Okay, calm down, I tell myself. But my heart doesn’t listen. It’s hammering against my chest wall, and my blood pressure has skyrocketed. The pounding in my ears only allows “Free Bird” into my head in brief pulses.
If Paul is leading me to my death, I have only a couple of options. Maybe just one. I have a gun, but so does he, and his skill with firearms makes me like a child in comparison. My only chance would be to shoot him in the head while he’s driving the truck. But we’re still moving at sixty miles an hour. Would I survive the impact that would likely result? A head-on crash into a tree is usually fatal. If we tumble down the levee, same result. Besides, if Paul already means me harm, then he’s prepared for anything I might try. If I even touch the gun in my pocket, he could have his out and held against my temple.
While I ponder these logistics, he turns onto a well-maintained gravel road, the kind that must be replenished every year after being washed out by backwater from the swollen river. He follows this for about a mile, and the trees close in tight as the land rolls by. Before long, we come to a hand-tooled wooden sign that reads:
Prime Shot Premium Hunting Club
Boar Island, Mississippi
Between these letters is a beautifully carved whitetail buck with a twelve-point rack.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Paul says. “This island’s part of Mississippi, but it’s on the Louisiana side of the river.”
“I think that’s pretty common,” I reply, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “At least on the lower Mississippi.”
“The river goes its own way,” he says. “Corps of Engineers might as well give up now.”
I say nothing. It strikes me that the ever-changing river is like a woman caught between two men, snaking across the land from year to year, confusing boundaries and triggering conflicts that take the courts, and sometimes guns, to resolve.
The road runs a little smoother beyond the sign, and soon we come to a stretch paved with asphalt. As we roll through the dense hardwoods, it occurs to me that he and I have shared more than many brothers. We shared our childhoods, our adolescence. We’ve loved the same woman, and shared her as well, once long ago and now again. We shared the adrenaline rush and terror of combat and the after-action dilemmas that trail in the wake of modern war. He saved my life in Iraq, and back at my house tonight, I returned the favor. If I hadn’t eased up behind him and begun talking, I believe he would have shot himself through the mouth. But will that save me now? Does he even remember it? And if he does, does he care? Or are Jet and Kevin the only things driving him? Jet’s betrayal, and the desire for custody of his son?
White light blazes out of the forest after a sharp turn. Glancing left, I see that Paul is as surprised as I am. He brakes slightly, then lets the truck keep rolling. Up ahead stands the main complex of the Boar Island hunting camp. Like most of these facilities, there’s a central lodge or bunkhouse, plus assorted outbuildings that serve various functions. As we near the bright bubble of light, I see that its source is a large pavilion in front of the main lodge, a tin-roofed structure set on huge wooden posts and beams, with a cement floor and what looks like an outdoor kitchen under the roof. Maybe a dozen vehicles are parked between the pavilion and the lodge.
“What the hell, Paul?” I ask. “Did you expect this?”
“No.” He’s counting the vehicles. “I expected Buckman and Donnelly, maybe Russo and Holland. But that’s it.”
“Russo and Holland?” Suddenly I understand. While Paul was alone in my house with Jet, he must have called Claude Buckman and told him to get some Poker Club members over to Wyatt’s island. Then he drove around Louisiana long enough to let them beat us here. While I slept like a dumb steer headed to the slaughterhouse. “You called those guys?”
He parks twenty yards short of the pavilion, then turns to me, his face like that of a stranger. “Listen, Goose. You can’t do what you’ve done these past few months and expect to walk away clean. You gotta know that. Some things have to be settled.”
The fear in my belly almost unmans me. “What does that mean?”
He looks at the lighted pavilion. “Given what I see here, I’m not sure. But there’s no running from it. For either of us. So let’s find out.”
“You could back your truck out of here and run for it.”
“We’d never make it.” He claps me on the thigh without looking at me. “Let’s go.”
He takes his keys when he climbs out of the truck, leaving me no choice but to follow. As I walk toward the pavilion, I see Beau Holland’s Porsche 911 parked between two pickups. Fear makes my hands tingle. The drone of a big generator provides the basic soundtrack out here, punctuated by the sudden electrocutions of a bright violet bug zapper. The smell of whiskey and cigars rides the damp air, but there are undercurrents: rotting fish and vegetation, motor oil, mud, gasoline, horseflesh, leather, corn, wet dog fur, and spent gunpowder. This is like rolling up on an American military camp in the jungle, which I once did in the Philippines. Air-conditioned luxury in the primeval wilderness, powered by diesel generators.
Paul raises his hand in greeting.
Beyond him, I see a semicircle of teak chairs, each occupied by a member of the Poker Club. There are twelve chairs in all. Two stand empty. One must be Max Matheson’s seat. I recognize most of the men in the chairs. Claude Buckman sits in the only seat outside the semicircle, and he faces the others, like an elderly general briefing his commanders. Nearest him sits Blake Donnelly. Then come the usual suspects: Senator Sumner, Arthur Pine, Beau Holland, Tommy Russo, Warren Lacey. Farthest from Buckman sit three older men I don’t know. One might be a prominent insurance agent, the other a wealthy farmer. The third, I have no idea. Opposite the semicircle is a large bar and outdoor oven, including a fireplace big enough to warm a platoon. Above the mantel hangs a colossal flat-screen television. Beneath it sit several SEC football helmets, all autographed by Hall of Fame quarterbacks. Ole Miss, LSU, Alabama, Mississippi State, Tennessee, even Florida. Around the pavilion’s perimeter I see at least three armed guards.
Nobody has football on his mind tonight.
As I come even with Paul, he walks out before the assembled Star Chamber and addresses Buckman. “This isn’t exactly what I expected, Claude. Looks like a full meeting. Except I don’t see Wyatt. This is his island. Where is he?”
“Mr. Cash will be along.”
“So what’s going on?”
The old man gives Paul a philosophical smile. “There’s too much on the line to keep this small. We need to set everything to rest tonight. What did you learn from McEwan?”
“He means to keep the deal he made with you. As for Avery resigning, he’s flexible. He still wants Beau to go to Parchman, though.”
“Keep dreaming,” Holland says from his seat.
Beau Holland is wearing his customary Izod shirt and chinos, the aquamarine shirt chosen to set off his tan. A sweating glass of whiskey sits in a hole in his chair arm, and his right hand holds a burning cigar. As I scan the circle, each man sees me marking his presence, but not one nods or raises his hand in greeting—not even Blake Donnelly. A result of today’s newspaper stories, I’m sure. These men have come here solely out of self-preservation. They’re treating me like I’m already dead.