, and as he died, he passed part of that obligation on to me, like a falling soldier passing a regimental banner to a comrade.

Reflecting on the hurricane of violence that began spinning through my town two days ago, I ask myself what lies in the eye of that storm. And the answer that comes to me is simple:
Marko Bakic.
Given what I told Sheriff Byrd tonight about Sonny’s interrogation of Marko this afternoon, Marko is probably sitting under a hot light down at the sheriff’s department right now. But maybe not. Billy Byrd has a lot to deal with tonight.

Dialing Directory Assistance on my cell phone, I request the home phone number of Paul Wilson, the retired professor who sponsored Marko in the student exchange program. It’s after eleven, but Paul keeps late hours. I’ve seen him jogging with his dog after midnight in his subdivision. I know this because I often keep late hours myself, especially when I’m writing. After Paul’s phone rings five times, I start to hang up, but then the professor answers in a wide-awake voice.

”Penn Cage! What’s up, fella?“ Paul is a Yankee, and he obviously saw my name on his caller ID.

”Hey, Paul. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.“

”It’s not late over here. Janet and I were just having a glass of pinot noir and watching Puccini on PBS.“

A hysterical laugh almost escapes my mouth. Paul has instantly fulfilled my stereotypical image of him. I’ve heard that he and Janet drink a lot of wine, and I know from talking to him that he listens to too much NPR.

”Have you heard from the police tonight?“ I ask.

There’s a brief silence on Paul’s end. ”As a matter of fact, the sheriff called. He was quite rude, actually.“

”Are they questioning Marko now?“

”No, Marko’s out on a date.“

”I didn’t think kids went on dates anymore.“

Paul laughs. ”They don’t really, but Marko and this girl spend a lot of time together.“

”She’s his girlfriend?“

”Well, she’s quite taken with him. Obsessed, I would venture to say. But I don’t think Marko confines himself to one girl. When he was a child, he learned not to get attached to anyone, because he might lose them at any moment.“

”Is Marko usually late getting in?“

”Sometimes he doesn’t get in at all, to be honest. Sometimes he stays at Alicia’s house.“

”Alicia Reynolds?“ I ask, thinking of a troubled girl in the senior class.

”That’s right.“

I turn onto the bypass and drive in the direction of Paul’s subdivision. ”Paul, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Marko?“

”Not at all. I know you’ve spoken up for him at least once on the school board, and I appreciate it. But before you ask me anything, let me say this. I know a lot of people think I just bury my head in the sand when it comes to that boy. But that’s not the case at all. Nobody around here has any idea what Marko went through in Bosnia. He was in Sarajevo during the worst of it, Penn. He was ten years old, and he saw unspeakable things there. Nobody who experiences those kinds of things comes out whole on the other side—especially a child. Marko doesn’t talk about it, but I know some.“

”Would you feel comfortable sharing any of it with me? It might be relevant to the current situation.“

”Well…Marko reminds me of that kid in
Empire of the Sun,
the Spielberg film about World War Two. Christian Bale plays the kid. He’s in a prison camp, and conditions are abominable. John Malkovich teaches Bale to survive, and Bale becomes the consummate hustler. That’s Marko. And if that’s what you are, you don’t change overnight just because you’ve been dropped into the land of milk and honey.“

”Have you ever seen Marko get violent?“

”Never.“

”The kids at school think he carries a gun.“

Silence. ”I’ve certainly never seen him with a gun. I’m not saying it’s impossible, considering his level of paranoia. But I’ve never seen one. I’d be very disappointed if I did.“

You might be disappointed. Someone else might be dead.
”Do you keep guns in the house, Paul?“

”Not one. I’m a firm advocate of gun control.“

”Hm.“

”Penn, I heard a rumor that the board is thinking of expelling Marko. Maybe even trying to get him deported.“

Wonderful.
As I told Holden Smith, nothing in those meetings stays secret. ”Just between you and me, Paul, that’s true. I told them they couldn’t do it without proof that he’s broken the rules.“

”I see. Penn…I know it’s late, but I think perhaps you and I should have a face-to-face conversation about Marko. If he’s in serious trouble, I need to know the extent of it. And I know some things about his experiences in Sarajevo that you should probably be aware of.“

I look at my watch. 11:25 p.m. Mia is probably getting antsy by now. But on the other hand, Marko is the biggest question mark in this whole bloody mess. And after having Sonny Cross’s gun stuck into his mouth this afternoon, there’s no telling what he might decide to do tonight.

”I think that’s a good idea, Paul. I’ll be there in ten minutes.“

”I’ll pour you a glass of wine.“

I dial home, and Mia answers, her voice alert.

”How you doing, girl?“

”I’m good. Annie’s sound asleep.“

”Why aren’t you?“

”I finished Bowles’s book, and I started
The Secret History.
I meant to read just one chapter, but it hooked me. I can’t believe this was written by a girl from Mississippi.“

”In longhand, no less. Don’t you ever just have fun?“

”This is my idea of fun, believe it or not.“

As I ask Mia if she can stay another hour, a crackle of static fills my ear. Then the felt wall of silence that heralds a failing connection greets me. I accelerate up the hill in front of me until my phone shows three bars, then pull over to the curb and dial Mia again.

