The Devils Punchbowl pc-3 Page 13

“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.

  Hurrying down the stairs, I lock Sands’s briefcase—which is indeed full of cash—in the safe in my study, mentally ticking off the obvious obstacles:

  The house will be watched. My phones will be tapped—cellular and landlines. The house may be bugged or even covered by video cameras, considering that Sands was waiting for me when I got home. He could be checking my e-mail, text mes sages, and any other form of digital communication. So what options remain?

  For some people, mortal danger brings paralyzing confusion. For me—after the first minute of panic—it brings clarity. So it’s with utter certainty that I pick up my kitchen telephone and dial my father’s home number. The phone rings three times, and then a mildly groggy baritone voice answers, “Dr. Cage.”

  Even before I speak, something in me arcs out over the wires, instinctively reaching for the protection of blood kin. “Dad, it’s Penn.”

  From three miles away, I feel him come alert in the dark. “What’s the matter? Is Annie all right? Is it Peggy?”

  I let some anxiety bleed into my voice. “Annie and Mom are fine, but something’s wrong with me. My heart’s racing. I think I'm having a panic attack.”

  “Tachycardia? Is it a stress reaction?”

  “No, it just started a couple of minutes ago. I'm a little short of breath, and my pulse is about a hundred and ten. I feel like I may throw up. I guess maybe I'm worried about taking that balloon ride in the morning.”

  There’s a brief silence. “We’d better go down to my office and get an EKG on you.”

  “No, no, I think it’s just anxiety. I had to fly in a goddamn helicopter today. I think I just need some Valium or something.”

  “A helicopter? Hmm. Maybe you’re right. Do you have any Ativan there?”

  “No. Do you think you could bring me something? I’d come there, but I don'’t want to drive while this is going on.”

  I hear him grunt as he heaves himself out of bed. “I'’ll pull on some clothes and get my bag. I want to listen to your chest.”

  I press my palm so hard against my forehead that my arm shakes. “Thanks, Dad. I appreciate it. The front door is unlocked. Just walk in. I'’ll be in my bathroom.”

  “Okay.”

  I should hang up, but I can’t help adding, “Try to hurry, okay?”

  “I'm on my way.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Linda Church hugs the toilet in the ladies’ room of The Devil’s Punchbowl Bar and Grille, shuddering as she retches into the bowl. She’s supposed to be seating patrons, but she can no longer carry out the basic functions of employment. Two minutes ago she received a text message from Tim, but the message made no sense. She wipes her mouth with toilet tissue, then flips open her phone and reads the letters again, being careful to hide it from the hidden camera above.

  Thiefwww kllmmommy. Sqrttoo.

  The message came from a number she doesn’'t recognize, not even the area code, but this is the strongest proof that Tim sent it. He’s told her that one of his security tactics is to use the phones of strangers when their attention is elsewhere. He’s even stolen cell phones for this purpose. But this message has taken her to the edge of panic. Kllmmommy? Sqrttoo? It almost sounds like an order to kill Julia and the baby.

  “No,” she whispers, as the possibility that this message might have been meant for someone else sinks into her bones. “Not possible. He loves that baby. He loves Julia.”

  Linda hears footsteps enter the restroom. She grabs the handle and flushes for cover, and cold spray hits her face.

  “Linda?” asks a worried voice. “It’s Ashley. Are you okay? Janice said you really look like shit.”

  “I'm okay, Ash. Stomach flu, I think. I'’ll be right out.”

  “Yuck. I'’ll tell Janice.”

  “Thanks.”

  Linda frantically plays back the sequence of events that brought her here. Four hours ago, Tim walked past the door of The Devil’s Punchbowl whistling “Walking on the Moon,” by the Police. The song was a coded signal, arranged last night after Tim met with Penn Cage. If Tim had whistled “Every Breath You Take,” it would have meant, “Get out now. Don’t wait for anything.” “Walking on the Moon” meant Linda should work until the end of her shift, then throw her cell phone in the river, get into her car, and drive three hours to New Orleans, to her aunt’s house. Tim would call her in transit using a pay-as-you-go cell phone he’d bought at Wal-Mart, and she would answer with the same
type of phone. Hers was in her car now, under the front seat.

  “Walking on the Moon” was supposed to signal that everything was going according to plan, but the moment Linda recognized the tune, her insides had started to roil with apprehension. She’d forced herself to keep doing her job, even though she had to remain on the boat an hour after Tim’s shift ended. She’d almost snapped at midnight and simply run down the exit ramp as he left the boat, but that would have busted them for sure.

  “I shouldn’t even

  be

  here,” she says almost silently, ever conscious of the hidden microphones. The Devil’s Punchbowl usually closes at 11:00 p.m., but Sands has ordered all the food service to run on extended hours during the Balloon Festival.

  The door bangs open again, and Ashley calls, “Darnell just came by and asked why you weren’t on duty. She’s on the warpath. You’d better get back out there if you can walk.”

  Sue Darnell was the personnel manager, a cast-iron bitch from Dallas. “Almost done. I'm just fixing my face.”

  “Down there? I'm looking at your heels, girl.”

  “I'm coming, Ash! I got vomit on my blouse.”

  “It’s your funeral, honey.”

  Don’t even think that,

  Linda says silently. With a handful of tissue she wipes clammy sweat from her face and forehead, then gets to her feet and checks her uniform for any signs of vomit. She was lucky.

  The ladies’ room opens into Slot Group Seven, a jangling circus of

  noise filled with smoke and drunk gamblers. The extraction fans don'’t work for shit up here. Linda smooths her skirt against her thighs and tries to walk with something like grace as she moves through the suckers and back toward the Punchbowl.

  She’s thirty feet away when she realizes something is wrong. Ashley and Janice are standing by the cash registers, talking to each other without any regard for three patrons waiting to be seated. Ashley’s mouth forms a perfect

  O,

  then Janice nods and begins chattering. When Ashley catches sight of Linda, she motions her over with a quick wave.

  “What is it?” Linda asks, fighting the urge to bolt for the main-deck gangplank.

  “Janice just got a text from her ex-husband. He’s up at Bowie’s. He said some guy fell off the bluff up by Silver Street. He was goofing on the other side of the fence or something, and he fell. He’s

  dead.

  Some people are saying he jumped.”

  Linda blinks, trying to absorb this, but a low ringing has begun in her ears.

  “Drunk, probably,” Janice says. “Jimmy’s drunk, anyway. You couldn'’t get me on the other side of that fence even if I was toasted. There’s only about a foot of concrete, and then

  nothing.”

  “A whole lot of nothing,” Ashley agrees. “I wonder who it was.”

  “A tourist, I bet,” says Janice. “Somebody here for the race. Wait.” Janice takes a cell phone from her pocket and checks a message. “Now Jimmy says somebody threw the guy off the bluff. Jesus.”

  Linda is looking at Janice, but what she sees is Tim flying through the air, head over heels, spinning through the dark—

  “Linda?” says Ashley, her voice tinged with real concern. “Are you going to puke again?”

  Janice grabs the trash can from behind the register, but Linda ignores it and walks back toward the ladies’ room. The girls say something behind her, but she doesn’'t catch the meaning. She passes the door of the restroom and walks to the thick glass door that leads to the observation deck. The October wind hits her face-on, and she’s glad for the chill. Looking upriver, she sees the lights of the houses on Clifton Avenue, then Weymouth Hall. Somewhere up there, Tim is supposed to be meeting Penn Cage tonight. She doesn’'t

  let her mind go any further than that. Tim is there, she says silently. Right now, he’s handing over whatever he got tonight. With this article of faith set in her heart, she slips her personal cell phone from her pocket and flicks it through the rail, toward the river three decks below. She doesn’'t hear the splash, but she sees a spurt of silver rise in the moonlight as the phone goes under. She knows her body was between her hand and the surveillance camera when she threw the phone, because she’s rehearsed this move a dozen times in her mind, just as Tim instructed.

  “Keep moving,” she mouths to herself, walking to the companionway used by the service staff to get to the main deck. “Don’t stop long enough to let fear paralyze you.”

