I jump in my seat.
Nadine walks around from behind me. “People are up in arms about the closing of the Watchman,” she says excitedly, though in a low voice. Glancing over at the woman in the chair, she sits close to me on the sofa. “I talked to a friend of mine after I spoke to Ben. You’d think people would be glad the paper closed, given how angry they were at Buck, not to mention your dad’s anti-Trump editorials. But there seems to be a groundswell of anger about losing the paper. Sympathy for your father, maybe? The black community’s especially angry. Alderman Washington went on the radio and tore into the Poker Club right on the air.”
“Really?”
“They’re supporting the coroner in a big way. Daring the supervisors to try to unseat him. Somebody on Facebook said that come November, the black community may surprise their old-line leaders, the ones who sold out to the Poker Club, and try to elect some new blood.”
“Maybe,” I murmur. “More likely they’ll wait until the paper mill is built and they’ve gotten all the jobs they can.”
Nadine sighs wearily. “You’re a buzz kill.”
“What else did Ben say?”
“Your dad’s press men can use me out at the”—she glances at the woman sitting ten feet away from us—“the place. They’ve recruited a bunch of teenagers from a church to fold the front page and drive the routes. Literally choirboys and -girls. They need food and drinks and supplies from Walmart.”
“Ben thinks they can really do that front page?”
“He seems to. He’s fired up.” She drops her voice to a nearly inaudible level. “The main printing in Natchez is all set. They’re going to run it off about one a.m. Ben’s going to pick up the papers himself in a borrowed truck.”
“I sure hope the Poker Club doesn’t get wind of this. I can see Tommy Russo’s guys hijacking Ben’s load between there and here. That’s a dark highway.”
“How many people know this is going on?” Nadine asks.
“I’m not sure. The number’s obviously growing.”
“Don’t worry. Before long it’ll be too late for anybody to stop it.” Nadine gets to her feet, then takes my arm and pulls me thirty feet down the hall. “Tomorrow’s going to be a historic day. People are going to look outside and find a Watchman in their driveways when they weren’t expecting one. And you’re going to be able to take it into that ICU and show your dad.”
Even after today’s wretched events, her boundless optimism proves infectious. “I’ve got to admit, that seems like a pretty good prospect right now. You know what I really wish, though?”
“Tell me.”
“That I could get the paper back from those bastards.”
Nadine nods thoughtfully. “Maybe you can.”
“How?”
“Find out who your source is—Mark Felt or whoever—and get the rest of Sally’s cache. Then you’d have the Poker Club by the balls. You could demand anything you want.”
Something warm stirs in my breast. “That’s worth working on.”
“I’d say. What would Buckman and his buddies have to give you to keep you from printing that cache?”
Something feels wrong about her question, or maybe her tone. “When you put it like that . . . it seems like a messed-up thing to do. To cut a deal with the devil.”
Nadine shakes her head. “You’ve got to get over this choirboy complex. Don’t you remember what I said? Most people sell their souls a piece at a time. Whatever they get in exchange, it’s lost forever. You do this right, you’re going to sell yours for a record price. You can change the world—or at least your little corner of it. I told you once before: you don’t destroy a village in order to save it.”
In the silence that follows this exchange, my iPhone rings. To my surprise, it’s Jet. Why would she call my iPhone and not the burner she bought me? A nightmare image of Paul discovering her burner and grinding it up in the garbage disposal rises in my mind. Or, worse, him finding it and calling the speed-dial number programmed into it. I click my iPhone but say nothing.
“Marshall?” says Jet. “Are you there?”
“I’m here. Are you okay? Are you home?”
“No, I’m at the hospital. Kevin’s with me. We wanted to pay our respects to your father. I know we can’t get into the ICU, but I want your mom to know we care. I also need to talk to you about the Ferris murder. Can you meet me in the lobby?”
I look at my watch. “Um—”
“Like right now.”
Something’s wrong. “Uh, sure. I may have to come unlock the front door for you.”
“We’re already inside.”
I look at Nadine in puzzlement. “Okay. Listen, Nadine is here. She brought us food and coffee. I’m going to bring her out to sit with Kevin, if she will. We don’t want him hearing a bunch of stuff about his father’s friends.”
“That’s a good idea, if she would.”
“We’ll see you in a sec.”
As I slip my phone back into my pocket, Nadine says, “Jet?”
“Yeah. She sounded weird. She needs to talk to me about Buck.”
“I’m happy to sit with Kevin. He’s been in my store plenty of times, buying books from his school reading list.”
“I appreciate it.”
She gives me a smile, but it looks forced. “We should take the snacks. He’s twelve, right?”
“Right,” I reply, trying not to think of the conversation I had with Jet only hours ago. And his grandfather is his father—
As Nadine and I walk down the corridor toward the lobby, she says, “What are the chances that Jet could be your secret source?”
“Zero. She’d tell me if she had Sally’s cache.”
“Would she? She seems like a good choice. Sally was her mother-in-law, and Jet’s an attorney.”
“I know, but . . .” An image of Sally’s sapphire necklace comes to me. “They had a complicated relationship. Jet doesn’t have the cache.”
“Well. You’d know, I’m sure.”
There’s a security guard in the hospital lobby, but he’s kicked back in a Naugahyde chair reading Sports Illustrated and paying no attention to the mother and son standing by the unattended reception desk. Kevin sights us first. He perks up his head, then nudges Jet, who turns to us with a face so pale that my ears start to pulse. She looks more agitated than she did after smashing a hammer into Max’s skull.
Nadine instantly picks up on the tension. She steps forward and extends her hand to Jet with an odd formality. Jet squeezes it lightly, a tight smile on her face.
“Anybody hungry?” Nadine asks, offering Kevin a raspberry muffin.
“Thanks,” the boy says in a restrained voice, and takes the fist-sized treat. “I always get these at the bookstore.”
“How’s your season going?” I ask, trying not to look for Max’s features in his young face.
“We’re doing pretty good. Nineteen and one, so far.”
“Wow. You play, what, second base?”
“Pitcher now.”
“On a Bienville traveling team?”
“Nah. The local teams are too diluted now. Too many dads with money. I play on a major league team out of Baton Rouge. That’s one level above triple-A.”
I glance at Jet, who’s clearly waiting for her son to finish so that she can talk to me. “Major league, huh? At twelve? You must be pretty good.”
He blushes a little. “I do a’ight.”
Having paid sufficient court to Kevin, I ask him to excuse his mother and me for a couple of minutes. Kevin doesn’t look too put out at being left with Nadine.
I lead Jet to the automatic doors and wait for them to slide open. I can almost sense her heart pounding. Beyond the doors, the sidewalk recedes into a circle of black asphalt designed for easy entry and egress by wheelchairs. A few shrubs line the circle, apparently to give visitors and employees a place to throw their cigarette butts. We walk out into the industrial glow of sodium-vapor streetlamps, moving far enough from the building for privacy, but remaining within sight of Kevin and Nadine, who are visible through a large picture window with its blinds turned open.
“Where’s Paul?” I ask in a low voice. “What’s happened?”
“Paul’s in the ER.”