Turning Angel

Chapter 23

When I called Quentin Avery to tell him about Drew’s impending interrogation, I got his wife instead. Doris Avery was reluctant to bring Quentin to the phone, but I heard him protesting in the background, and then his rich voice came down the wire from the far northern edge of the county.

”What are you pulling me out of bed for, Penn Cage?“

I quickly related everything that had happened since we last talked. Quentin sounded intrigued by the attack on Cyrus, and still more by his disappearance. But he wasn’t worried about Drew being interrogated by Chief Logan. If I felt nervous, he said, I should observe and make sure that Drew answered only questions pertaining to Cyrus’s death. Quentin’s nonchalance worried me. I felt that he was misreading Drew-whom he still had not met-and that Drew’s belief in his own innocence might cause him to make statements against his interest in the legal sense.

But Quentin turned out to be right. Chief Logan got nothing out of Drew other than a denial that he’d been involved in the attack on Cyrus and his guards. Drew appeared even more shocked than I to hear of the attack, but he was very interested in Cyrus’s escape. Like me, Drew raised the possibility that Cyrus might be attempting to fake his own death. As Chief Logan tried to shoot down this theory, I decided that if Cyrus was trying to fake his own death, he’d done it without premeditation, by simply taking advantage of a tragic but fortuitous event. But Drew seemed committed to the theory that the entire attack had been orchestrated by Cyrus to rid himself of his own men-potential witnesses against him-and then ”die“ to escape being punished for Kate’s murder. ”What better way to avoid prosecution?“ Drew challenged Logan. ”Cyrus is probably on his way to Chicago or Los Angeles by now.“

Logan ended his interrogation no wiser than he’d begun it. I warned Drew not to answer any more questions without myself or Quentin present, promised to visit him in the morning, then let Chief Logan walk me to my car.

”Something’s not right, Penn,“ he said. ”I don’t know whether it’s Drew or something I don’t know about yet. But something’s deeply wrong in this town.“

”Maybe something’s been wrong for a while, Don. Maybe it’s just coming to the surface at last.“

”You talking about drugs?“

”And the other things tied up with it. Race problems, teenagers in trouble, big enough money to draw out-of-town predators.“

”What about this Marko kid?“ Logan asked. ”What’s his story?“

”You didn’t have him on your radar before this?“

”No.“

”He’s a Croatian exchange student who wants to be Al Pacino.“

”What?“

”Nothing. Just something Sonny Cross said.“

Chief Logan looked like he wanted more information, but I was too tired to tell what I knew about Marko Bakic. ”What’s your problem with Quentin Avery, Don?“

The chief took out a cigarette and lit it. After a couple of drags, he said, ”Avery sued my uncle in a personal injury case. Danny Richards. Uncle Danny owned a trucking company. They hauled pulpwood, mostly. Well, one of his drivers was drunk one Friday. Black, of course. Some of those guys buy two cases of beer in the morning and drink all day up in the cab. It’s crazy, of course, but how you gonna stop them? Uncle Danny checked his drivers lots of times, but you can’t be up in the trucks with them all the time. Anyway, this particular driver overcorrected on a turn and spilled a load of logs on a housewife coming back from the grocery store. Paralyzed her. Avery took the case and pushed it to the limit. The driver didn’t have anything but a mountain of debt, so he spent a few years in jail, then got out. He’s driving log trucks again.“

”And your uncle?“

”Avery shut him down. All the assets of his company were seized to pay the punitive damages. The case was litigated in Jefferson County, of course. Uncle Danny killed himself two years later. Drove into a bridge piling, stone sober in broad daylight, one-car accident.“

”I’m sorry.“

Chief Logan blew out a long stream of smoke. ”That motherfucker comes into my station, he’d better hope there’s people around the whole time. Otherwise, he just might slip on a banana peel.“

I waited for more, but the chief added nothing to his story. It’s an ancient rule: lawyers make enemies. ”I’ll see you, Don.“

