Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

CHAPTER

50

I'm sitting at a private table in a side room of the Castle, the restaurant Caitlin and I frequented most often when she lived here. It’s a Gothic outbuilding of Dunleith, the most magnificent antebellum mansion in the city. I often make sure that people who are flying in to look at industrial sites stay here, and to prime them for the experience, I tell them that the main house makes Tara in

Gone With the Wind

look like a utility shed. No one has ever argued the point.

Caitlin and I have had good meals and bad ones at the Castle, not because of the quality of the food, but because we’ve worked through so many phases of our relationship over the tables here. When times were good, we ate at the small table in back, beside the window overlooking the verdant grounds. When times weren’t so great, we ate in the private dining room where I'm waiting now. If Caitlin does show up, she won'’t be surprised to find me at this table.

It’s 12:25 now, and though I hate to admit it to myself, she’s probably not coming. Caitlin tends to be late now and then, but she wouldn'’t be on a day such as this. I can’t quite believe she’d leave me sitting here without even a phone call, or at least a text message. But I guess she feels strongly enough about where things are to view standing me up as her statement on the subject. I should probably

just order lunch and try to parse out her feelings, but given my conversations with Annie, I don'’t think I can put this event—or nonevent—behind me without being sure Caitlin hasn’'t been delayed by something unforeseen.

I speed-dial her cell, but it kicks me immediately to voice mail. Either she switched off her phone, anticipating upsetting calls from me, or else she’s driving south and chatting happily to Jan about the documentary she’ll soon be working on.

Searching my contact list, I call the

Examiner

office and ask for Kim Hunter, the reporter who is Caitlin’s best remaining friend on the staff. It takes some time for Kim to come to the phone.

“Hello?” says a young male voice free of any Southern accent.

“Kim, it’s Penn Cage.”

“Hey.”

“Look, I'm down at the Castle, and I thought Caitlin was going to be joining me for lunch. Do you know anything about that?”

“No. She didn't say anything to me.”

“You saw her this morning?”

“No. I haven'’t seen her since yesterday afternoon. She came in and pulled some old stories she worked on.”

“Do you know what stories?”

“Something she did on charismatic religions. You know, foot washers and faith healers, that kind of stuff.”

Maybe the stories have something to do with her interviews in New Orleans, I think, though it seems unlikely. “Did she say anything to you about going to New Orleans today?”

This time the silence is longer, and Hunter sounds uncertain about telling me more. “She said she might be going down to do some interviews for a documentary being shot there.”

“I know about all that, Kim. About Jan, everything. Please tell me anything you know.”

“Hang on. Mike would know more about that. He’s been taking messages from the guy.”

“From the filmmaker?”

“Right. He’s called here two or three times this morning. Hang on.”

I hear the phone clatter onto something hard.

An alarm is buzzing in my head…. If Caitlin had made plans to

be in New Orleans today, she would have made them directly with Jan—of that I'm sure.

“Penn?”

“I'm here.”

“Mike said the guy called just a few minutes ago. He’s been trying to get Caitlin all morning. Apparently Mike figured Caitlin was with you, working on whatever you guys have been doing this past couple of days.”

“Thanks, Kim, I appreciate it. If you hear from her, please have her call me immediately, okay?”

“I will. Is something wrong? Should we be worried?”

“I don'’t know. Just try to find her if you can.”

My next call is to the landline at Caitlin’s house, but by the fifth ring I'm already out of the restaurant and running to my car.

My tires screech as I skid into the curb in front of Caitlin’s house. Her door is standing open. It was closed this morning when Annie and I left for school. For a moment I think everything might be okay, but then I realize Caitlin’s rental car isn’t in the driveway.

Bounding up the steps, I go through the door and find Kelly crouched over Carl Sims, trying to unwrap duct tape from his wrists. Carl is lying on the floor, his eyes closed, his usually mahogany skin almost gray.

“What happened?” I ask. “Where’s Caitlin?”

“Not here, that’s all I know. I just got here. Carl’s fucked up. They darted him with something.” Kelly points to an orange feather lying on the floor, then looks up at me. “I think they’ve taken her.”

“

Taken

her?”

“Kidnapped her.”

“Sands?”

“Who else? But why, I have no idea.”

My vision begins to blur as panic rushes through me. “I tried to call you on my way here. Why didn't you answer?”

“I can’t find my cell phone.”

“Is Carl alive?”

“His heart’s beating. They must have hit him with some kind of big-game tranquilizer. I just called 911.”

“You didn't check in with him last night?”

“Dude, I didn't wake up until two minutes ago. I think they drugged me too. Somebody must have slipped something into my drink at the Corner Bar.”

“Why the hell would they take Caitlin now? We had an agreement!”

Kelly gently slaps Carl’s face. “Either they want something from you, or they want to keep you from doing something.”

“I already told them I was backing off!”

“I just thought of a third possibility.”

“What?”

“Caitlin wasn'’t too happy about our deal to back off. What if she

didn't

? What if she kept working the case?”

Immediately, I know Kelly’s right. Still, I say, “She wouldn'’t do that.”

He gives me a look. “Come on, man. This is Caitlin we’re talking about.”

