Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

to its basket, their weight just sufficient to hold it to the earth. This is the balloon Paul Labry told me to find.

Descending the hill to the floor of the stadium, I drive along the asphalt track that surrounds the gridiron. Labry’s gold Avalon is parked behind a brightly painted trailer, but it’s the car parked next to Paul’s that brings heat to my face. Caitlin’s rented Malibu. Sure enough, I see her black hair and aquiline form silhouetted against the white T-shirt of one of the big-bellied men holding down the basket of the red balloon. She appears to be badgering Labry about something. When Paul catches sight of me, he abandons the basket and starts jogging in my direction. The balloon lifts from the earth, leaving Caitlin no choice but to take Labry’s place. Sighting me, Hans Necker yells and waves from inside the basket. I wave back, then focus on Paul.

“Christ, man, you gotta hurry,” he says. “Necker’s about to lose it.”

“What’s Caitlin doing here?”

“Asking about Tim’s death. She’s worried she got the story wrong, and she also seems to think you’re mixed up in it some way.”

Caitlin leaves the balloon and starts trotting toward us. She’s wearing dark jeans and a light sweater. I wave her off and step closer to Labry. “I need you to do me a favor, Paul.”

“What?”

“I need the names of all the partners in Golden Parachute. I checked the paperwork I have, and I don'’t have the names of the five percenters. The Golden Flower LLC guys. didn't you have copies of most everything?”

Labry looks nonplussed. “Yeah, I’'ve still got it in my garage. What’s going on? Why do you need that all of a sudden?”

Caitlin has halved the distance to us. I step to my right and shout, “Give us a minute! Please.”

She stops, but it won'’t be for long.

“Listen, Paul, if you don'’t have the names at your house, forget about it. Don’t ask anybody else for this information. Don’t try to look anything up downtown, and don'’t mention it to me on the phone. Just get the names if you have them at home and tell me the next time you see me in person. Okay?”

“Sure, sure. But what’s it for? What’s going on?”

I look hard into his eyes. “You don'’t want to know. The last person who asked that question was Tim Jessup.”

Paul’s eyes cloud with concern, then Caitlin is upon us. Thankfully, Hans Necker is screaming like a madman from the basket. Without Paul’s and Caitlin’s weight, the balloon is making three-foot leaps off the ground in the gusting wind.

“I have to go,” I tell her, walking quickly toward the basket.

“What were you and Paul talking about?”

“City business.”

“Really? It looked personal.”

“How would you know anymore?” I stop ten feet from the basket. “I need to get on board.”

“Why are you so angry?”

“Because I don'’t know what you’re doing. You show up without warning, get drunk with your boyfriend, but somehow stay up late enough to write a story slandering a dead friend of mine, just in time to screw up the image of the town’s most important festival.”

Necker does a quick burn, and the heat of the flames reaches out to us like a living thing. I move toward the balloon, but Caitlin grabs my arm and pulls me to a stop. “Wait! What exactly are you angry about? A man was killed last night, and I wrote the facts as I knew them. Are you seriously pissed because I didn't follow Natchez tradition and soft-pedal the story until after the festival?”

“I don'’t have time to discuss it.” I start forward again. “Hey, Hans, sorry I'm late.”

Caitlin obviously isn’t worried about appearances. She catches my wrist and spins me around. “Or is it the getting drunk with my boyfriend part?”

“Come on, Penn!” Necker shouts. “The wind could kick up any second.”

On any other day I would have hesitated before climbing into this basket, but today I'm grateful for an excuse to escape Caitlin’s reproving eyes.

“I never said he was my boyfriend,” she says close to my ear. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

As I turn away and climb into the basket, a strong hand grips my upper arm from behind. I turn, expecting Hans Necker’s red visage,

but instead I find the aging astronaut’s face of chopper pilot Danny McDavitt.

“Morning, Major,” I say.

As Hans Necker fires the gas burner with a roar, McDavitt leans toward me. “I hear we’ve got a mutual friend. You need something, let me know. I stuck my cell number in your back pocket.”

I nod and offer silent thanks to Daniel Kelly.

The balloon tugs at the basket like an eager horse. Caitlin has walked a few feet away, but suddenly she runs forward and leans between two men sitting on the lip of the basket. “I want to talk as soon as you get down.”

“I won'’t have time. Not today.”

“Crew!” Necker shouts. “Let go of the basket on my count. Three, two, one,

now.

”

The crew members slide off the basket almost as one, and the balloon rises like a dandelion on the wind. Thirty feet off the ground, the butterflies take flight in my stomach. My existence is now dependent on the integrity of a few dozen yards of nylon, a wicker basket, some Kevlar cables, and rope. Caitlin’s angry face dwindles rapidly. As soon as we clear the stadium bowl, higher winds catch us and hurl us westward like an invisible hand. We’re moving as fast as some cars on the road below. They’ve slowed to watch the balloon, which must from the ground look graceful in its flight. But from inside the basket, it isn’t a slow waltz of balloons and clouds; it’s like scudding before the wind in a sailboat.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. When I check it, I find a text message from Caitlin.

Something’s wrong. What is it? You’re not yourself.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and look westward, toward the river.