  She’s quoting Tim now, like a heroine echoing her mentor in her mind. She slips through the gift shop, then past the foot of the escalators. This is the hardest part of her journey. Every atom of instinct is screaming for her to march down the big aisle between the slots, through the main entrance, and right across the broad exit ramp—but she can’t.

  She doesn’'t have her car keys.

  For one wild moment she considers leaving anyway, breaking into a sprint and racing out to freedom. But if she did that, she’d be cutting herself off from Tim. The TracFone from Wal-Mart is under her car seat, and that’s her only sure link to him now. To reach it, she has to have her keys.

  Why didn't you tell me to keep my ignition key in my pocket?

  she asks Tim silently.

  Why didn't I think of it?

  For the first time a blade of raw terror slices through her, cold and true. If Tim didn't think of this contingency, what else did he forget?

  Linda grits her teeth and forces herself to breeze past the center aisle without looking at the exit.

  Point of no return,

  she thinks, spying the service door that leads belowdecks to the restricted area of the boat. Operations, Security, the physical plant of the barge.

  She has to show her badge to the security officer at the top of the stairs. He gives it a bored look, then lets her walk down the steps. She can feel his eyes on her backside as she reaches the lower deck.

  The smell changes in the lower holds. It’s like entering the service elevator in a hotel by mistake. The illusion of cleanliness and luxury falls away, leaving the sticky floor of reality. The air down here reeks

  of bad cafeteria food and other things she can’t quite recognize. Employee resentment paranoia. Linda quails at the idea of going near the security control area, but she has no choice. The lockers and changing room are aft of the security suite.

  Because everyone is still on shift, she’s alone on the lower deck. If the security guys poke their heads out, she’ll tell them she’s puking nonstop and has to get to the emergency room.

  A long corridor runs past the door of the security suite, then the off-limits room they call the Devil’s Punchbowl. She makes the length of the passageway on a single held-in breath. Halfway home now. Through the hatch that leads to the changing rooms, past the clock where she punches in, around the corner and

  there.

  The employee lockers.

  Linda licks her lips, takes a breath, then dials the combination on her locker. The lock clicks. In her mind she sees the yellow Dooney & Bourke purse she bought at Dillard’s in New Orleans, a birthday splurge. And inside the purse, her car keys.

  She opens the door and reaches into the locker, but her purse is gone. Withdrawing her hand, she leans back so that more light can get into the space. It’s a mistake, she thinks, feeling the way she does when she somehow loses the milk carton in the refrigerator.

  Lying where she left her purse is the black TracFone Tim bought her at Wal-Mart—the phone she last saw before shoving it under the front seat of her Corolla.

  “You fucking slag,” growls a male voice filled with rage.

  Seamus Quinn.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re in for?”

  Linda closes her eyes and grips the cold metal edge of the locker door. Without it, she would have fainted to the deck.

  Quinn starts to speak again, but the air in the room changes suddenly, and his words become a mute exhalation. Linda hears rapid, shallow breathing that sets her nerves thrumming.

  “Close the locker, Linda,” says J
onathan Sands. “We’re a bit pressed for time.”

  Tim is dead,

  says a voice inside her, the voice that has known it all along. Hot tears slide down her cheeks as she closes the locker door.

  “That'’s it, darlin’,” says Sands. “Now turn around.”

  Linda wipes her face on her sleeve and turns slowly. Quinn is

  leaning against the wall behind her, his shoulder wedged against a flyer that reads NEED HELP MANAGING YOUR 401(K)? Sands stands in the corridor that leads past the security suite, arms folded across his chest, dressed as perfectly as if he were attending a wedding or a funeral in fifteen minutes. His hyperobservant eyes glide over her face and clothing, missing nothing. Beside him sits the huge white dog that sometimes accompanies him on the boat. Sands told her the dog was bred in Pakistan, for fighting and for war. She has never heard the dog make a sound.

  Poor Tim,

  she thinks in a rush of despair that almost drops her to the floor.

  “Can’t trust a fucking cunt,” Quinn mutters. “All the same.”

  Linda’s heart flutters like a panicked bird trying to beat its way up through her 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?”