The Quiet Game (63 page)

I reach under the seat for the cell phone, switch it on, and dial the Natchez
Examiner
. Caitlin has been handling the transportation of my out-of-town witnesses. Huey Moak and Lester Hinson are scheduled to arrive in Baton Rouge tonight, and we’d planned to have one of the Argus men pick them up.

“Penn?” Caitlin asks, after a minute of hold music.

“Yes. Remember, your phone’s tapped.”

“What’s going on? I’ve been freaking out here.”

“Have you asked any of the Argus guys to pick up the witnesses yet?”

“Not yet. I can call them now.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t. Don’t even mention it. I’ll be there soon, and I’ll handle it. Hang tight until then. Stay inside the newspaper building if you can.”

“Penn, Kelly was acting a little strange before he left. Like I might not see him again.”

You might not.
“Things are pretty fluid right now. I’m on my way.”

“Listen. An hour ago my receptionist told me I had a call from the editor of the
Rocky Mountain News
. When I got to the phone, he told me he was sending a reporter down to cover your trial, and he wanted to know if the guy could use our office facilities.”

“And?”

“He said the reporter’s name was Bookbinder. Henry Bookbinder.”

Bookbinder.
Stone’s dead partner. And the
Rocky Mountain News
is based in Denver. I want to scream with joy, but I just say, “Did he say when this reporter would arrive?”

“Only that he’d be here in time to cover the trial. And there’s something else.”

“What?”

“CNN, Court TV, and some others have been pressing Judge Franklin to allow the trial to be televised.”

“Cameras aren’t allowed in Mississippi courtrooms.”

“I know, but this is a civil case. Apparently if both parties agree, the judge could allow it.”

“But why would Leo agree? Portman would tear him a new one if he did.”

“CNN and the other networks have been saying publicly that if Marston and Portman have nothing to hide, they should have no problem with cameras. It’s a PR nightmare for Portman. It’s extortion, basically. I assume you’d have no objection to cameras?”

“Of course not.”

“Good, because I already told a CNN reporter that you didn’t.”

“That’s fine. Listen, if that ‘reporter’ you mentioned shows up, keep him inside the building until I get there.”

“I will.”

“Thanks. I’ll be there before you know it.”

As I hang up the phone, I yell, “You tough old son of a bitch!” Though he is probably a thousand miles away right now, Dwight Stone is almost certainly alive. If he can reach Natchez by tomorrow morning without being killed, my slander trial will provide more fireworks than the city has seen in decades. And Leo Marston will be indicted for murder. Only now that prospect does not offer even a shadow of the satisfaction it would have two days ago. If I’m right about Leo being Jenny Doe’s father, every judgment I ever made about Livy Marston was wrong. In my mind she has already been transformed from a privileged princess into a tragic figure, a lost girl trying to find her way.

I try to keep the Taurus under the speed limit. A state trooper has haunted this stretch of road for years, handing out tickets like confetti. As the hardwood forest drifts past, I lean back in the seat and force myself to ponder one of the connections that came to me last night in the darkness of the Denver motel. Sometime near dawn a remarkable and frightening idea struck me. A possible link between Del Payton and Leo Marston. Dwight Stone believes Ray Presley randomly chose Del Payton to be murdered. But if my theory of paternal incest is true, there could be a secret link joining the Payton and Marston families, one which Dwight Stone would have known nothing about.

Althea Payton.

Althea is a nurse now. She works in the hospital nursery. But where did she work in the 1960s? Could she have worked for a private physician? A pediatrician perhaps? Is it possible that she noticed some physical evidence of sexual abuse while handling Livy Marston and reported it to the doctor? If she had, what would have been the likely result? In the 1960s sexual abuse of children was grossly underreported, and became public only in the most egregious cases. A man as powerful as Leo Marston would have had little to fear from a doctor, especially if the evidence was equivocal. And even if it wasn’t, would the doctor have the nerve to confront Leo? To bring in the police to investigate the district attorney?

