Death Trance (8 page)

At last, however, there was silence. It must have been almost dawn because the bedroom was illuminated in a ghostly blue light. Issa seemed to be either asleep or unconscious, but Marmie could feel the girl's heart beating and feel her breath on her shoulder, so she knew that at least Issa was alive.

Marmie tried to lift her head. It seemed as if the bedroom were empty and that the men had gone. She listened but there was no sound, only the early morning sapsuckers tapping at the trees outside, only the thin whistle of the wind across the lake. She thought about her ordeal but her mind refused to organize it for her. Instead, it told her with protective logic that she had suffered terribly and that it would take many years before she would be able to come to terms with what had happened. She knew that John and Mark were dead, but her tear ducts refused to indulge her grief. She knew that she and Issa had been grotesquely bound and raped, but she could think of nothing other than
How are we going to cut ourselves free?

'Issa,’ she whispered. 'Issa, darling.’

Issa opened the one eye that Marmie could see.

'Momma.’
That simple word bore all her suffering and sadness. In one night, Issa's family had gone, her innocence was lost, everything the world had given her had been stripped away.

'Issa, listen to me. Everything's going to be fine. All we have to do is untie ourselves. Then we can call the rangers and have the plane sent out.’

'Momma, they killed John.’

'Yes, my darling. They killed Mark too. But don't think about it. Everything's going to be fine, just as long as we take it easy and don't panic.’

'Momma,’ wept Issa, close to hysteria.

Marmie shushed her, hugged her tight and called her all the pet names she could remember. 'Come on, baby, it's over. It was terrible, but now it's over. Come on, baby, don't cry.’

It was then, however, that the bedroom door abruptly opened and Marmie froze. From where she was lying, with her neck tied to Issa's, she could not see who had stepped into the room. But after a tense pause, the man with the axe came into sight and bent over them, his eyes glinting inside his mask. Marmie said nothing; she felt too vulnerable and too frightened. Besides, the man was unpredictable. He did not speak even now but only stared at her as if relishing her predicament. He lifted the axe blade and held it close to Marmie's face, and although it was impossible for her to see his face, she found it easy to believe that he was smiling.

'What are you going to do?’ she asked, her voice a gasp.

The man stood up and beckoned one of the others from the doorway. This man came forward with a coil of barbed wire, one end of which had been fashioned into a noose 'Momma, what is it?’ begged Issa. 'What is it? What are they doing?’

Marmie knew then that she would not be able to bear what the men were going to do to them. 'Shoot us,’ she said hoarsely.

The man with the axe slowly and deliberately shook his head.

'Shoot us!’ screamed Marmie. 'Shoot us, for the love of God! Shoot us!’

CHAPTER THREE

Memphis, Tennessee

Randolph called Marmie as soon as he awakened at six-thirty that morning, but there was no reply. He sat at the small white cast-iron table on the bedroom balcony, overlooking the walled garden that Marmie had planted with roses and magnolias, drinking strong black coffee, eating buttered toast and reading the early morning edition of the
Memphis Press-Scimitar,
which announced, 'Clare Blaze "Not Arson" Opines Police Chief.’

He picked up the white cordless telephone beside the silver coffee pot and asked for a second time to be put through to the cottage on Lac aux Ecorces. There was a radio-telephone link from Hebertville, although that was nearly thirty-five miles to the north of the lake and reception was sometimes fuzzy and erratic. After ten minutes the operator called back to say that she could rouse no response from Lac aux Ecorces but that she would keep trying at regular fifteen-minute intervals and let him know when she had managed to get through.

Randolph finished his toast, swallowed the last of his coffee and brushed off his white summer trousers. A Tennessee warbler, green-backed and white-fronted, perched on the balcony railing, cocked its head to one side and sang
chip chip chip
before suddenly flying away.

Randolph's valet, Charles, came in, a grey-haired black man who had served Randolph's father for almost thirty years. Charles, as far as Randolph was concerned, was part of the family, even though Charles himself liked to live in the past and distanced himself from his employers with petty courtesies and unsolicited attentions. Randolph often teased Charles by saying that he would have been the despair of Martin Luther King, Jr., but Charles in return would make a show of not thinking that this was a funny joke at all, particularly since the civil rights leader had died in Memphis, at the Lorraine Motel on Mulberry Street.

'Are you going out now, sir?’ Charles asked. He rarely smiled. He reminded Randolph of Dred Scott, or at least of the history-book picture of Dred Scott. Charles, however, would never have such an influence on American life. As far as Charles was concerned, there was a way things should be done: the old way, prior to freedom marches and school bussing and James Meredith.

'I'm going down to Cotton Row for beginners,’ Randolph said as Charles helped him into his coat. 'Then I'm lunching at Grisanti's. As far as the afternoon is concerned, well, that's open-ended. But you can call Wanda if you need to know where I am.’