She told me last night that she considered our agreement terminated—

“Do you know where she was yesterday?” Kelly asks. “What she did all day? Because Carl wasn'’t with her a lot of the time. She told him she needed some time alone, and she meant it. I was surprised she let him stay here last night.”

“That'’s

why

she let him stay,” I think aloud. “She knew there was risk, because she was still working this thing. Damn it!”

Kelly puts his ear to Carl’s chest, then feels his pulse.

“What should I do? Call the FBI? Caitlin’s father?”

“No way. Hell no.”

“That'’s what anybody else would do. That'’s why this was such a stupid move on their part!”

“Sands expects you to know the rules. Calling in the FBI automatically risks the life of the hostage. You go public, like her father might, you’d be signing her death sentence. Think about it: If Caitlin kept pushing the case, Sands would assume you were too. So he thinks

you

broke the agreement. They don'’t want to kill her. But they could. That'’s the whole point of taking her. You’ve got to stay cool. You’ll hear from them soon. You should go across the street and check your message machine.”

“They know my damned cell number!”

As Kelly and I stare at each other, Carl begins to cough in his arms. Then he vomits onto Kelly’s leg and the hardwood floor.

“Thank God he didn't do that last night,” Kelly says. “He had duct tape over his mouth. He would have done a Jimi Hendrix right here.”

“We can’t just wait around for Sands to make the next move.”

Kelly wipes vomit off his pants. “I should’ve just thrown him in the car instead of waiting on an ambulance. Jeez.” Kelly looks up at me with weary disgust. “What do you want to do?”

“Grab Sands or Quinn off the street and squeeze them until they tell us where she is. You told Sands yesterday that you’d kill him if he fucked with my family. Well, Caitlin is family.”

“She is, absolutely. But we won'’t be able to get to them now. They’ve gone to the mattresses.”

Carl seems to be breathing better, but he’s not yet coherent.

“But

why

?” I ask. “Sands isn’t stupid. Why take the risk of me calling the FBI and blowing up the whole Po sting?”

“I told you, either Caitlin gave them no choice, or you have something they want.”

“But I don'’t!”

“Maybe they think you do. Sands thinks there’re still variables floating around out there. The USB drive, for instance. And whatever that computer kid had on him. The bird lover. And don'’t forget Linda Church.”

Kelly’s right, especially about Linda. “I could see Caitlin trying to find her.”

“The worst scenario,” he says, “is that Caitlin was planning to go public, and they found out about it. They probably have somebody on their payroll down at the paper. Only makes sense.”

“Jesus. Do you think they took her just to kill her? Kill her and lose her body?”

“No. They’d have taken Carl too. This is like when kings used to exchange hostages to prevent wars from happening. Gangs still do that kind of thing.”

“How is this like that? They have Caitlin, and we have nothing.”

“Sands must

think

you have something. Probably Ben Li’s insurance.”

As soon as these words leave Kelly’s mouth, I know what to do. I

take out my cell phone, but before I punch a key, Kelly says, “Whoa, what are you doing?”

“Watch and learn.” I speed-dial Seamus Quinn, and the Irishman answers with his usual smug sarcasm.

“Top of the morning to ya, Mr. Mayor.”

“It’s after lunch, Quinn.”

“Is it? I'’ll bet some people are just wakin’ up, though.”

I nod meaningfully to Kelly. “We both know what happened last night, so let’s skip the games. I know you won'’t talk about it. I just want you to know one thing.”

“You’re not gonna threaten me again, are you? I'm getting a bit tired of that.”

“Do you remember our conversation on the

Queen

on Monday?”

“I remember your bodyguard assaulted me. With a deadly weapon. I'm thinking of pressing charges.”

“Listen to me, you stupid bastard—”

Calm down,

Kelly mouths, shaking his head.

“Your boss discussed some missing data. Do you remember that?”

Quinn’s answer is silence.

When we left the

Magnolia Queen

yesterday morning, Kelly assumed that Quinn had possession of the missing USB drive, and was holding it to use in a possible deal with Hull. I agreed. But if Sands and Quinn are desperate enough to kidnap Caitlin, something tells me that they have neither Ben Li’s stash nor the USB drive. And if Quinn doesn’'t have it, logic leaves only one other likely candidate—someone who heard the voice memo Tim made on his cell phone before he died. Knowing Shad Johnson as I do—as a political creature above all else—I judge that it’s worth the risk of bluffing Quinn on this point.

“I’'ve got it, Quinn.”

“You’re lying,” says the Irishman, and for a moment my confidence wavers. But something in his voice tells me to push on, and with the dizzying rush that a cliff diver must feel, I say, “I’'ve got your boss by the short hairs, you bastard, and there’s only one way he’s getting it back. A trade.”

“Even if you have it, you can’t use it,” Quinn says with more certainty. “Your own government would bury you. You still don'’t know what you’re dealing with.”

Hope and excitement have filled my chest. “I'’ll tell you what I know. Your government buddy Hull’s like a vampire—he can’t stand the light. If I go public, he’ll vanish into a puff of smoke. Keep your focus, Quinn. The thumb drive is the thing. And if you put one scratch on Caitlin, you and Sands will spend the rest of your lives on Parchman Farm. You think Irish prisons are tough? You’d be better off dead,