Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

By God, I just about believe you.

“I have no idea.”

The blue eyes don'’t waver; this man has spent a lifetime calculating odds. “Don’t you now?”

I shake my head deliberately.

After what seems a full minute, Sands says, “Would you bet your daughter’s life on that answer?”

An image of Seamus Quinn holding Annie prisoner upstairs fills my mind, and terror compresses my heart. I grab for the door handle, but before I can turn it, something white explodes out of the flower bed, and iron jaws clamp around my wrist, pinning it motionless in the air. I try to jerk away, but the jaws tighten, numbing my fingers as surely as a nerve block.

A white dog more than half my size stands like an apparition between Sands and me, its eyes cold and blue above the wolfish mouth locked around my arm. Hot saliva runs down my tingling fingers, yet I can’t quite accept the evidence of my eyes. No sound preceded this attack, not a growl or a bark or a word of command—only a quick swish of foliage from behind Sands.

“Easy now,” he says either to me or to the dog, maybe to both of us. “Your daughter’s just fine, Mr. Cage. For the moment, at least.

She’s sleeping soundly, with your sainted mother beside her in the scratcher. But if you step through that door before we come to an accommodation, that could change very quickly.”

I try to back away from the door, but the dog’s forelegs are braced like white-painted fence posts, its jaw locked like a steel wrench. After a few moments, Sands makes a clicking sound with his tongue. The dog releases my arm, then walks to his master’s side and sits at attention like an obedient soldier. I stare at the animal as I rub the circulation back into my hand. I’'ve never seen its like before, not even a similar breed; an oversize pit bull might be its closest cousin, but this dog has a wrinkled face that throws me. White from nose to tail, he has cropped ears and a thickly muscled chest to match his master’s. The animal has an unearthly silence about him, as though spectral and not a thing of blood and flesh, but I can still feel the imprints of his teeth in my muscles; I'’ll have blood bruises in the morning.

“You’re not a stupid man,” Sands says, rubbing the dog’s head affectionately. “Don’t start playing at it now. I make it my business to know who I'm dealing with. I know you put a lot of hard men in prison back in Texas. Rapists. Robbers. Murderers. Aryan fanatics. Got some of them executed too. I also know you'’ve taken on men from your own side of the table. That FBI bastard, for example. I only mention this because you need to understand something. Despite your grand experience, you'’ve never come across a man like me.” A smug smile. “I'm sure you'’ve heard that one before, eh? The innocent man on death row. The whore with a heart of gold. But every now and then you come across a bloke who knows what he’s on about.” Sands smiles to himself. “That would be me. And this is how you know.”

He utters a low whistle, and suddenly the dog is upon me again, rearing on his hind legs and pinning me to my front door with his forepaws. His mass and strength are astounding, and the hot breath in my face triggers a primitive, almost subhuman fear. The dog still hasn’'t made a sound, but it’s all I can do not to piss down my leg.

“Starting this minute,” Sands says, looking at this watch, “you have twenty-four hours to find the property your friend stole and return it to me. Use any resource at your disposal, but don'’t mention me or my company to anyone. If you do, I'’ll know it, and a penalty

will be exacted. If you talk to the police or the sheriff’s department, I'’ll know. If you contact the FBI, I'’ll find out faster than you’d believe possible. If you talk to the state gaming commission, you’re fucked. You call the governor, a senator, or your old friend the district attorney of Houston, I'’ll know that too. And if I find out you'’ve done any of these things…I'’ll kill the little girl sleeping upstairs.”

Sands moves up beside his dog and drags the cold barrel of his gun along my stubbled jaw. “And I won'’t use a gun. I'’ll use this.”

A needle point of steel pierces the skin just below my navel, sending a shock of fear through my intestines.

“I'm very good with a knife,” Sands says softly. “And I’d take my time about it. Understand? Now”—he presses the gun into a hollow beside my trachea, and the knifepoint digs a little deeper—“

after

your daughter’s dead, you might bring me into a court and try to punish me. But you'’ve dealt with enough victims’ families to know how useless that is. If you executed me five seconds after I killed her, it wouldn'’t bring her back, would it?”

Out of the numbness that has enveloped me like a fog, I shake my head.

As Sands presses his right ear almost against my lips, the knifepoint vanishes; then I feel it burrowing into the skin between two ribs on my left side. “I didn't hear you, Your Honor.”

“I understand.”

“Course you do,” Sands says almost musically. “But that quick mind of yours is already working, trying to squirm out of the trap. Hide the girl, yeah? You’d have to hide your mum and dad too. And of course your sister in Bath, and her husband, and the two brats. I have a lot of mates in England who owe me that kind of favor. Then there’s yer one who owns the local bookstore, and her langer of a son. And let’s not forget the lady newspaper publisher, fresh back from the big city. A mouthy cunt, I'’ll wager, but the prettiest piece of them all. So, let’s put an end to that nonsense. Either you get me back what your friend stole, or you pay the price. There’s no third choice.”

My hands have begun to shake, but whether from fear or rage I don'’t know. “You still haven'’t told me what he stole.”

“And I don'’t intend to, do I? That'’s your job.”

“How can I find something when I don'’t know what it is?”

The knife pierces skin again. I tense, and Sands’s eyes flash. “Give me your best guess.”

“Documents?” I grunt. “Data?”

