“I need to get him out. Free. Snake can do that. Because he killed your mother. Him and Sonny Thornfield. And I need to get him to admit that on tape.”
Lincoln snorts, then laughs in derision. “You can forget that shit. The only way Snake would do that is if he was about to kill you. Taunting you. And we’re not trying that kind of sting.”
“Tell me where he is, Lincoln. Can’t we bug the place?”
“No way. And he won’t be there long enough for us to set up something fancy and wait. This is an in-and-out thing.”
“Lincoln . . . you remember I’ve got a daughter, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So if I were to get killed on this little trip with you, she’d be an orphan.”
“Is that what you were thinking when you went out to that hunting camp to see Forrest Knox three months ago?”
Touché. “I wasn’t thinking then. That’s my point. And you’re not thinking now.”
“You’re wrong. I’ve thought it through. I’m here because something told me that, given the chance, you’d go with me. So either tell me to get the hell out, or pack your shit and let’s go.”
“I’m bringing a tape recorder.”
“You can bring a box of Havana cigars if you want, just bring your fucking piece. And some extra ammo, if you got it.”
“Handgun?”
“That’ll work. But if you’ve got a long gun, bring that, too. It’s a fluid situation we’re going into.”
The process of decision is a funny thing. One minute you’re explaining all the perfectly rational reasons why you can’t do something insane; the next you’re opening a drawer and taking out a nine-millimeter pistol, then going into the next room to fetch a Remington .308 hunting rifle from your father’s old gun cabinet.
While Lincoln watches me with satisfaction, I hand him the rifle, then sit at my desk and grab a legal pad and a pen.
“What the hell you doing now?” he asks, checking the bolt action on the Remington.
“Writing a holographic will.”
“Christ. A lawyer to the end, huh?”
“Let’s hope not. But let’s not pretend this isn’t a high-risk play.”
He shrugs. “Can’t lie about that.”
As I start to write, I have difficulty making the letters clear. I’m not that drunk. Then I realize that adrenaline is flooding my system, making fine motor tasks difficult. I try to breathe deeply and regularly as I finish the note.
March 17, 2006
To Whom It May Concern,
I, Penn Cage, being of sound mind and body, do here attest that I wish to add a codicil to my existing will, which should remain in force but with these additional bequests added. To Mia Burke, in appreciation for her generous aid in taking care of my daughter during a painful time (and for her critical work during the trial of Drew Elliott two years ago), I leave $150,000. To Keisha Harvin, who worked bravely to complete Caitlin’s work to bring the Double Eagles to justice, and who suffered disability at their hands, I leave $100,000. The remainder of my assets and copyrights I leave and/or assign to my daughter, Annie, less the smaller bequests listed in my existing will.
Penn Cage
Lincoln watches me scrawl my name, then lets out a long whistle.
“You’re really handing out the candy, aren’t you?”
“Both those girls need money. I’d leave you something, but Dad fixed up that trust for you. Besides, your chances of making it through the next few hours aren’t any better than mine.”
He chuckles with appreciation. “My truck’s parked one block over. Can you take care of your security guys?”
“Yeah,” I say, getting out my phone.
“Oh, I’m gonna need that when you’re done.”
“Need what?”
“Your phone. In about twenty-five minutes you’re going to figure out where we’re going. And you’re not going to be texting anybody our route.”
Chapter 75
The main road north out of Natchez is U.S. 61, the blues highway. If you stay on 61, it’ll carry you up to Vicksburg, then to Yazoo City and the Mississippi Delta. But there’s a far older road that runs north from my hometown—the Natchez Trace—and Lincoln takes it once we leave the lights of Natchez and its outlying settlements behind.
The two-lane blacktop follows an ancient Indian path, winding north through Adams County, past Jefferson College, Emerald Mound, Loess Bluff, and a hundred other landmarks before it leaves the state following the old flatboatmen’s route back to Nashville, Tennessee. The northwest corner of Adams County is mostly old plantation land, thickly wooded, nearly impenetrable in some places, and it’s there that Lincoln leaves the Trace and steers his big pickup deeper into the forest.
For the first few miles, lights are sparse, cars few. Then both disappear altogether. Somewhere out to the west of us, the Mississippi River is flowing. To the north lie Alcorn State University, the river city of Bienville, and the Grand Gulf Nuclear Station. But from where we are, you’d never know it. I feel like we’re following a narrow stream through a primeval forest. The hills get steeper, the gullies off the shoulders deeper, but the trees never relent.
“You guessed where we’re going yet?” Lincoln asks.
The only settlement that I know about up this way is Church Hill, to the west, but I’m pretty sure we’ve already passed it. As I ponder what I remember of this region, a vision of dark Corinthian columns against a night sky comes to me, the only survivors of a once-great plantation house that burned in the 1800s—and one of Caitlin’s favorite places.
“Windsor Ruins?” I ask.
Lincoln laughs softly. “Close, but no. That’s in the next county up.”
“Aren’t we almost out of Adams County by now?”
“No.”
“What’s left? Who lives up here?”
“Nobody, baby. We’re going to a dead place.”
“What does that mean? A cemetery?”
“Might as well be.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those Double Eagle bastards, the few that are left . . . what are they, really? Devils who outlived their time. They’re ghosts. You know what I’m saying?”
“Sure. But I still don’t get it.”
“Where do ghosts feel safe?”
“I don’t know. A church?”
“Close again.”
“For God’s sake, Lincoln.”
“A ghost town!”
It takes a couple of seconds, but then I get it. Just south of the Claiborne County line lie the remnants of Rodney, a once-prosperous town abandoned by the Mississippi River in the 1800s. My father took me there when I was a boy, because the place had been the site of a small but famous Civil War action. All I remember of Rodney is a two-story brick church with a Yankee cannonball embedded high in its front wall, and a lot of sand and dust.
“You got it now?” Lincoln asks.
“What the hell is Snake doing in Rodney?”
“You just answered your own question.”
“Does anybody still live up there? The river left it high and dry a hundred years ago.”
“There’s probably forty people spread through the woods up there. Maybe fifty. There’s a big hunting camp, though. Sound familiar?”