He dropped his butt and ground it out on the pavement. ”Yeah.“

As I drive away from the police station, my mind constructs a montage of images I never saw in life but which I now know happened: Cyrus White being attacked by a black-masked killer; the ethereal Kate Townsend walking alone into the Brightside Manor Apartments to score drugs for her married lover’s wife. And playing beneath these images like the black-and-white filmstrips of carnage I saw in driver’s education class, the death of Sonny Cross, my own personal nightmare of muzzle flashes and panic and black blood. My feelings about Sonny remain mixed. He was a flawed man, but he did his best to protect his hometown from a scourge he knew more intimately than most of us. It was an obligation he felt deeply, and as he died, he passed part of that obligation on to me, like a falling soldier passing a regimental banner to a comrade.

Reflecting on the hurricane of violence that began spinning through my town two days ago, I ask myself what lies in the eye of that storm. And the answer that comes to me is simple: Marko Bakic. Given what I told Sheriff Byrd tonight about Sonny’s interrogation of Marko this afternoon, Marko is probably sitting under a hot light down at the sheriff’s department right now. But maybe not. Billy Byrd has a lot to deal with tonight.

Dialing Directory Assistance on my cell phone, I request the home phone number of Paul Wilson, the retired professor who sponsored Marko in the student exchange program. It’s after eleven, but Paul keeps late hours. I’ve seen him jogging with his dog after midnight in his subdivision. I know this because I often keep late hours myself, especially when I’m writing. After Paul’s phone rings five times, I start to hang up, but then the professor answers in a wide-awake voice.

”Penn Cage! What’s up, fella?“ Paul is a Yankee, and he obviously saw my name on his caller ID.

”Hey, Paul. I know it’s late, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute.“

”It’s not late over here. Janet and I were just having a glass of pinot noir and watching Puccini on PBS.“

A hysterical laugh almost escapes my mouth. Paul has instantly fulfilled my stereotypical image of him. I’ve heard that he and Janet drink a lot of wine, and I know from talking to him that he listens to too much NPR.

”Have you heard from the police tonight?“ I ask.

There’s a brief silence on Paul’s end. ”As a matter of fact, the sheriff called. He was quite rude, actually.“

”Are they questioning Marko now?“

”No, Marko’s out on a date.“

”I didn’t think kids went on dates anymore.“

Paul laughs. ”They don’t really, but Marko and this girl spend a lot of time together.“

”She’s his girlfriend?“

”Well, she’s quite taken with him. Obsessed, I would venture to say. But I don’t think Marko confines himself to one girl. When he was a child, he learned not to get attached to anyone, because he might lose them at any moment.“

”Is Marko usually late getting in?“

”Sometimes he doesn’t get in at all, to be honest. Sometimes he stays at Alicia’s house.“

”Alicia Reynolds?“ I ask, thinking of a troubled girl in the senior class.

”That’s right.“

I turn onto the bypass and drive in the direction of Paul’s subdivision. ”Paul, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Marko?“

”Not at all. I know you’ve spoken up for him at least once on the school board, and I appreciate it. But before you ask me anything, let me say this. I know a lot of people think I just bury my head in the sand when it comes to that boy. But that’s not the case at all. Nobody around here has any idea what Marko went through in Bosnia. He was in Sarajevo during the worst of it, Penn. He was ten years old, and he saw unspeakable things there. Nobody who experiences those kinds of things comes out whole on the other side-especially a child. Marko doesn’t talk about it, but I know some.“

”Would you feel comfortable sharing any of it with me? It might be relevant to the current situation.“

”Well…Marko reminds me of that kid in Empire of the Sun, the Spielberg film about World War Two. Christian Bale plays the kid. He’s in a prison camp, and conditions are abominable. John Malkovich teaches Bale to survive, and Bale becomes the consummate hustler. That’s Marko. And if that’s what you are, you don’t change overnight just because you’ve been dropped into the land of milk and honey.“

”Have you ever seen Marko get violent?“

”Never.“

”The kids at school think he carries a gun.“

Silence. ”I’ve certainly never seen him with a gun. I’m not saying it’s impossible, considering his level of paranoia. But I’ve never seen one. I’d be very disappointed if I did.“

