The Devils Punchbowl

throat.

Move,

she tells herself.

Run?

?Don?t be a fool,? Sands says. ?There?s nowhere to go.?

The wild urge to flight twists inside her.

?Come to me,? Sands says, beckoning her toward the hallway. ?We need to ask you some questions about Timothy.?

The last ember of hope dies in her soul.

They know.

CHAPTER

14

The second my father walks into my bathroom with his black bag, I put my finger to my lips and shove a piece of paper into his hands. On it are printed the words:

I'm not sick. Annie is in danger. We all are. House may be bugged. Act like I'm having a panic attack. Follow my lead. We?re going to type messages on the computer on the counter. I'?ll turn on the bath taps to cover the noise of the keyboard.

Dad looks up after reading for only two seconds, but I shake my head and point at the paper, and he goes back to reading. My father is seventy-three years old, and he?s practiced medicine in Natchez for more than forty of those years. He?s the same height I am?an inch over six feet?but the arthritis that?s slowly curling his hands into claws has bowed his spine so that I am taller now. His hair and beard have gone white, his skin is cracked and spotted from psoriasis, and he has to take insulin shots every day, yet the primary impression he radiates is one of strength. Thirty years past triple-bypass surgery, he?s sicker than most of his patients, but they think of him as I do: an oak tree twisted by age and battered by storms, but still indomitable at the core. He licks his lips, looks up slowly from the paper, and says, ?Is your heart still racing??

?I think it?s worse. And the nausea?s worse. I vomited twice after I called you.?

?Wonderful.? Dad glances toward the bathroom counter. Between the two sinks are the articles I assembled while I waited for him: my keys; a black Nike warm-up suit and running shoes; Annie?s MacBook computer, booted up with Microsoft Word on the screen; a Springfield XD nine-millimeter pistol, and a short-barreled .357 Magnum. ?I brought you some Ativan,? he says, ?but I want to listen to your chest first.?

?Do you mind if I get in the bathtub? I want to clean myself up.?

?That'?s fine. Just get your shirt off.?

I nod and turn on the cold-water tap, then strip off my clothes and pull on the warm-up suit. Dad moves in front of the computer as I pull on the top and pecks out the words

What the hell is going on?

He steps aside for me to type my response, and we begin a sort of waltz in place, during which I explain our dilemma. He always typed much slower than I, but it?s worse now because of his hands; it hurts to watch him struggle to strike the keys.

Tim Jessup was murdered tonight. It has to do with his work at one of the casinos. The man behind his death just threatened to kill Annie. The motive is too complex to explain like this. They threatened Mom?s life, and yours too. Even Jenny, and she?s on the other side of the Atlantic.

Who are these people?

People I misread very badly.

They really killed Jack Jessup?s boy?

I left his body under the bluff an hour ago. I think they tortured him.

Christ. Do the police know?

Yes, but I'm not sure I can trust them. One word in the wrong ear, and these people take or kill Annie. They have a lot to lose.

What about FBI?

First priority is getting Annie and Mom to safety. We?'ve learned that the hard way, haven'?t we?

Dad nods slowly, and I know his memories mirror my own: I see the house that he and my mother lived in for thirty years going up in flames, and the maid who raised me and my sister in agony on a table in the emergency room.

?Take a deep breath,? Dad says in his medical voice, as though

he?s listening to my heart with his stethoscope. ?Again?okay?again.?

There?s only one real option,

I type.

I'm going to call Daniel Kelly?s firm in Houston. Blackhawk. With any luck they?ll be able to send a team our way almost immediately. They?ll take Mom and Annie somewhere safe?to an actual safe house, just like the movies.

Dad?s face goes through subtle changes of expression as he absorbs all this, but in a short while he nods and types again.

All right. What about Kelly himself?

He?s in Afghanistan.

Where do the girls go? Houston?

I'm not sure. But wherever it is, you should go with them.

His contemptuous expression tells me his answer to this, but he types:

Kelly?s people will take better care of them than I could, and I have three patients dying right now. One in hospice and two in the hospital. I'm not going anywhere. You haven'?t called Kelly?s people yet?

I have to leave the house for that. Was waiting for you.

Where are you going?

Not far. I should be back within 15 minutes, but don'?t panic unless I'm gone an hour.

He digests this, then types:

What if somebody tries to break in while you?re gone? Is that what the guns are for?

I pick up the big revolver and slip it into his arthritic hands.

Can you still fire a pistol?

He eyes his crooked fingers doubtfully.

If they bust in here, I guess we?ll see. It can?t be any harder than giving a goddamn prostate exam. You don'?t have a shotgun, do you?

Sorry. Wish I did.

He shrugs philosophically.

If someone does come, shoot before you talk. I'?ll come running, and I should get here fast enough to be of help.

Dad sucks his teeth for a few seconds, and I know he?s thinking of options. With a grunt he bends and types:

There are a couple of guys I could call to help out. Old patients. Ex-cops.

Not this time. The bad guys might believe I panicked and called

you for some Ativan, but if anybody else shows up, we?re asking for trouble. We have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Dad shakes his head and types: