Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

I hear a child crying, then what sounds like a hand patting flesh. “You don'’t know what Tim wanted,” she says. “It doesn’'t sound like you do, anyway. He wanted to make those bastards he worked for quit whatever they'’re doing. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn'’t listen. He said you were helping him, and now he’s dead. And I don'’t see you defending him. Maybe if Caitlin Masters put all this on the front page, something would get done. I'’ll bet she’d do it too. She already asked me for an interview.”

Beads of sweat have sprung up on my face. How can a woman who just lost her husband not see that what she’s proposing could cost her and her son their lives? Just saying it on the telephone has put her at risk, and Caitlin too.

“Julia, Tim came to me for a reason. He trusted me because I’'ve dealt with this kind of thing before, and because he knew I would do the right thing. But the right thing is rarely what your emotions tell you to do when you’re upset. I know you can’t see that right now, but you have to try. Julia…? Are you still there?”

“I'm here.”

“Please forget about talking to Caitlin. Nothing good will come of that, and it could cost you everything.

Everything.

Do you understand? Julia? Do I have to spell this out for you?”

Her only reply is a strangled growl, a mixture of rage and frustration that rises to a crescendo, then abruptly ceases.

“Julia, as long as you stay where you are and keep quiet, you’ll be safe. You can call me tonight, and we’ll work out a way to see each other. All right?”

“Christ,” she says in disgust. “I'm hanging up.”

The phone goes dead.

I walk to the open door of my father’s office. Dad is bending over his desk to sign a prescription, while Jewel studies a photograph of our family when I was eleven and my sister seventeen.

“Ya’ll ever see Jenny anymore?” she asks.

“Not very often,” Dad confesses.

“She looks just like Mrs. Peggy, almost exactly.”

“I'm sorry, I’'ve got to run,” I tell them.

“Where are you going?” Dad asks.

“I have to find Caitlin. Thanks for everything, Jewel. No more warnings from me.”

The coroner smiles. “Boy, I didn't make it this far not knowing how to take care of myself. Get out of here.”

With a quick wave, I turn and run for my car.

CHAPTER

23

Tim Jessup’s father is the last man I expected to hear from today, but four blocks from Caitlin’s house, I answered my cell phone and heard the old surgeon’s voice in my ear. Jack Jessup is the opposite of my father: arrogant, greedy, brusque with patients. Golf, money, and the respect of society are his primary obsessions, at least the ones I know about. Seen through his father’s eyes, Tim must have seemed a complete failure from the time he entered high school.

Dr. Jessup gave me no specifics, but asked if I could stop by the Catholic rectory in the next half hour. I assumed that he intended to ask me to read or say something at Tim’s wake. I wanted to see Caitlin as soon as possible—she had agreed via text message to meet me at her house—but since the cathedral and rectory are only a few blocks away from our houses, I agreed to meet the surgeon.

It’s close to dark when I pull up to the imposing mass of St. Mary’s Minor Basilica, a monument to the Irish immigrants who came to Natchez in the nineteenth century. The Irish dominated the Catholic faith here, leavened by a few Italian families who escaped indentured servitude upriver in Louisiana. Of course, Natchez has black Catholics as well, and they worship at the historic Holy Family Church on St. Catherine Street, but their journey, like so many in Natchez, was a parallel one. The dual cultures, shadows of each

other, stretch out toward infinity, a single breath apart, but never quite meeting.

The rectory is a modest building, built of the same brick as the cathedral. A long, gray Mercedes is parked in front of it, and behind this an older Lincoln Continental. As I approach the door, a woman bursts through and rushes past me. She looks familiar, but all I really register is a graying bouffant and pancake makeup concealing a face twisted into a grimace of rage and anguish. She disappears into the Lincoln, then races down the street with a squeal of rubber.

What’s going on here?

I wonder.

Father Mullen is a new priest, and young. I’'ve only met him on a couple of occasions, at civic functions. A well-educated Midwesterner, he seems somewhat bemused by the Southernness of his new flock. I wonder how he sees Jack Jessup, a clotheshorse who used to charge $1,000 to remove a mole my father would have cut off for $75.

I find Dr. Jessup and Father Mullen in the priest’s office, the surgeon’s expensive chalk-stripe suit a marked contrast to Mullen’s black robe. I can tell by Jessup’s posture that he’s disturbed about something. He’s leaning over the priest’s desk like a naval officer at the rail of a ship about to go into battle.

Judiciously clearing my throat, I say, “Excuse me?”

The surgeon turns sharply, but his face softens when he recognizes me. He motions me forward, and I shake his hand.

Behind him, Father Mullen looks as though he would rather be mortifying his flesh in a monastery than dealing with Dr. Jessup in his present state. The surgeon has intimidated more formidable men than priests.

“What can I do for you, Dr. Jessup?” I ask.

The surgeon’s mouth works behind his closed lips for a few moments, as though he’s being forced to chew and swallow a day-old lemon wedge. When Dr. Jessup finally speaks, I realize his voice is choked with indignation.

“Did you see who just left?”

“She looked familiar, but she passed me so fast, I didn't recognize her.”

“Charlotte McQueen.”