You might be disappointed. Someone else might be dead.”Do you keep guns in the house, Paul?“

”Not one. I’m a firm advocate of gun control.“

”Hm.“

”Penn, I heard a rumor that the board is thinking of expelling Marko. Maybe even trying to get him deported.“

Wonderful.As I told Holden Smith, nothing in those meetings stays secret. ”Just between you and me, Paul, that’s true. I told them they couldn’t do it without proof that he’s broken the rules.“

”I see. Penn…I know it’s late, but I think perhaps you and I should have a face-to-face conversation about Marko. If he’s in serious trouble, I need to know the extent of it. And I know some things about his experiences in Sarajevo that you should probably be aware of.“

I look at my watch. 11:25 p.m. Mia is probably getting antsy by now. But on the other hand, Marko is the biggest question mark in this whole bloody mess. And after having Sonny Cross’s gun stuck into his mouth this afternoon, there’s no telling what he might decide to do tonight.

”I think that’s a good idea, Paul. I’ll be there in ten minutes.“

”I’ll pour you a glass of wine.“

I dial home, and Mia answers, her voice alert.

”How you doing, girl?“

”I’m good. Annie’s sound asleep.“

”Why aren’t you?“

”I finished Bowles’s book, and I started The Secret History. I meant to read just one chapter, but it hooked me. I can’t believe this was written by a girl from Mississippi.“

”In longhand, no less. Don’t you ever just have fun?“

”This is my idea of fun, believe it or not.“

As I ask Mia if she can stay another hour, a crackle of static fills my ear. Then the felt wall of silence that heralds a failing connection greets me. I accelerate up the hill in front of me until my phone shows three bars, then pull over to the curb and dial Mia again.

”Can you hear me now?“ she asks.

”Yeah, I had to pull over. Can you stay another hour?“

”Sure.“

”What will your mom say?“

”I already called her and told her I might have to stay over.“

This takes me aback. ”Meredith was okay with that?“

”Yeah. She knows you’re working on Drew’s case.“

”How does she feel about Drew after all she’s heard?“

”She’s reserving judgment. Mom doesn’t put much stock in gossip. She’s always respected Drew, and she told me she has a really hard time believing he could have killed Kate.“

”But she believes he slept with her?“

”Oh, yeah. I mean…he’s a guy, right?“

I laugh softly. ”Well, I don’t think you’ll have to stay over. I’m going by Paul Wilson’s house, but it shouldn’t take long.“

A sudden tension enters her voice. ”Are you going to talk to Marko?“

”I’d like to, but he’s not there. He’s out with his girlfriend.“

Mia makes a derogatory noise.

”What is it?“

”Marko doesn’t have a girlfriend.“

”Then what was Paul talking about? What about Alicia Reynolds?“

” God.Alicia worships Marko. She’s kind of…I don’t know, Goth, I guess. For about a year she had black fingernails. Now all she talks about is Third World debt. I think she’s kind of a sex slave for him, actually.“

”But not his girlfriend.“

”Marko’s not into boundaries. He takes whatever he can get.“

”Does that make him different from most of the guys you know?“

”Well…I guess when it comes down to it, no.“

”Okay, thanks. I’d better get going.“

”Hey, wait,“ Mia says. ”I heard a cop got killed tonight. Is that true?“

The cellular jungle drums are beating overtime tonight. ”Yes.“

”Do you know who did it?“

”Sort of.“

”Was the killer local?“

”Why do you ask that?“

”I didn’t figure you’d tell me who it actually was. So I asked for what you could tell me.“

”You seem to realize the drug business extends outside of Natchez.“

”Well, sure. They don’t grow the stuff here. Except for some shitty pot out in Jefferson County.“

”Mia, I think you should consider a career in law enforcement.“

”I might. But I don’t think they teach that at Brown.“

I laugh again. ”I’ll see you in less than an hour.“

”If I fall asleep, wake me up.“

”I will,“ I tell her, realizing as I do that we sound like nothing so much as a married couple.

