“But Max didn’t,” I reply.
“He can’t prove that. And if Tommy Russo, Wyatt Cash, and Beau Holland know about Sally’s cache, then they’re already going crazy right now. Even Buckman and Donnelly won’t tolerate a threat like that. If they find out Max cheated them while they’re in that state of mind, he’s dead.”
The temptation to cross this line is strong. “I understand why you want to do it. But it feels like putting our heads in the tiger’s mouth. We’d be better off finding Sally’s cache and using that to keep Max quiet.”
“We don’t have time. If we don’t stop Max now, he’ll destroy us. You don’t know him like I do. Maybe you did once, but not now. Max can’t abide not being in control. He’s had me on a choke chain for years.” Her voice is cracking. “We have to get that video,” she says with sudden intensity. “Did Max shoot it on his cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“We have to get that phone. Not only for the video, but also because those passwords Sally left might open it.”
She hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “Try to calm down, Jet. Think rationally. And about Max’s phone . . . if you try to get that close to him, he’ll know what you’re doing.”
“I don’t have to try to get close. I’m his lawyer. I’ll grab the damn thing and run. If I can’t get away with it, I’ll destroy it.”
“Jet—where are you? Are you home now?”
“Home? Home is with you. Isn’t it?”
I close my eyes, feeling something close to shame. “Yes.”
“I’m at my house. Kevin’s here, and I need to get off. If you somehow find Sally’s cache, don’t give it to Max. Put it somewhere safe. That’s our salvation.”
“And what do I tell Max when he calls?”
“Leave Max to me.”
Two minutes after I hang up, I decide that spending the night at my parents’ house might be a good idea. This isolated farmhouse has served me well as a trysting place, but in the present circumstance—with Paul decompensating from grief over his mother’s death and obsessed with his wife’s possible infidelity—my solitude has become a liability. Max’s sudden appearance showed me how useless my security gate is if someone means to do me harm, and sleeping where I’m expected to just seems stupid. Whoever killed Buck surely knows by now that I’m the person pushing hardest for a murder investigation. If they were willing to kill Buck, then surely they would kill me to keep themselves safe. Worst of all, it could be anybody. Someone I’ve known since I was a kid. So as not to worry my mother, I call and tell her my air-conditioning has gone out. When I ask if I can sleep in my old room for a night, she sounds overjoyed.
My pistol feels heavy, and it’s a pain in the ass keeping it in my hand while I pack a weekend bag. But I recall Max’s jeans riding up, revealing his ankle holster. I’d be a fool to go anywhere without a weapon at the ready. Dr. Kirby told me as much. Keep your head on a swivel, he told me.
Good medical advice.
Once again I’m sitting at my parents’ kitchen table, where I waited for Dr. Kirby earlier today. Mom is making sure Dad is settled in his bed. The kitchen smells of burned coffee, because she still keeps a carafe half-full all day. I think my mother has subsisted mostly on coffee since I was a little boy.
“Marshall?” she murmurs, padding into the kitchen in her housecoat. “Can I fix you some food? I have some étouffée in the fridge. Made it myself.”
“Where do you find time to cook from scratch?”
She rinses her coffee cup, the ancient one with blythe hand-painted on it, then refills it from the carafe. “Marty Denis brought us a mess of peeled tails today, so I just had to make some for your father. All I see at the store now is those Chinese crawfish, and I don’t even consider them real.”
Marty Denis runs a local bank that competes with Claude Buckman’s regional giant, Bienville Southern. He’s got Cajun heritage, but he spends most of his time on the country club golf course, not in his home state. “I guess Marty’s were seined out of some ditch in St. Martin Parish?”
She slides into the chair across from me with a creak of crepitus. “You know it,” she says with a smile. “I can taste the bayou in them.”
Looking into her exhausted but still handsome face, I remember Dr. Kirby telling me that she’s suffering from sleep deprivation. “You don’t have a sitter tonight?”
She waves her hand. “Duncan only likes one well enough to let her help at night, and she needed a night off.”
“Mom, you’ve got to take care of yourself. Money’s no object when it comes to that.”
She forces a smile. “Let’s change the subject.”
“All right. Do you know very much about the Bienville Poker Club?”
My question surprises her. “Blake Donnelly and that crowd?”
“I think Donnelly’s about the best of the bunch. Some of them are pretty shady.”
“Oh, that doesn’t surprise me. How many people really do honest work anymore? Blake’s just rich enough to live a little straighter than the others.”
“I figured Claude Buckman must be richer than Blake.”
Mom purses her lips and weighs what information she possesses. “Oh, I don’t know. Blake’s pumped a lot of oil for a lot of years, collected a lot of mailbox money. Either way, Claude is a slug. Can’t keep his nasty hands to himself. Never could. Ugh.”
We’re silent for a bit, and she sips her coffee in relative contentment.
“What did Dr. Kirby say before he left?” I ask.
She looks unsure whether to tell me, or maybe whether to be completely honest. “I just thank heaven for Jack. He’s been so patient. One of those younger doctors would have thrown up his hands over Duncan long ago.”
I nod but say nothing, leaving silence for her to fill.
“Jack thinks the end is getting close,” Mom says in a church whisper. “Duncan’s not going to stop drinking. I could empty all the bottles, but then he’d break his hip trying to get out to the car. Or, worse, run his wheelchair off the porch. I’m sure you judge me for letting him have it, but, Marshall . . . it’s the only thing that eases his nerves.” She raises her right hand and wipes a tear from one eye. “I know he’ll die sooner, but what’s the alternative? A few extra months of misery?”
I reach out and take her left hand. “I don’t judge you, Mom. You’re a saint to have come this far. Dad’s going to do what he’s going to do.”
More tears come, but I pretend not to see them. She takes a napkin from a holder on the table and dabs the corners of her eyes.
“When you’re in the house,” she says in a wistful voice, “I remember how it used to be, when you and Adam were boys. I don’t just remember it. I see it, every detail. I can hear your voices, see your little faces while you watched me cook or I worked on schoolwork with you. Not that either of you needed much help. Other than getting you started.”
I smile and listen to her weave her memories into words. Mom doesn’t usually wax nostalgic when I’m here. I guess the prospect that she may finally be facing life without her partner, whatever his flaws, has her looking backward rather than forward. As she goes on, I recall Max’s terrible tale of murder on Cemetery Road. After Mom falls silent and sips her coffee again, I take the opening.
“Mom, this afternoon, Jack Kirby told me about some things the Poker Club was involved with—violent things.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. They’re all about the dollar. And men like that quickly lose sight of right and wrong.”
At the last moment I hesitate, but I’ve got to know. “Max Matheson suggested that what happened to Dad’s first family wasn’t an accident. That some Klansmen from Ferriday might have been behind that wreck. Did Dad ever express any suspicion to you?”
My mother’s coffee cup has frozen in midair. Her eyes are wide and locked on my face.
“Mom?”