I blink in surprise, but it takes less time than a blink for me to

decode the subtext of this situation. Charlotte McQueen is the mother of the boy who died when Tim ran his car off the road in college during his beer run to the county line. In fact, she’s the one who pushed the DA into making Tim do jail time. Mrs. McQueen is an influential member of the Catholic church, and I doubt she came to express her condolences.

“I see,” I temporize. “Well, how exactly can I help, Doctor?”

Dr. Jessup jerks his head toward Father Mullen. “I'’ll let

him

explain it to you.”

The priest tries a conciliatory smile as he stands and walks around his desk, taking care to make a wide arc around Dr. Jessup. I can only imagine what must have transpired before I entered the rectory. “Mr. Mayor,” he begins in a soft voice, but then he stops and looks closely at me. “Are you all right, Mr. Cage?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your eyes are very red.”

“I haven'’t gotten much sleep this weekend. Please go on.”

“I'm not sure we should even be having this conversation, but Dr. Jessup feels that your input might help shed some light on the situation.”

“What exactly is the situation?”

“Well, as you may know, Timothy Jessup was—”

“Just tell him what the woman said,” Dr. Jessup snaps. “Tell him what she wants.”

Father Mullen gives the surgeon a pained look. “Dr. Jessup, I really don'’t think you need worry about Mrs. McQueen’s request. What she asked—”

“Demanded.”

“Yes…yes, I suppose she did. Nevertheless, it’s really very rare nowadays. Only in the most extreme cases does—”

“Stop all the mushmouth! Just tell him.”

Father Mullen turns to me. “Well, as you probably know, Mrs. McQueen’s son Patrick died twenty-seven years ago on a highway near Oxford, Mississippi.”

“Yes, I know. Tim Jessup served time for manslaughter as a result. How does that bear on the present?”

“The vindictive old bitch doesn’'t want Tim to have a Church funeral,” Dr. Jessup says in a choked voice.

Blood rises into my cheeks. “Is that true?”

Father Mullen diplomatically retreats a step. “Not exactly. But in broad terms, yes. I don'’t believe Mrs. McQueen has ever gotten over the death of her son.”

“Of course not. No one does. But I fail to see how that would have any bearing on Tim’s funeral.”

“Well,” Father Mullen says in the tone of a man being forced to point out the most inconvenient of truths, “according to canon law, certain persons may be prohibited from having Catholic funerals. If the person is known to be an apostate or a heretic, or is such a publicly manifest sinner that having a Church funeral would cause a scandal among the congregation, the mass may be—and occasionally is—withheld.”

Dr. Jessup is shaking his head in disgust. “I can’t believe my ears. I’'ve been coming here for thirty-seven years, and—”

“Just a moment, Dr. Jessup,” I say. “Father, are you seriously considering Mrs. McQueen’s request?”

“Well, not in the way you might think. But given the situation, I don'’t feel I can simply reject it out of hand. The problem is that the congregation has become aware that a large quantity of drugs was found in Tim’s home on the night he died.”

“The night he was

murdered,

” Dr. Jessup corrects. “Isn’t that right, Penn? Wasn’t my son murdered?”

“He was.”

Father Mullen nods awkwardly, as though this information hardly advances Tim’s cause. “It seems that some embarrassing pictures have surfaced as well—pictures of a young lady not Mr. Jessup’s wife. They were also found in his home.”

Dr. Jessup snorts. “You want to start going through the closets and computers and cell phones of everyone in this congregation and see how many pictures like that you find?”

Father Mullen blanches at the prospect. “From an ecclesiastical point of view, the issues are several, and I suspect Mrs. McQueen researched them thoroughly before she came to me. Canons 1184 and 1185, to be precise. First, Tim hadn'’t been a practicing Catholic for many years. Second, he never had his child baptized into the faith nor showed any intent to do so. Third, he’s known to have made statements to members of the congregation that he stopped believing

in God decades ago. With all respect, Dr. Jessup, Tim appears to have led a life of dissolution from the time of the drinking incident in which Patrick McQueen died up to the night of his own death, when police say he was selling drugs for a living. But most important, if Tim was indeed murdered, it’s unlikely he got a chance to repent these actions. Any or all of these issues could technically make Tim ineligible to receive the liturgy at his funeral.”

Behind all the Churchspeak, I sense a man being tested in a way he never foresaw until tonight. “What do

you

think, Father?”

“The padre thinks it’s time to punt,” Dr. Jessup says bitterly. “He wants to call the bishop.”

“Dr. Jessup,” Father Mullen says in the soothing voice he must use at hospital bedsides, “almost no one is denied a funeral, or at least a Catholic burial, nowadays. With our modern understanding of psychology, the Church frequently gives even those who take their own lives a mass and burial. I think that in this case, it’s simply a matter of showing Mrs. McQueen that I’'ve taken her request seriously by passing it on to the bishop, who I am sure will make the appropriate decision.”

“Translation,” says Dr. Jessup, “they don'’t want to upset any big contributors. Or the women who keep the Church going. I guess I didn't put enough of the Almighty Dollar in the plate over the years.”

“Doctor,” the priest says with an edge of indignation, “I don'’t think that’s fair.”

“I thought you asked me here to talk about Tim’s wake,” I say, still not quite believing the situation.