Back on the street outside the Watchman building, I warned Arthur Pine I intended to destroy the Poker Club. By now Buckman and Donnelly and Holland and Russo and the rest know that I made that threat. I’d be a fool to ignore the fact that such men will not sit by while I take steps to send them to prison. After all, they almost certainly murdered Buck, and God knows who else over the years. Anybody who stood in their path got crushed one way or another. And they’re not the only threat I face. If Ben and I drop our story on the website tonight, how long will it take Max to show Paul the video of Jet and me making love? An hour? Less?
I’m at that hinge point where characters in films do really stupid things, like sleep at their own house or go to places they’re known to frequent, such as Nadine’s shop or my parents’ house. As much as I’d like to drive home, log on to my computer, and start working with Ben on the PDF file story, that would be an idiot’s move. Especially given that Paul seemed only minimally stable this afternoon. The smart thing would be to get out of town for a couple of days. Not all the way back to D.C., but maybe to a hotel in Jackson or even Oxford. I can work on tomorrow’s issue from anywhere, so long as I have a computer and an internet connection. The problem is I can’t risk leaving Jet behind. If Max shows Paul that video—and I’ve abandoned the city—Paul might vent all his rage on her alone.
Taking out my burner phone, I punch in a quick text to Jet: Find a safe place and call me. I need two minutes. URGENT.
After sending this message, I speed down the gravel road and pull through the gate, then close it by hanging the wire loop over the post. I turn onto Cemetery Road, looking for one of the little winding lanes that runs south between it and the Little Trace. From there I can pick up another cut-through to Highway 36, which runs past the turn to my farmhouse.
I’m on the Little Trace when my iPhone rings. To my surprise, the caller is Arthur Pine. After a moment’s hesitation, I answer and say, “Well, Arthur. You feeling the ice crack beneath your feet?”
“Not at all. This is just a friendly call. I know you were upset today. That’s understandable. But you made some threats.”
“I did indeed,” I reply, mimicking Ben Tate’s syntax.
“There are different ways to handle problems, Marshall. One way involves men like me. The other . . . well, it’s the other way.”
“Are you telling me Tommy Russo is going to send a button man to my house? Or are Wyatt Cash and a couple of retired SEALs gonna explain things to me?”
“You have a vivid imagination for a nonfiction writer. Actually, I’d say your biggest worry is going to be your best friend.”
“Possibly. But let’s talk about you. You’re getting closer to Parchman Farm every minute. And I don’t think you have the survival skills for that particular environment. Neither do most of your buddies. Let’s see how well you sleep tonight.”
There’s a brief silence. Then Pine says, “We’re all vulnerable, Marshall. We all have people we love. And you don’t have many allies. I’ve got the whole town on my side.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.”
“What does that mean?”
“Tick-tock, Arthur. You’d better start researching non-extradition countries. Your bosses will be asking for a list soon.”
I hang up.
When I hit Highway 36, I turn east and join the Jackson-bound traffic. After two miles I’ll pass Blackbird Road, the turn to my house. I’m tempted to go home long enough to run in and get my MacBook Pro, a change of clothes, and some toiletries. But that could be a fatal mistake. Tommy Russo could have a man sitting in my kitchen, waiting for me to open the front door. One silenced round through the forehead, and the Poker Club’s problems would be over. Or SEALs paid by Wyatt Cash could pour half a bottle of vodka down my gullet, then hold my head under a full bath, probably without leaving a mark on me.
I don’t even slow down as I pass my turn. I can buy a new laptop at the Apple store in Jackson, new underwear and toiletries at Target. Hell, I can buy a computer at Walmart if the Apple store is closed. It’ll be a pain downloading some of the software I need, but most of my critical files are in Dropbox, so what does it matter?
A mile past my house, I slow down to scan a great wall of signs that must have sprung up over the last day or two. Where a line of inexpensive ranch homes stood before, the new line of billboards blares: coming soon: t.j. maxx. opening 2019: chili’s. coming september: super target. After that it’s all a blur announcing that Bienville will soon look like every other interstate town in America. bed, bath & beyond. michael’s. bonefish grill. This, I realize, is one of the strips acquired during Beau Holland’s land grab. Most of my fellow citizens look at this development as a blessing, but I see, at best, a necessary evil.
My ringing iPhone startles me out of my funk. It’s Quinn Ferris calling. “Hey, Quinn, how are you making it?”
“This still sucks, but karma just shined on us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m with Buck’s friend from LSU. Dr. Jake Barnett. Those little clay balls you found at the industrial park are from a Poverty Point–era site, no question. They’re actually called ‘Poverty Point objects.’ They were used for cooking food underground, sort of like charcoal briquettes. Also for some other purposes. But that find is definitive, Marshall.”
I realize my heart is pounding. “What about the rest of it?”
“Bone, for sure. Human. Byron Ellis was right. The teeth, too. Dr. Barnett’s going to have to do some dating work, but he says the teeth show no sign of decay, which means they didn’t come from corn-eating Indians. He’s going to contact the Department of Archives and History in Mississippi. It’s a huge find, he says. Momentous.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m so happy for Buck. But sad, too. Goddamn it.”
“I know. We’ve got to get those bastards, Marshall.”
“We will. Can you send me your friend’s contact information? I need Ben Tate to call him.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks, Quinn. Be careful coming home.”
I hang up, but before I can even reflect on what she told me, I hit the brakes. I’m not even sure why. Then I register what my intuition picked up. On the right shoulder of the highway sits a battered blue Ford Explorer. As I get closer, I see it’s an Eddie Bauer model, and most of the cladding has been ripped away. Sure enough, Dixie Allman gets out of the driver’s seat wearing jeans and a halter top and kicks the back door panel with surprising force.
A tractor-trailer behind me honks angrily as I pull onto the shoulder to park behind the Explorer. Dixie looks back at me with annoyance, but then she recognizes my vehicle.
“Hey, Goose!” she calls as I get out. “Bad luck, as usual.”
“That sucks. Is Denny in there with you?”
“Nah, he’s home on his computer.”
The closer I get, the rougher Dixie looks. Like Paul in my office today, she appears to be in her mid-fifties, not her mid-forties. In three seconds I take in bloodshot eyes, dry skin yellowed by decades of smoking, yellow teeth, and stringy hair that hasn’t been washed for a while. Dixie looks emaciated up top, but she has a paunch. Only under her jeans do I see a trace of the muscle tone that made her an athlete in high school.