The Wilsons live on Espero Drive, part of a large subdivision built in the 1970s, one that I once thought of as the ”new“ part of Natchez. Now Espero and its parallel street, Mansfield Drive, are shaded by mature oaks and house many retired couples who keep perfectly manicured lawns. The Wilson house is a one-story ranch set well back from the road. Behind it and to the right stands a two-story garage, the upper story containing the apartment where Marko lives.

I park on the street and walk up a flower-lined sidewalk, trying to recall what I can about Paul Wilson. His wife is a Natchez native, but Paul hails from Ohio. He taught political science for years at the University of Southern Mississippi at Hattiesburg, about three hours by car from Natchez. I once attended a lecture he gave on race relations, at the Natchez Literary Festival, and I was impressed. Paul seemed to have a better grasp of his subject than most Yankees ever get, and I credited his wife for that. He probably knows more about the former Yugoslav republics than I could learn in a year, and I suspect that his choice of Marko Bakic as an exchange student was rooted in that knowledge. On the other hand, he might simply have been assigned Marko at random.

The doorbell rings loudly enough for me to hear it through the door, but no one answers. I wait about thirty seconds, then ring it again.

Nothing.

Maybe Marko got home, and they went out to his room to talk to him. I step over some shrubs and walk around the right side of the house, where the driveway runs back to the garage. Rather than interrupt a family conference, I decide to check the rear of the house proper. If I remember right, the Wilsons added a large sunroom to the main house a couple of years back.

They did. The glass enclosure juts out unnaturally from the original brick, but I imagine the Wilsons were more than willing to trade symmetry for a nice place to drink wine and admire their garden without mosquitoes eating them alive.

As I move closer, I see Janet Wilson sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom. I don’t see Paul. I’m walking up to the glass door to knock when something stops me cold. From this distance, what I thought was a floral print on Janet Wilson’s blouse looks more like spattered blood. With my own blood roaring in my ears, I scan the yard behind me for intruders.

Nothing.

I lean against the door and search the rest of the room with my eyes. Two chairs lie on their sides, possible signs of a struggle. Then I see Paul. He’s lying facedown on a pale blue sofa, and this, too, is splashed with blood. I pull out my cell phone and dial 911, not quite believing that I’m reporting murder for the second time in one night.

”911 emergency,“ says the dispatcher.

”This is Penn Cage again,“ I whisper. ”I’m at 508 Espero Drive, and I have two probable homicide victims. Paul and Janet Wilson. I need paramedics and cops. The killer could still be on the property.“

”Could you speak up, sir?“

” No.Double homicide, 508 Espero. Get two squad cars and an ambulance here, and tell them to come with sirens screaming.“

I hang up and try the door handle. It’s open.

I’d give ten grand for my lost Springfield right now, but there’s no use wishing. The smart thing would be to wait in the bushes for the cops. This isn’t rural Adams County, like Sonny Cross’s property. There should be a squad car here inside two minutes. But there’s also a chance that Paul or Janet could still be alive, and for them every second could be critical.

I open the door and go to Janet first, pressing my finger underneath her jawbone while I survey her wounds. She’s been stabbed more than a dozen times, with most of the wounds concentrated in her chest and abdomen. Both hands show the multiple slashes of defensive wounds. There’s no pulse in her throat.

Moving to the sofa, I see that Paul, too, has suffered multiple stab wounds, a half dozen on his back alone. I kneel, squeeze his shoulder, and speak close to his ear. ”Paul? Paul, it’s Penn Cage.“

A low rasp comes from his throat. As gently as I can, I roll him over.

Paul’s eyes are open, but his throat has been slashed from his trachea to his left ear. It was a clumsy effort, a butcher’s job. A small amount of bubbly red fluid pulses from the wound, but I sense that the bulk of Paul’s lifeblood is soaking into the sofa and the rug beneath it. His eyes are glassy, and his face is so gray that I can’t believe he’s alive.

”Paul? Can you hear me?“

The rasp comes again. Not from his mouth, though. It’s coming from the laceration in his windpipe. The contents of my stomach come up in a rush, and it’s all I can do to keep from vomiting on Paul. When I recover myself, I realize that the dying professor is trying to turn his head to look at his dead wife. All I can think of is Sonny Cross’s dying concern for the safety of his sons.

