Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles

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СКАЧАТЬ putting the trout in his sink, Stone brings us mugs of coffee and chocolate heated on an old woodstove, then sits opposite us in a rough handmade chair. His waders hang on a hook by the door, dripping into a brass bucket with the sound of men making use of a spittoon.

      “You’ve got a nice place,” I tell him. “No neighbors at all. How’d you manage that?”

      He smiles. “Everything you see around this place is government land. But this cabin sits on a mining claim that’s been in my family for three generations. Grandfathered down to the present. The federal government can’t do a thing about me.”

      “I love it,” Caitlin says.

      “Thank you. Now, I heard the story Mr. Cage told me on the telephone. Tell me what you really know about the Payton case. And why you care.”

      “We’ve read the original police file,” I begin. “Informant reports, interviews, interrogations, theories.”

      “What did you learn from that?”

      “The report was wrong about the bomb that blew up Payton’s Fairlane.”

      If this rings a bell, Stone has one hell of a poker face. “Wrong how?”

      “It said the bomb was made of dynamite, based on a patrolman discovering fragments of blasting caps, plus lab analysis.”

      “So?”

      “I located Payton’s car. It’s still in decent shape, believe it or not. The damage looked more characteristic of C-4 to me. A lot of metal shearing, small shrapnel. I sent a fragment of the engine to an expert for analysis. Last night he confirmed it. C-4.”

      Stone nods thoughtfully. “C-4 was damn hard to come by in 1968. And your Klan boys didn’t know shit about using it.”

      He has not directly refuted my assertion. “You’re saying the expert is wrong?”

      “It’s happened before. But that’s not what I’m saying.”

      “Then you’re saying the Klan wasn’t behind the murder.”

      “I didn’t say that either. What kind of theories were in the report?”

      “Mostly rumors. I thought one story was plausible. Someone thought Payton’s death was a mistake. That the real target was the president of the local NAACP. He apparently rode to and from work with Payton a good bit.”

      Stone nods with familiarity. “What about the one where a black button man was hired from New Orleans to come up and pop Payton? Strictly a money hit.”

      This scenario had been reported to the police by a Louisiana woman. Her story was given credence because she turned down the full fifteen-thousand-dollar reward rather than give more details. She claimed she’d never live to spend the money. No further information was recorded in the file.

      “Is that what you think happened?” I ask.

      Stone smiles. “It could have happened. How old are you, Mr. Cage? Thirty-five?”

      “Thirty-eight.”

      “Do you have any idea what things were like in 1968?”

      “In Mississippi?”

      “In America.”

      “Well … the country was turning against Vietnam. LBJ was being ground down by the war. Civil rights hit its high-water mark, with Martin Luther King at his peak before he—”

      “I’m glad you passed your civics course,” he interrupts. “I’m talking about reality, son. Behind the scenes. In 1968 a few powerful and paranoid men were trying to hold their vision of this country together in the face of social revolution. It was a tide they had no prayer of stopping, but they didn’t understand that, and they used every method at their disposal to try.”

      As Stone speaks, I glimpse a furnace of anger seething behind his eyes. He has tight control over it, but he’s been holding in that anger for years.

      “The Constitution meant nothing to these men. Richard Nixon was one of them, but he was bush league compared to them.”

      “You’re talking about J. Edgar Hoover?”

      “Hoover was one of the more visible.”

      “How does this tie in with Del Payton?”

      Stone looks from my face to Caitlin’s, as though deciding whether we have earned the right to any of his hard-won knowledge. Now that I think of it, he’s probably seventy years old, but his tanned, weathered face and soldier’s eyes convey the strength of a much younger man.

      “A lot of blacks were killed in Mississippi in the nineteen-sixties,” he says in a deliberate voice. “Del Payton was one. But he was killed later than most. Have you thought about that? A lot of the race murders happened around sixty-four. Payton came later.”

      “What’s the significance of that?”

      “Just something for you to think about.”

      Everything’s riddles with this guy. “Martin Luther King was assassinated in 1968,” I point out.

      He shakes his head. “I’m talking about grassroots murders.”

      Caitlin looks ready to pop; she obviously has a hundred questions, but I hope she won’t ask them. The harder we push Stone, the more he’ll resist us. From lawyerly instinct, I move away from Del Payton, and ask a question to which I already know the answer.

      “Did you serve your full term of service with the Bureau? That is to say, did you retire at full pension?”

      He takes a deep breath, and a little more anger spills through his eyes. “I’m going to answer that because you’re going to find it out anyway, if you don’t already know. And because I’m not ashamed to answer. I was asked to resign in 1972. Officially for alcoholism.”

      Caitlin nods with empathy. “Did your drinking have anything to do with the Del Payton case?”

      “That I won’t answer. But I’ll tell you this. If every alcoholic in the Bureau in 1972 had been asked to resign, Hoover couldn’t have mounted a raid on a cathouse. You had to drink just to stomach what was going on back then.”

      “What kind of thing are you talking about?” I ask.

      “You ever read American Tabloid, by James Ellroy?”

      “No.”

      “Give it a look. Things weren’t quite that crazy, but they were damn close.”

      “How did you earn a living after leaving the Bureau?”

      A sour look wrinkles his face. “Worked as a private dick for a while. Big firm. That was sleazier than Hoover’s Bureau, so I quit. Worked as an insurance investigator. I drank professionally for a few years. I was close to dying when my daughter pulled me back up to the light. I finally hung out my shingle СКАЧАТЬ