Charles fussily brushed Randolph's shoulders with a leather-backed brush.

'Listen, Charles, dandruff doesn't show up on a white jacket.’

'Sir, you don't have dandruff.’

'Then why are you brushing me?’

'A gentleman's valet
always
brush a gentleman before a gentleman go out. That's the rule,’ said Charles.

'Who makes the rules around here? Me or you?’

'Those are the kind of rules that
nobody
make. Those are ettykett.’

Herbert, the chauffeur, was waiting in the semicircular asphalt driveway outside Clare Castle in a silver-grey Chrysler New Yorker. Herbert was another of Clare Cottonseed's old retainers. He had a face grizzled up like a red cabbage, white hair that was always firmly greased back and a voice as deep and smooth as the silt that poured down the Mississippi. He opened the car door for Randolph and handed him
The Wall Street Journal.
'Sorry about the car, sir. The Cadillac won't take longer to repair than two or three days.’

Randolph settled into his seat. 'You must tell me about that.’

'Well, sir,’ said Herbert as they started off, 'I couldn't really explain it. I was heading towards the airport on Lamar, all ready to pick you up, with chilled cocktails sitting in the cabinet, and then just when I was turning on to Airways, the brakes failed and I couldn't stop her, two and a half tons of limousine. I ended up halfway down the bank, lucky not to turn over.’

Randolph said, 'Brake failure. That's not common, is it?’

'In a Cadillac limousine, sir? They have dual hydraulic master cylinders, tandem vacuum power boosters, ventilated discs in the front, duo servo drums in the back, four hundred twenty-five square inches swept area, believe me.’ 'What did the mechanic have to say?’ Herbert glanced up at Randolph in the rearview mirror. The mechanic laughed, sir, to my chagrin.’ 'But he couldn't say why the brakes failed?’ 'No, sir. Not unless there was tampering.’ Randolph shook out his
Journal
but did not read the headlines. 'Tampering?’ he asked sharply. 'Well, sir, it could have been deliberate.’ Randolph looked up. 'I think I'm missing something,’ he said. 'Why should anybody have wanted to tamper with my limousine?’

'I don't like to sound pessimistic, sir, but they do say that Clare Cottonseed has become something of an irritation, especially to Mr Greene and the Cottonseed Association. Whether they're trying to tell you something, sir, by way of practical action… well, I don't know about that. But it may be worth bearing in mind.’

'You don't seriously think that somebody from the Margarine Mafia fixed the brakes on my car, do you?’

'It's not beyond the bounds of possibility, sir.’ Again those cornflower-blue eyes floating in the rearview mirror.

Were they stupid or wise? Was Herbert trying to over-dramatize his accident in order to excuse some piece of negligent driving, or had the brakes really failed because Orbus Greene had wanted them to? Could Orbus really have worked himself up to such a pitch of resentment that he was prepared to sabotage factories and kill workers in order to keep total control of the cottonseed market? The newspapers had reported Chief Moyne's opinion that yesterday morning's explosion at Raleigh had been 'unquestionably accidental.’ But then Chief Moyne was a long-standing drinking buddy of Orbus Greene's from the bad old days when Memphis had been nothing more than a jumble of wharves, warehouses and run-down tenements and the city had been controlled by men who could be distinguished from alligators only by the way they laughed. Whatever Chief Moyne decided about a crime, his forensic department took serious note. So no matter how fair and true the
Memphis Press-Scimitar
might endeavour to be, it could report only the information the police department had given it.

Randolph said thoughtfully, 'You're the second person in two days to suggest to me that the Margarine Mafia is starting to put pressure on us.’

'Well, sir, that's the feeling among some of the workers and some of the staff. Maybe it's nothing but rumour. Maybe it's nothing but the summer heat. You know what happens to Memphians in the summer, they always go a little daffy. But somebody's been passing the word, mainly through the union locals. Nothing
o-vert,
if you know what I mean, but with the implication that it might not be too healthy for anyone to work for Clare Cottonseed. Bad moon rising, if you understand me.’

'Has anybody said that to you?’ Randolph asked.

'Not in so many words, sir.’

Then how?’

'Well, sir, I was talking to Mr Graceworthy's driver two or three days back, just after you left for Canada, and he said something that started me thinking. He said, "Have you ever wondered where you might be, Herbert, a year from now?" and I said, "What kind of a question is that?" I mean, we've known each other five or six years, me and Mr Graceworthy's driver, why is he all of a sudden asking me that? But he only says, "Think about it, that's all." And believe me, sir, I did think about it when the Cadillac went off of the road. A year from now, I thought to myself, I could have been doing nothing at all. I could have been dead meat in a box.’

Randolph sat back on the deep cushioned velour seat. There seemed no question but that the Cottonseed Association was trying to make clear to him its displeasure, although for the past six months he had been so preoccupied with his own building and business-investment plans, and so isolated from the daily turmoil of Cotton Row, up in his tenth-storey office or out at Clare Castle, that he had completely failed to sense the increasing hostility that must have been building up against him.

