Beau Holland’s jaw is set so tight he looks incapable of speech.
“Beau?” Buckman prompts him.
Through clenched teeth Holland says, “Agreed.”
“For my part,” says Buckman, “I will call for and support the public school referendum, as you requested, and I’ll make sure those schools get funded. Same for the community development fund. Mr. Russo? Your word on that?”
Tommy nods once. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the meeting began. It’s like being watched by a tiger shark from the edge of a reef.
“As you’ve probably noticed,” Buckman says, “I’ve left two of your demands to the end. Before we discuss them, I’ll ask Beau to step outside.”
“What the hell?” Holland demands, his tanned face going red again.
“Mr. Russo,” says Buckman, “please take Mr. Holland outside for a drink or a cigarette. Keep him company.”
Holland glares at me on his way out, but Russo gives me a pass, which only makes me worry that he intends to find me later.
“Two things,” Buckman says, after they’ve gone. “Blake?”
“We’d like you to reconsider something, Marshall,” says Donnelly. “Having a U.S. senator from Bienville is just too helpful for this town to give it up. This Chinese thing is just a sideshow. We can make sure Avery votes honest on those issues. But don’t take that competitive advantage away from the town. My God, think what John Stennis and Big Jim Eastland did for this state. Trent Lott?”
“Good old pork,” I mutter.
“Damn right!” says Donnelly. “We’d appreciate you giving that deal point another look, son. Seriously.”
“What’s the second issue?”
Wyatt Cash speaks for the first time. “This matter of Buck Ferris’s murder. I’ll say right up front, I’m no fan of Beau Holland. And let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that he and Cowart turn out to be guilty. If they were arrested and charged—or, God forbid, indicted—they wouldn’t hesitate to deal whatever cards they have to stay out of prison. And Beau knows more about the business of this club than Sally Matheson ever did.”
Arthur Pine leans forward and says, “We can’t risk that becoming part of a conversation with a district attorney. Even our own district attorney. And given Beau’s temperament . . . well, you understand.”
“So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Donnelly says in a tone I’ve never heard from him before. It suddenly strikes me that, despite his genial exterior, the oilman is just as ruthless as the rest of these guys.
“Exactly what are we talking about?”
Buckman says, “It’s hard to justify putting the county to the expense of a trial if the guilty parties are known.”
Donnelly nods with apparent regret. “A waste of taxpayer money.”
“Especially considering the complexity of the case,” adds Pine.
“There’s precedent in the club,” says Buckman. “Just after the war, there were instances of collaboration with the enemy that had to be handled this way.”
He’s talking about the Civil War. At least I hope he is. The coldness with which these men discuss the execution of one of their own—or two, including Cowart—chills my blood. Of course, they probably see Dave Cowart as a mere peasant, not one of them.
I shake my head and look from Buckman to Donnelly. “Gentlemen, I’m asking for justice, not murder.”
“Justice is a tricky business,” says Wyatt Cash. “What’s the difference to you, so long as the guilty parties pay for what they did?”
“For one thing, the public needs to see justice done.”
“The public doesn’t give two shits about Buck Ferris,” growls Buckman. “Maybe his wife does, but damn few others. Why don’t you ask Quinn Ferris if she’d be satisfied with us burying her husband’s killers in a gator hole south of town?”
I’ve got a feeling I won’t win this argument. “That reminds me, the deal we made for Quinn Ferris yesterday stands. One million.”
Buckman grunts with displeasure, but he nods assent.
I’ve pushed these men about as far as they’re going to go, at least for now. “Why don’t we revisit the two outstanding deal points later today?” I suggest.
Buckman looks around the room. With a warning edge to his voice, he asks, “Is our business concluded then? But for those two points?”
In the tense silence that follows, Arthur Pine says, “Claude, I’m worried that Beau might be right. Marshall said it himself: this is potentially the biggest story of his life. No matter how pure his intentions today, it’s hard to believe that he’ll sit on this forever. We could jump through all these hoops, and in the end he could still screw us.”
Jian Wu is looking at me as he would at some dangerous criminal it would be better to execute immediately.
“That sounds like projection to me, Arthur,” I observe.
“He’ll keep his word,” says Buckman.
“Why?” asks Pine. “He told me last night that he’s going to take us down. Why believe him now?”
“Because he’s a good son of Bienville,” says Donnelly. “He’s a hometown boy, just like his daddy. Duncan always treated us right, and Marshall’s no different. Not when it counts.”
If Donnelly had let Buckman answer, the old man would have said, Because if he doesn’t, his mother and everybody else he cares about will die. But Donnelly kept everything smooth on the surface, in the Southern tradition. The subtext is always known, but never spoken.
I stand and look at each man in turn. “You guys need to understand something. Sally’s material has been digitized. Even if you tortured me to get every copy, you could never be certain you got it all. It can live on any server in the world.”
“Then what the hell are we getting for all our money?” Pine asks.
“Life outside jail. By the way, I’ve also set up what’s known as a Dead Hand switch. If anything suspicious happens to me or mine, the media won’t be your only problem. My contacts at the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA will receive full reports within thirty minutes, whether I’m dead or alive. Make sure Holland and Russo understand that. You may not like it, but this is the best deal you’re going to get.”
Blake Donnelly looks left at Buckman, who seems to wrestle with his decision, but finally gives the slightest of nods. Donnelly gets up and walks down the long table to me, switching on his iPhone as he comes.
“Tap your phone number in there for me, Marshall.”
I do. “Oh, one more thing.”
Buckman’s pained smile tells me I’m stretching his goodwill. For a moment I think of something Nadine told me before we parted this morning: They should put a fifty-foot-tall statue of Sally Matheson on the bluff. Because she’s going to be the salvation of this town. But what I say is “The cop who waterboarded me is named Farner. I want that son of a bitch fired by the end of next week. I want my arrest record from last night expunged. Also, Sheriff Iverson doesn’t run for re-election.”
“Getting awful greedy, aren’t you?” Buckman mutters.