”Janet’s fine,“ I assure Paul, hoping he didn’t see her stabbed, but certain that he’ll be dead soon in any case.

Air continues to bubble through the slash in his throat, and he struggles harder to turn.

I take him by the shoulders and stop him. ”The paramedics said Janet’s fine, Paul. It’s you they’re worried about. Hang on, okay? You have to hang on for Janet. Another ambulance is on the way.“

His eyes close.

A crazy thought comes to me, and before I can stop myself, I voice it. ”Did Marko do this, Paul? Did Marko stab you?“

His eyes open again, wide this time, and with a remarkable feat of will, he shakes his head.

”Did Marko do this?“ I repeat, wanting to be sure.

Paul shakes his head once again, then closes his eyes and sags backward.

”Can you hear me, Paul?“

Nothing.

I take his hand and squeeze it. ”I’m here, Paul. You’re not alone. Can you hear me?“

Nothing.

I reach across him with my left hand and grasp two of his fingers. ”That’s Janet holding your hand. She wants you to hold on. Can you hear me?“

The fingers move, and for an instant I feel hope. But then a seemingly endless rasp issues from the throat wound, slowly diminishing to a fluid rattle. Paul Wilson is still in the way that only dead men are still.

I drop his hands and get to my feet, suddenly aware of how foolish I’ve been to focus on these two while their killer could still be near. I dart back outside and move into the shadows at the side of the house.

In the distance, I hear a siren.

As it grows louder and higher in pitch, I find myself looking up at the apartment over the garage. Suddenly I realize the obvious, that the Wilsons weren’t the target of whoever killed them: Marko was. Sprinting across the driveway, I bound up the steps to Marko’s apartment.

The door stands ajar.

While I try to decide whether or not to enter, I hear the scream of burning rubber out on the street. Someone is fleeing the scene right now. Jesus. The killer was probably still in Marko’s apartment while I was checking on Paul and Janet. Praying I won’t find Marko’s corpse inside, I enter the apartment.

It’s a single room, with a bed, a kitchenette, and a toilet behind a partition. The floor is a sea of bedclothes, books, and drawers jerked from the dresser against the wall. An armoire lies facedown on a table, its front shattered by the force with which it fell. Only a computer screen glowing against the far wall seems to have escaped the damage.

The siren is closer now.

I pick my way through the debris and go to the computer. It’s a Windows platform system. I go to the My Documents folder and check its contents. The files look innocuous: school reports and letters from junior colleges regarding a possible football scholarship. I scan the rest of the hard drive, but nothing jumps out at me. Marko seems to be a serious gamer, with numerous combat-oriented games residing on his drive.

The wail of an ambulance joins the police siren, and the cacophony sounds as though it’s coming from the Wilsons’ front yard. Knowing I’m pressing my luck, I go to the Windows control area and click ”Show Hidden Files.“ When I recheck the hard drive, several new folders have appeared, each with a semitransparent icon indicating that it was designated by the computer’s primary user to be concealed from a casual user. I try to open one folder, but I’m immediately prompted for a password. Another folder gives the same result. Desperate for some clue to Marko’s inner psyche, I look down at the floor, into some drawers that were ripped from the computer desk. Between the drawers, lying amid cracked CDs and DVDs, is a USB flash drive similar to the ones in Kate Townsend’s shoe box. This one is a Sony, about a half inch wide and three inches long.

As the sirens fade into silence out front, I plug the flash drive into the USB port and copy the formerly hidden folders onto it. Then I dismount the drive, shove it into the instep of my shoe, and run downstairs to the driveway.

”Stop!“yells a male voice. ”Police! Put up your hands.“

I can’t see the face of the officer in the driveway because a floodlight on the side of the Wilsons’ house is backlighting him. But I see the gun in his outstretched hands.