Of course, Leo Marston would never have been to the pediatrician’s office.
He wouldn’t have taken time out of his day to carry his daughter to the doctor. Maude would have done that. A pediatrician might have been more comfortable bringing certain suspicious symptoms to the mother’s attention. But if he wasn’t, a compassionate nurse certainly might have. Mother to mother. I can see Althea Payton doing that. Pulling Maude aside and pointing out a couple of things. In the interest of the child.

What would Leo have done if Maude had confronted him with such a thing? Denied it, of course. Deny, deny, deny. Then he would have demanded to know the source of Maude’s suspicions. If she told him it was Althea, what then? Killing Althea would certainly silence her. But it was Del who had died, not his wife. Perhaps Leo had initially taken no action. But later, when the necessity arose to kill a black man to make an example for the Georgia carpet magnate, had Leo chosen Del Payton out of some perverse desire to strike back at the woman who had threatened him? A wild scenario perhaps. But Leo long ago demonstrated his penchant for holding grudges. Whatever the case, unraveling the truth of this low tragedy will be a nightmare for everyone involved. The idea of confronting Livy with my deductions leaves me numb.

A few miles before I reach town, I call Sam Jacobs at work, tell him my family might be in danger, and ask for his help. Jacobs is thirty-eight years old, with a wife and two kids, but by the time I arrive at the Prentiss Motel, he is parked outside with a .357 Magnum sitting on the front seat of his Hummer. When I see that, I know I am looking at the Jewish boy who discovered the list of Klansmen and White Citizens’ Council members in his father’s attic with me twenty-five years ago.

With Sam beside me, I inform the three remaining Argus security men that their services are no longer required. It’s an awkward moment, but they say little and leave the motel with expressionless faces. I’m tempted to tell them to pass a message to their boss when they get back to Houston—that he should look forward to a multimillion-dollar lawsuit—but I don’t want to do anything that might hurt Daniel Kelly in the future.

My parents are stunned by my action, but as soon as I explain what Kelly told me, my father gets on the phone and speaks to two patients of his—avid hunters—and they promise to arrive within the hour, loaded for bear. Dad then makes my day by informing me that while I was in Crested Butte, he finally persuaded Betty Lou Beckham to take the witness stand tomorrow and tell the jury that she saw Ray Presley in the Triton Battery parking lot only seconds after Del Payton died.

What we need now is a new place to stay, a secure location, and it’s my mother who solves this problem. When our house burned, a friend of Mom’s offered us rooms in her bed-and-breakfast, which occupies the slave quarters of her home, Aquitaine, a massive Greek Revival mansion completed in 1843. Not wanting to impose on her friend’s hospitality, Mom declined. But these are special circumstances, and the fall Pilgrimage has just ended, so our staying there won’t cost the chatelaine her peak season fees. One phone call secures us lodgings in the slave quarters of Aquitaine.

Since the fire destroyed most of our things, moving from the motel to the mansion is relatively painless. The two-story slave quarters was sited across the ornamental gardens from the main house, which occupies most of a city block on the north side of town, near Stanton Hall. Once we’re settled in our rooms, I order out for pizza and spend the forty-minute wait playing with Annie in the garden. She dances around the rim of the central fountain like a gymnast, oblivious to the anxiety mounting in the adults as the hours tick down to tomorrow’s trial. That she does not pick up on our feelings shows me just how far she has come in her journey from the hypersensitive state that followed Sarah’s death.

After devouring my share of pizza, I deal with the messages that came in while I was in Crested Butte. Althea Payton called several times, but the most persistent caller was Ike Ransom. Dad says Ike is desperate to talk to me, and that he sounded both angry and afraid during their conservations. I call Althea and give her an encouraging update, editing the violence into a less frightening picture. Nevertheless, she tells me that Del Jr. wants to help me any way he can, and that she’s going to send him over to “help keep the no-goods away” until the trial. In less than an hour, Del arrives carrying a sawed-off shotgun, and takes up a post on the balcony of the slave quarters, overlooking the street.