”Can you hear me now?“ she asks.

”Yeah, I had to pull over. Can you stay another hour?“

”Sure.“

”What will your mom say?“

”I already called her and told her I might have to stay over.“

This takes me aback. ”Meredith was okay with that?“

”Yeah. She knows you’re working on Drew’s case.“

”How does she feel about Drew after all she’s heard?“

”She’s reserving judgment. Mom doesn’t put much stock in gossip. She’s always respected Drew, and she told me she has a really hard time believing he could have killed Kate.“

”But she believes he slept with her?“

”Oh, yeah. I mean…he’s a guy, right?“

I laugh softly. ”Well, I don’t think you’ll have to stay over. I’m going by Paul Wilson’s house, but it shouldn’t take long.“

A sudden tension enters her voice. ”Are you going to talk to Marko?“

”I’d like to, but he’s not there. He’s out with his girlfriend.“

Mia makes a derogatory noise.

”What is it?“

”Marko doesn’t have a girlfriend.“

”Then what was Paul talking about? What about Alicia Reynolds?“

”
God.
Alicia worships Marko. She’s kind of…I don’t know, Goth, I guess. For about a year she had black fingernails. Now all she talks about is Third World debt. I think she’s kind of a sex slave for him, actually.“

”But not his girlfriend.“

”Marko’s not into boundaries. He takes whatever he can get.“

”Does that make him different from most of the guys you know?“

”Well…I guess when it comes down to it, no.“

”Okay, thanks. I’d better get going.“

”Hey, wait,“ Mia says. ”I heard a cop got killed tonight. Is that true?“

The cellular jungle drums are beating overtime tonight. ”Yes.“

”Do you know who did it?“

”Sort of.“

”Was the killer local?“

”Why do you ask that?“

”I didn’t figure you’d tell me who it actually was. So I asked for what you could tell me.“

”You seem to realize the drug business extends outside of Natchez.“

”Well, sure. They don’t grow the stuff here. Except for some shitty pot out in Jefferson County.“

”Mia, I think you should consider a career in law enforcement.“

”I might. But I don’t think they teach that at Brown.“

I laugh again. ”I’ll see you in less than an hour.“

”If I fall asleep, wake me up.“

”I will,“ I tell her, realizing as I do that we sound like nothing so much as a married couple.

The Wilsons live on Espero Drive, part of a large subdivision built in the 1970s, one that I once thought of as the ”new“ part of Natchez. Now Espero and its parallel street, Mansfield Drive, are shaded by mature oaks and house many retired couples who keep perfectly manicured lawns. The Wilson house is a one-story ranch set well back from the road. Behind it and to the right stands a two-story garage, the upper story containing the apartment where Marko lives.

I park on the street and walk up a flower-lined sidewalk, trying to recall what I can about Paul Wilson. His wife is a Natchez native, but Paul hails from Ohio. He taught political science for years at the University of Southern Mississippi at Hattiesburg, about three hours by car from Natchez. I once attended a lecture he gave on race relations, at the Natchez Literary Festival, and I was impressed. Paul seemed to have a better grasp of his subject than most Yankees ever get, and I credited his wife for that. He probably knows more about the former Yugoslav republics than I could learn in a year, and I suspect that his choice of Marko Bakic as an exchange student was rooted in that knowledge. On the other hand, he might simply have been assigned Marko at random.

The doorbell rings loudly enough for me to hear it through the door, but no one answers. I wait about thirty seconds, then ring it again.

Nothing.

Maybe Marko got home, and they went out to his room to talk to him. I step over some shrubs and walk around the right side of the house, where the driveway runs back to the garage. Rather than interrupt a family conference, I decide to check the rear of the house proper. If I remember right, the Wilsons added a large sunroom to the main house a couple of years back.

They did. The glass enclosure juts out unnaturally from the original brick, but I imagine the Wilsons were more than willing to trade symmetry for a nice place to drink wine and admire their garden without mosquitoes eating them alive.

As I move closer, I see Janet Wilson sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom. I don’t see Paul. I’m walking up to the glass door to knock when something stops me cold. From this distance, what I thought was a floral print on Janet Wilson’s blouse looks more like spattered blood. With my own blood roaring in my ears, I scan the yard behind me for intruders.

Nothing.

I lean against the door and search the rest of the room with my eyes. Two chairs lie on their sides, possible signs of a struggle. Then I see Paul. He’s lying facedown on a pale blue sofa, and this, too, is splashed with blood. I pull out my cell phone and dial 911, not quite believing that I’m reporting murder for the second time in one night.

”911 emergency,“ says the dispatcher.

”This is Penn Cage again,“ I whisper. ”I’m at 508 Espero Drive, and I have two probable homicide victims. Paul and Janet Wilson. I need paramedics and cops. The killer could still be on the property.“

”Could you speak up, sir?“

”
No.
Double homicide, 508 Espero. Get two squad cars and an ambulance here, and tell them to come with sirens screaming.“