”I’m Penn Cage! I made the 911 call.“

”Reach slowly into your pocket and take out some ID.“

As I obey the command, I speak in the calmest voice I can muster. ”The bodies are in the sunroom out back. Paul and Janet Wilson. They have an exchange student living with them, but he’s not here. He’s involved in the drug trade, and the killer tore his room apart. He lives over the garage.“

The officer moves toward me and checks my ID, then follows me back to the sunroom. He’s Natchez PD, not a sheriff’s deputy, and I’m glad for that. While he surveys the crime scene, two paramedics with a gurney arrive, followed by more uniformed cops and a plain-clothes detective named John Ruff. I’ve talked to Ruff five or six times, but never in a professional capacity. Usually I see him at the softball field. Like me, he has a daughter who plays.

”This is something, huh?“ he says in a soft voice.

”I can’t believe it, John. After what’s already happened?“

Ruff nods and steers me away from the patrolmen to question me. I answer his questions as fully as I’m able, but the shock of seeing three murder victims in one day is taking its toll on my concentration. The vagaries of fate and chance are hitting home as well. Paul and Janet Wilson must have been attacked only seconds after I hung up with Paul. If I hadn’t pulled over to maintain good cellular reception with Mia, the couple might still be alive. Or I might be dead…

While Ruff questions me about the immediate past, a memory from my more distant history intrudes. It was here, on Espero Drive, that the first homicide that ever touched me personally occurred. A divorced young schoolteacher was raped and brutally murdered one night while her four- and seven-year-old daughters slept in the house. Her killer wasn’t a depraved stranger passing through Natchez, but a fifteen-year-old boy with whom I had played often. I was seventeen at the time, and while I understood both rape and murder, I’d never heard of the two being united in the way I would come to know so well later, when serial murder became an American obsession. But what shocked me most deeply-and likewise the town-was that such a crime could intrude upon our placid little universe at all. Even now, twenty-six years and infinite blows of disillusionment later, the spectacle of Paul and Janet Wilson cut to pieces in their own home seems more like a stunt mounted for Punk’d rather than reality. As I recite my narrative to Detective Ruff, I keep expecting Paul and Janet to get to their feet, wipe the fake blood from their clothes, and burst out laughing. But they just lie there, bad sports about the whole thing.

At last Ruff runs out of questions and tells me I’m free to go. As I rise to leave, I hear a commotion in the front of the house. Angry voices, all male, the volume steadily increasing. I hear what sounds like a scuffle, and then a red-faced deputy charges into the sunroom. My fists tighten involuntarily. It’s the black-haired deputy who stole the fingerprints from Drew’s private bathroom while Drew gave his blood for the DNA test. Deputy Burns, I remember, or so Chief Logan guessed after I described the guy.

”You better straighten out those boys at the door!“ Burns yells at Detective Ruff. ”Or they’ll wind up in the county jail!“

Ruff squares his shoulders at the shorter man. ”What the hell are you talking about, Burnsie?“

”Sheriff Byrd is commandeering this crime scene. That’s what I’m talking about.“

Ruff glances at me, at his men, then back at the deputy. ”You been smoking something from your evidence room, Burnsie? Didn’t you notice this house is in the middle of Natchez? That makes it our jurisdiction.“

Before Deputy Burns can reply, two more deputies appear behind him. This makes it a fair fight: three county officers versus three from the city. The paramedics are staring in amazement and anticipation. They’ve already declared the Wilsons dead, and are only waiting for the police photographer to complete her work.

Emboldened by the appearance of his comrades, Deputy Burns continues. ”Sheriff Byrd’s the chief law enforcement officer of Adams County. The city’s part of the county. That makes everything his jurisdiction. He can take over any crime scene he deems necessary for public safety, and he already told me that these murders will be investigated by the sheriff’s department. End of story.“

John Ruff draws himself to his full height and puts his hands on his hips. ”Burnsie, if you or your buddies touch anything in this room, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of shit. You’ve already contaminated the crime scene by tromping three men through it without any need. Now get your ass outside and wait for the sheriff and the chief to work this mess out.“

Unbelievably, Deputy Burns lays his right hand on the butt of the automatic in his gun belt. ”If you want me to arrest you, I will,“ he says in a bellicose tone, nodding as though to convince himself.

The paramedics blanch.