Which leaves me Ike.

I am not particularly anxious to talk to him after the way he acted at Ruby’s funeral. Whatever the source of his hatred for Leo Marston, it has pushed him into unstable territory. Ike clearly has both a drug and alcohol problem, and since he is unwilling or unable to provide me with any facts that will help prove Marston guilty of murder in a court of law, I see no urgent need to call him.

I call Ray Presley instead. Dwight Stone’s revelation that Marston gave up Presley to the Feds as part of his deal with J. Edgar Hoover was music to my “lawyer’s ear.” Presley considers Leo Marston his friend, and loyalty is the supreme virtue to men of Presley’s ilk. But if Ray was to learn that the five years he spent in Parchman were courtesy of Leo Marston, his attitude toward
the judge might change fast. But whether he will or not remains a mystery, because Presley doesn’t answer his phone.

I am working up the courage to call Livy when the telephone rings in my room. Somehow Ike Ransom has discovered that we’ve moved to Aquitaine, and he wants to see me. He got my phone number from the main house. I start to beg off, but he stops me cold. He has, he says, what we’ve been looking for since day one. Hard evidence linking Leo Marston to Payton’s murder. He will say no more, and he refuses to come to the B&B. He insists on a face-to-face meeting and says I must come alone. When I ask why, he tells me that no one can know he is the source for what he’s about to tell me.

“Where do you want to meet?” I ask, recalling the feeling of being shot at in the warehouse by the river and not liking it too much.

“You’re three blocks away from it,” he replies.

“Where are you talking about?”

“The old pecan-shelling plant.”

An image of a hulking brown brick building where I sold the pecans I collected as a boy comes into my mind. It is set right on the edge of the bluff, and as Ike said, it’s only three blocks west of where I am now.

“What about the surveillance on me here?”

“Slip out the back alley on foot. They lookin’ for that BMW. Or you could send your Jew buddy out first in the BMW, then come on in that Maxima your mama got.”

It’s nearly dark, and I want to refuse, largely out of fear. But Ike is offering something of which I have precious little: hard evidence. Dwight Stone’s testimony could be powerful, but without his FBI files to back him up, it will be his word against Marston’s (and Portman’s too, if the FBI director decides to honor my subpoena). Hard evidence is worth a three-block trip.

“When?” I ask.

“Thirty minutes. The place is an equipment-storage yard now. Drive around to the left side of the building. The chain on the gate’ll be cut.”

“I’ll be there.”

I hang up and speak to Sam Jacobs on the balcony, and Sam declares himself ready to draw off the surveillance long enough to get me clear of Aquitaine.

The old pecan-shelling plant stands on prime real estate in Natchez’s old warehouse district, a sort of no-man’s-land between the town proper and a sleepy residential area filled with Victorian gems. It has an unobstructed view
of the river, and one day will probably be the site of a luxury hotel. At the moment it is an eerily lighted compound surrounded by a high fence and razor wire, with the rigid arms of great cranes jutting against the night sky.

As Ike promised, the chained gate on the left side of the building has been cut open. I nose the Maxima through it without getting out, and negotiate my way through backhoes, draglines, and D-9 bulldozers parked like Patton’s army marshaling for a campaign. I can’t see the river, but forty yards to my left, the bluff drops away to a vast dark sky, leaving the impression that I’m driving along the edge of a mountain.

Out of the blackness to my right, a pink and blue light bar strobes like a carnival, then vanishes. I slow nearly to a stop, trying to place the location of Ike’s cruiser.

There.

I turn right and idle toward the main building. As the black silhouette looms over me, the lights flash again. In their light I see that Ike has opened the old truck door of the plant and is parked in it. As I approach, he starts his engine and pulls forward, leaving me plenty of room to pull inside the building. I park the Maxima beside his cruiser and shut off the engine. Kelly’s Browning is in the glove box, but I don’t want to cause any kind of reflex reaction in Ike, especially if he’s wired on speed.