All the same, hostility or not, he still found it hard to believe that anybody from the Cottonseed Association could have been crude enough or violent enough to burn down his factory or to tamper with the brakes of his limousine - not even Orbus Greene for all his grossness, both physical and mental; and certainly not Waverley Graceworthy, the 'Grand Old Man' of Cotton Row.

Yet, apart from Orbus's rancorous remarks last night up at Raleigh, neither Orbus nor Waverley had deigned to speak to Randolph since the Sun-Taste contract had been signed; and Randolph could well believe that the whole cottonseed industry would breathe a mighty sigh of relief if he were to go out of business, or even if he were to end up embedded in one of the reinforced concrete uprights on Interstate 55.

He decided to be cautious and for the time being at least, to
assume
that the Margarine Mafia would much prefer it if he were eliminated. He had seen in the past how quickly a preference could become a reality, especially in a high-keyed city like Memphis. The town had not produced W.C. Handy and Elvis Presley for nothing.

Randolph reached his desk at one minute past eight and immediately pressed the buzzer for Wanda. Behind him, the Mississippi lazed into the morning studded with steamers and necklaced with chains of cotton barges. Wanda came in with a cup of steaming coffee on a silver tray.

'I've been trying to contact Marmie at Lac aux Ecorces,’ he told her. 'The operator is going to keep on trying, but I would appreciate it if you would advise her that I'm here and that I want to speak to Marmie as soon as possible.’

'Of course,’ Wanda replied. She looked crisp and efficient in a white silk blouse and a tight grey skirt, with a fresh camellia pinned to her lapel. There's something else,’ she said. 'I had a call about five minutes ago from Mr Graceworthy's secretary. She said that Mr Graceworthy intends to pay you a visit around eight-thirty.’

'And what did you say to that?’

'I said that you wouldn't be here, that you had to visit the families of the men who had been killed up at Raleigh.’

'And?’

'She said that Mr Graceworthy was coming anyway and that he really would prefer it if you could wait up for him.’

Randolph picked up his coffee and sipped it. 'Brasilia,’ he murmured. He enjoyed being able to identify coffee; it was a knack his father had taught him. Then he said, 'All right. But I'll wait until eight forty-five, no later.’

'Yes, sir. And, sir? These reports came in… from the chief of police, the fire chief and city hall. They all relate to the accident.’

The accident, hmm?’ Randolph asked, putting a slightly sarcastic emphasis on the word 'accident.’

Wanda frowned at him. 'You don't think it
was
an accident?’

'Everybody I meet seems to be nudging me and winking and telling me different. I'm beginning to feel like I'm the only person in town who doesn't know he's got something unpleasant on his shoe.’

'The fire chief said it was an accident.’ Wanda picked up the report and leafed through it. 'Here it is. "Volatile fumes were apparently escaping from a leaking pressure valve in the wintering plant and spontaneously ignited."‘

'And what does Chief Moyne have to say for himself?’

‘"No suspicious circumstances,"‘ Wanda quoted.

Randolph sipped his coffee. 'No suspicious circumstances. I see. Where are my cookies?’

'You told me not to bring you cookies any more. You said they were fattening.’

'Those little Swiss cookies? I told you that?’

Wanda nodded and smiled. 'You said that it was an irrevocable order and that no matter what you said, no matter how much you pleaded, I was never to bring you those cookies again.’

'Well, I irrevocably reverse that irrevocable order. Bring me some cookies.’

Wanda thought for a moment and then said, 'All right, two. And that's your limit.’

Three.’

'Two, and that's not negotiable.’

'Okay, two… and try calling the cabin for me, will you, please? Marmie must be back there by now, wherever she went.’

At that moment Neil Sleaman came in. He was wearing a powder-blue nylon suit, a yellow shirt and a gold-tipped bolo tie.

'Good morning, Mr Clare. I just heard that Waverley Graceworthy has invited himself over.’ 'So it seems.’

Neil sat down uninvited. 'Do you have any idea of what he wants?’

'Do
you?’
asked Randolph. He began to read through the fire chiefs report on the blaze out at Raleigh.

'I guess it has something to do with what Orbus Greene was talking about yesterday, out at the plant.’

'You mean he's going to threaten me, only more politely?’

'You can see the Association's point of view, Mr Clare.’

'Can I?’ queried Randolph, looking up. He smacked the fire chief's report dismissively with the backs of his fingers. 'This whole thing is one weasel word after another. Listen to this: "Although there is no evidence to suggest that safety regulations at the Clare processing plant were not adhered to, there is room for speculation that the valves in the wintering plant were not up to the standards required or had not been maintained up to the standards required." What this actually means is that he has no evidence whatever about what happened out there and he's guessing… only he's making damn sure that we sound as if we've been negligent.’