John Ruff is clearly outraged, but he’s also reluctant to escalate this argument into an armed confrontation. After fifteen years working with seasoned professional cops in Houston, I have no patience for this kind of crap. I step in front of Ruff and address the deputy in a strong voice.

”Look over there,“ I say, pointing at the Wilsons’ bloody corpses. ”Do you see those people?“

”You stay out of this, Cage,“ he snarls.

”Look at them!“I shout. ”They were murdered less than ten minutes ago. Are you investigating the crime? No. You’re standing here obstructing the investigation, bowing up for a fight like some junior high redneck. There’s an enemy in this town, Deputy Burns, but it’s not the police department. You and Ruff are after the same thing-or you should be-and your boss’s small-town political bullshit shouldn’t have a thing to do with this crime.“

The deputy’s chin is quivering, but whether from shock or anger, I can’t tell.

”You’re not looking at them!“ I yell, unable to control my frustration. ”How many murders have you seen like that in your career, Burns? One? None? You think a single person in this town gives a damn about Billy Byrd’s feud with Chief Logan? You leave that crap back at the station and do your work!“

The deputy’s gun is out of its holster now. He’s not pointing it at me, but it’s plain that he’d like to. ”I’m puttin‘ your ass under arrest!“ he yells, spittle flying from his mouth. ”Goddamn big-city lawyer!“

I hold out both hands. ”Go ahead, Deputy. Arrest me. Arrest me, and in thirty days I will have your ass. “

”Penn?“ Ruff says, gripping my shoulder from behind. ”Take it easy, now. Seeing these bodies got you upset. But don’t be stupid.“

I know Ruff is right, but under the gaze of the Wilsons’ dead eyes, I cannot rein in my anger. ”You think these bodies upset me?“ I take a step toward Deputy Burns. ”I was an assistant district attorney in Houston for fifteen years. I’ve seen more murder victims than you will in your whole career. I’ve sent twelve men and women to death row. You want to arrest me? Clap ’ em on. You just be ready to take the heat for it.“

The deputy’s face has gone from scarlet to gray, but he still gets out his handcuffs. He’s trying to fit one around my wrist when Sheriff Billy Byrd swaggers into the room.

”Whoa there, Tommy boy,“ he says in the voice of a poor man’s John Wayne.

”Sheriff Byrd?“ sputters Burns. ”This crazy sumbitch-“

”I heard him,“ says the sheriff. ”You just leave him be for now.“ Byrd glances at Detective Ruff. ”Did you get a statement from Mr. Cage, John?“

The detective nods warily.

”Okay.“ Byrd shifts his gaze to me. ”You’re free to go.“

I start to ask him about the jurisdictional dispute, but then I remember the flash drive concealed in my shoe. With a last look at Paul and Janet Wilson, I exit the house through the door no one answered when I arrived and walk down the sidewalk to my Saab.

Closing myself into the little space, I start the engine, but I don’t pull into the street. My hands are cold and shaking, and my chest feels full of something besides air. ”What’s happening?“ I ask aloud. ”I mean what the fuck?“

One thing I know for sure: the murders of Paul and Janet Wilson will stun this town in a way that the attack on Cyrus White’s safe house never could, and possibly even more deeply than the murder of Kate Townsend. The reason is simple. When drug dealers get killed-black or white-the public perception is that the victims simply got what was coming to them. When a young girl is raped and murdered-black or white-our knowledge of the primitive laws of attraction and male sexual dominance informs our response. But when middle-aged white people minding their own business are murdered in their home in the safest part of town, the fundamental order of Southern life is thrown out of balance. And the repercussions of such a severe anomaly are inevitably dire. By noon tomorrow, the full resources of law enforcement will be mobilized to a degree only surpassed by the response to a kidnapping or to the murder of a cop. A multiagency task force will almost certainly be formed. The DEA and FBI will be part of it. But as I sit in my idling car on Espero Drive, images of Paul and Janet’s butchered bodies running through my mind, one question comes to me: What are all those agencies going to do?Because despite having been embroiled in this mess from the start, I have absolutely no idea what is going on.