“Brilliant. It’s a disc, right? A DVD. Started out as one, anyway. The data could have been copied onto something else by now. USB drive, digital tape, hard drive, even a fucking iPod. What the data is, I won'’t tell you, but you’ll know it when you see it.”

“How?”

“It’s encrypted.”

The knifepoint withdraws a fraction of an inch. “Are you a betting man, Mr. Cage?”

“No.”

“Good. That'’s a sign of intelligence. I don'’t gamble either. Because the house always wins. People can’t seem to remember that. But I'm trusting you will.”

The knife again. I wince and try not to cry out.

“I know this is a lot to take in,” Sands says. “You lost a mate tonight, and that’s never easy. But the truth is, you cut yourself loose from Jessup a long time ago. And rightly so. The man was a header. Christ, he got weepy whenever he talked about how you two were lads together, watching the moon shots on the telly.”

The revelation that this meant so much to Tim almost brings tears to my eyes. I steel myself and keep my eyes on Sands’s face to avoid looking into the dog’s eyes.

“Listen to me now,” he says. “Let the rupies investigate Jessup’s death. Do everything you planned to do before Jessup died. Show the visiting CEO the town, give interviews, fly around in the balloons. But while you’re having your

craic,

you find time to find my property. If I find it first, I'’ll let you know. Remember, I'’ll be watching. And listening.” In a blur, he raises the knife and pricks the soft skin beneath my left eye. “Don’t play games with me, mate. Remember the first rule: The house always wins. And I'm the house.”

Sands bends and slips his pistol into an ankle holster, then takes my gun from the small of his back, removes the clip, ejects the remaining round from the chamber, and hands the pistol to me. As he slides the clip into my front pants pocket, his dog pushes off my chest, retrieves the ejected bullet from the flower bed, and drops the

brass into his master’s hand. Sands rubs the dog between its cropped ears, then drops the loose round into my pants pocket.

“One last thing.” Sands kneels at the edge of the porch, reaches down into the shadows behind him, and brings up a black leather briefcase.

“What’s that?”

“A quarter million dollars.”

“Why is it here?”

“Why, it’s the money you asked for.” Sands gives me a theatrical hug, then says sotto voce, “For the cameras, mate.” Then loudly again: “Like you said, you have the biggest job in town, and that’s why we pay you the big bucks.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Just smile and say thank you,” he whispers. “So your daughter keeps breathing.”

Given no choice, I accept it. “Thank you,” I mutter. What else can I do? Seamus Quinn could be upstairs with a knife, waiting for a signal from Sands.

Jonathan Sands pats my arm and walks down the steps as lightly as Fred Astaire, and again I sense the fluid efficiency of his motions. He waves airily.

“I wish you the pleasure of the evening. And I look forward to hearing from you.”

Only now do I realize that his upper-crust English accent has returned. The working-class Irish has vanished like a vapor trail, like it was never there at all.

As I stare after him, he stops and calls, “Oh, if you’re worried about the grieving widow, rest easy. If I wanted her out of the picture, she’d be room temperature already. The lad too.”

My face must betray something, because he adds, “Sure, I heard every word you said to her tonight. I know she doesn’'t have my property, so ring her up and tell her to get a good night’s sleep. In fact, if you find the disc before morning, I'’ll toss in a few quid for the widows and orphans’ fund.” He smiles at the thought, then gives me a parting shot in his native accent. “Have a grand night altogether, now.”

With that, Jonathan Sands strolls off down Washington Street, the massive dog walking at his heel like a royal escort. When Sands

pauses to study the smooth trunks of the crape myrtles in the pink glow of the streetlamps, the dog stops and sits beside him. As I watch, a long, black car glides soundlessly up to him, gathers up him and his dog, and rolls quickly out of sight, making for the river.

As I stare at the blackness where the taillights faded, I realize that I'm shaking uncontrollably. I can hardly grip my key to get it out of the lock.

I'm no stranger to threats. I’'ve confronted dangerous men in my life, some of them psychopaths. A few vowed to avenge themselves upon me for criminal convictions or for the executions of relatives. I once shot a man dead to prevent him from killing my daughter in retribution. But never have I experienced the paralyzing terror I felt while listening to the clear and passionless voice of Jonathan Sands.

God, what Tim must have suffered before he died.

With shaking hands I take out my cell phone and call Julia Jessup. I'm three minutes late, but she answers, sounding like she’s close to hyperventilating. I don'’t know what Sands’s promise to leave Tim’s widow alone is worth, but I must protect my own family now. After instructing Julia to seek refuge with Tim’s parents, I carry Sands’s briefcase inside, lock the door behind me, and race up the stairs to Annie’s door. In the night light’s glow, I see her tucked into the bow of my mother’s larger form beneath the covers. Relief washes over me, but fear quickly burns through it. As I watch my sleeping daughter, a disturbing certainty rises from the chaos in my mind. Tim was right about “Mr. X.” Jonathan Sands is not like anyone I’'ve ever faced before. I’'ve dealt with the man for nearly a year and not once suspected his true nature. But there’s no time for self-recrimination now. Or for doubt. Sands may have convinced himself that I'’ll be like the others he’s bought off or threatened into cooperating with him, but in twenty-four hours he’ll know different. Before I can act, though, I must get my daughter to safety.