“Only about half the pilots are flying this race,” Necker says. “The winds were running eight to ten miles per hour earlier, and that scares off a lot of people. Means the winds aloft will be running pretty fast.” He grins. “As you can tell.”

I force a smile and try to look excited, but for me this flight is a necessary evil, a roller-coaster ride on behalf of the city. My strategy is the same I use with Annie in amusement parks: get aboard, tighten my sphincter for the duration, then climb out dazed and kiss the blessed earth. The flaw in that comparison is that few people die on

roller coasters, while a significant number die in ballooning accidents, often when the lighter-than-air craft strike power lines. I’'ve seen video of these slow-motion tragedies, and the memory has never left me. The canopy always floats into a high-tension wire with the inevitability of a nightmare. People on the ground become anxious, gasp in disbelief. Then comes the strike, a blue-white flash, and for a moment, nothing. Then the fuel tanks explode. The basket erupts into flame as if struck by an RPG, and the heat carries the balloon higher, making it impossible for the passengers to reach the ground alive. Some leap from the basket, others cling fiercely as the canopy collapses and the flaming contraption streaks earthward like a broken toy. When I’'ve asked about these accidents, I always get the same answer: pilot error. I'm sure that’s true in most cases, but the knowledge does nothing to ease my anxiety today.

My cell phone vibrates again. It’s another text from Caitlin.

What did I get wrong about the story? P.S. Why isn’t Annie flying with you?

Groaning aloud, I switch off the phone.

“Woman problems?” Necker asks with a wink.

“You could say that.”

He chuckles. “That was a pretty girl back at the launch site. And she was giving your friend Labry unshirted hell. I imagine she’s a lot to handle.”

I actually find myself laughing. “You’re a good judge of character, Hans.”

I shudder as the canopy makes a ripping sound, but Necker only smiles and squeezes my arm with reassurance. “That'’s normal. These things seem like they'’re coming apart in a high wind, but that’s because the rigging’s so flexible. Can you imagine what an old clipper ship must have sounded like tearing across the Atlantic?”

As we rush along above Highway 61, rising through five hundred feet, I silently repeat my day’s mantra:

Accidents are rare, accidents are rare….

I hope we stay low today. Last year a different pilot and I got caught in an updraft and “stuck” a mile above Louisiana. Rather than having the romantic ride most people experience, I was stranded in the clouds, with a view much like the one you get from a jetliner: geometric farms and highways, cars the size of ants. But today is different. The landmarks of the city are spread below me

with the stunning clarity of an October morning. To my right lies the Grand Village of the Natchez Indians, a carpet of green meadows and ceremonial mounds beside St. Catherine’s Creek. I scarcely have time to orient myself to the mounds before we race onward toward the river.

“Glad you made it,” Necker says, slapping me gently on the back. “We’re looking good. It’s actually lucky you were late.”

“Glad to help. It really couldn'’t be avoided.”

The CEO nods but doesn’'t question me. “They’ve shortened the race to the first target only. Nobody’s going to be able to maneuver well in this wind.”

I try to conceal my relief that this will be a short flight. Some balloon races are long and complex, like magisterial wedding processions. Others are brief and chaotic, like car chases through a mountain village, with pilots trying to divine invisible crosscurrents of wind like oracles opening themselves to revelation. Today’s event is the latter type, but there’s a certain majesty to the seemingly endless train of balloons stretching from the Louisiana Delta ahead of us back to Buck Stadium, which is now merely a fold in the green horizon. Two helicopters fly along the course like cowboys tending a wayward herd, but they have no control over their charges. The balloons go where the wind blows.

Necker has read the winds well. Where Highway 61 veers north toward Vicksburg and the Delta, we continue westward toward Louisiana. Far to my right I see the abandoned Johns Manville plant, to my left, the shuttered International Paper mill, and the scorched scar that is all that remains of the Triton Battery Company. All those plants came between 1939 and 1946, and the last shut its doors only a few months ago. So much for Natchez’s smokestack industries. But the beauty of the city remains undiminished. From this altitude it’s plain that the modern town grew over dozens of old plantations, and there’s far more forest than open ground. It makes me long for the days before the lumber industry came, when—the saying goes—a squirrel could run from Mississippi to North Carolina without once setting foot on the ground.

As downtown Natchez drifts past like a ghost from the nineteenth century, I hear bass and drums pounding from the festival field beside Rosalie. A moment later I sight the crowd swelling and mov

ing like a swarm of ants before the stage. Then we’re over the river, its broad, reddish-brown current dotted with small pleasure craft, the levee on the far side lined with the cars of people watching the balloons pass.

Far ahead, near the horizon, I can see our destination: Lake Concordia, an oxbow lake created by a bend in the river that was cut off long ago. Sometimes Annie and I go water-skiing there with friends who have boats, such as Paul Labry and his family. Thinking of Labry brings a knot of anxiety to my throat. In the rush of boarding the balloon, I asked him to get me the names of the Chinese casino partners for me. So easy to do. But have I needlessly—and selfishly—put him at risk? Probably not, if he follows my orders exactly. But will he, not really knowing what’s at stake?