“Yes, but we can’t meet. Listen to me, Penn, we only have a few seconds.”
Kelly’s use of my first name rather than the facetious “boss” brings my inner self to attention. “What is it?”
“Portman’s men are in the airport right now. You’re going to have to get home on your own. I’m going to divert these guys, but you have to move fast.”
“I’m listening.”
“My Taurus is parked in sight of the terminal, in the short-term lot, space A-27. The keys are under the mat, and there’s a cell phone under the seat. You got that?”
“A-27.”
“Right. Next: downstairs, near the baggage carousels, there’s an Infiniti Q45 on display. I left a gun sitting on the left inside lip of the rear bumper.”
“Jesus-”
“Listen. You get that gun, get to the car, and haul your ass back to Natchez.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Buy you some time. But you’ve got another problem. I haven’t been straight with you. Nobody at the company has. They’ve reported every move you’ve made to Portman.”
My chest goes hollow. “How do you know that?”
“Because we’re reporting every move you make back to the office. And we don’t usually do that. Our CEO is former FBI, you know. And John Portman could swing a lot of corporate business to Argus any time he feels like it.”
The implications of Kelly’s revelation ricochet through my mind. “Is my family safe?”
“Argus doesn’t kill people. Other than in defense of a client, like the other night. But I’d find myself some new security, just to be on the safe side. Local boys maybe. Buddies are good, family’s better.”
“Kelly… how do I know I can trust you?”
“Because you’re alive. And because I’m telling you this.”
“Why are you telling me?”
A brief silence. “I think it’s got something to do with the way you buried your maid. Now, get your ass out of here. Walk fast, but don’t run. And if you hear shooting, don’t look back.”
His order is an exact echo of Stone’s. “Kelly-”
“We’ll be sharing a Scotch again before you know it. Move out.”
Reluctantly hanging up the phone, I scan the concourse like a tailback picking holes in an offensive line, then start through the crowds at a rapid walk, looking back frequently for signs of pursuit. After clearing the metal detectors, I dodge a golf cart carrying a handicapped woman, then bound down the escalator to the baggage- collection point where Annie and I said goodbye to Caitlin Masters, before we knew who she was.
Parked in the middle of the floor is the Infiniti Q45. Midnight blue. I look around once, then crouch down and reach under the bumper, feeling along the inside lip for Kelly’s gun. My fingers collide with something hard, but as I try to close them around it, the gun clatters to the floor. Glancing around at the people waiting for luggage, I drop to my stomach and sweep my hand across the tile, and the gun skitters into my chest.
It’s Kelly’s Browning Hi-Power.
I jam the pistol into my waistband beneath my shirt and trot past the rental car desks to the glass doors leading to the outdoor parking lot. I’ve heard no shots or even shouts since my conversation with Kelly, but this actually increases my anxiety. Did he manage to divert whoever was waiting for me? Or is he lying dead beneath a pay phone, the slug from a silenced pistol in his head?
The Taurus is parked sixty yards from the terminal. I can see it from the doors. Exiting the terminal with a group of LSU fraternity guys, I fall in with them until they stop near a Blazer thirty yards from the door, then break for the Taurus at a flat-out sprint. To my surprise, the wind cuts through my jacket with a cold bite. Maybe fall has come to Mississippi at last.
Laying Kelly’s pistol on the seat beside me, I retrieve the keys, crank the engine, and force myself to drive normally as I leave the lot. In ten minutes I’m on Highway 61. Natchez lies eighty miles to the north, but much of the road is two-lane blacktop and heavily traveled by log trucks. The trip can be agonizingly slow during the day.
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,
