Cemetery Road. Greg Iles

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      THE TOUGHEST ACTING job in the world is behaving normally in the presence of someone with whom you’re having illicit sex. Most people who find themselves in this situation think they can handle it, but the truth is sooner or later people pick up on intimacy. Even if they don’t see it, they feel it. They notice a hitch in the breathing, an altered tone of voice, a difference in the way you deal with space around someone. And, of course, the eyes. Reality abides in the eyes. What keeps most of these situations from exploding is the tendency of the betrayed not to see what their eyes and other senses tell them.

      After my surprise interaction with Jet, I have to decide whether she was serious when she asked me to deliver a Sprite to the Prime Shot tent. To do so will mean interacting with her husband, Paul, whom I have known since I was three years old. Also with her father-in-law, Max, who’s one of the most powerful members of the Poker Club. Since Paul might have watched us talking in the refreshment line, the best choice is probably to take Jet the drink.

      Prime Shot Premium Hunting Gear was founded by Wyatt Cash, a Bienville native who made some money as a professional baseball player, then parlayed it into a wildly successful company that makes everything from custom camouflage clothing to all-terrain vehicles. Most of the Poker Club members on hand today have gravitated to Cash’s tent, although I see a couple of older members at the Bienville Southern Bank tent, paying court to its octogenarian founder, Claude Buckman.

      “Yo, Goose!” Paul Matheson calls as I approach the Prime Shot tent. “Wassup, man?”

      At six feet even, Paul is a slightly smaller version of his father. Blond, gregarious, still muscular at forty-seven. There’s no one on earth with whom I have a more complex history.

      “Just covering this Chinese fire drill,” I tell him. “Jet passed me in the drink line and asked me to bring her a Sprite.”

      “What a gentleman. We got beer in a cooler back here. Scotch if you’re feeling frisky.”

      “At eleven A.M.? I’ll pass.”

      “Hey, this is a celebration day. All day, all night.”

      I hand him the Sprite. “Can you make sure Jet gets this?”

      “I’ll take it myself,” Jet says, stepping up from behind me and brushing my cheek with a kiss. God, this woman has nerve.

      She moves on through the bodies under the tent, stopping to speak to her paralegal, who’s talking to one of the Prime Shot girls. Paul steps closer to me. “I heard about Buck, man. I’m sorry as hell. I know how close you two were.”

      “Yeah. Thanks.”

      “What do you think happened?”

      “Don’t know. Guess I’ll wait to hear from the police.”

      Paul snorts. “Like you’ve never done once in your life. Come on, man.”

      “I really don’t know. Accident seems unlikely. Floating into that snag would be a stretch. That’s a wide river.”

      “Yeah.” Paul lowers his voice. “You think somebody stuck him out there? Wasted him, then tried to hand the cops an accident on a platter?”

      “Buck wasn’t going to win a popularity contest during this past week.”

      “No shit. I sure hope it was an accident.”

      “He didn’t die where they found his truck,” I say, watching Paul from the corner of my eye. “Somebody staged that.”

      This intrigues him. “You have proof of that?”

      “Call it intuition. But your buddy Beau Holland sure seems on edge about the whole thing.”

      “Fuck Beau Holland,” he says with venom. “He ain’t my buddy.”

      “Did you say you want to have sex with Beau Holland?” asks a deeper male voice.

      Max Matheson claps his son on the back, then laughs heartily. “Hey, Goose, how’s it hanging?”

      I nod but say nothing. Back when he coached us as boys, Max would ask this to trigger responses like “Long and loose and full of juice.”

      “Heard about Buck,” he says, then takes a pull from what looks like Scotch on the rocks. “Bad luck.”

      “Maybe.”

      Max’s eyes linger on mine long enough for him to read my emotions. He’s always had that gift, the predator’s lightning perception. “That river can kill you quick. You know that better than anybody.”

      “Jesus, Pop,” Paul says. “Shut the fuck up, why don’t you?”

      Max clucks his tongue. “All right. Guess I’ll leave you girls to it.”

      As he slides away, Wyatt Cash walks up wearing navy chinos and a Prime Shot polo beneath an olive blazer. With his 1970s mustache and bulging muscles, he still looks like a baseball player. The girls in the Prime Shot shirts are watching him with something like reverence. I’m guessing they’ve all ridden on either his jet or his helicopter. Cash hands me a sweating Heineken and smiles.

      “Welcome to my humble abode, sir.”

      Most people under this tent would prefer me anywhere but here, but Cash is being polite. “Thanks, Wyatt.”