I heard him sigh in disappointment.
“I’ll take a look at the book tonight and give you a call in the morning. Things are insane down here, you wouldn’t believe it. But if I like what I read, I’ll carve out fifteen minutes for her.”
“Oh, man. That’s great, Penn. I know you’re going to love it.”
“You’re that certain?”
“She’s a Mississippi girl, down to the bone. I can’t believe you haven’t met her before now.”
“She’s from Laurel, Peter. Other side of the state. Not a lot of interaction between Natchez and Laurel.”
He said nothing for a few moments. “Are you sure that’s it?”
I felt the sting of indignation. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing, bro. Just give me a call tomorrow. And I’m sorry things are so tough. I’m praying for your father.”
“If you don’t hear from me tomorrow, that’s a no.”
I hit end and walked over to the lamp beside my desk. I had told Peter the truth about Laurel. I know a hell of a lot of people from Mississippi, but I don’t think I’ve ever known more than one from Laurel. Compared to Natchez, it’s like another planet over there.
As I stare at Serenity Butler’s photograph, Peter’s voice echoes in my mind. I read her book . . . It’s breathtaking.
I wasn’t lying when I told Peter things had been crazy around the time I was sent this galley. But was that really why I never got around to reading it? Jealousy is a powerful and stubborn emotion, and maybe the literary buzz that began as soon as this new writer’s manuscript began to circulate in New York had awakened that poisonous feeling in me. The critics had hailed Butler as a wunderkind, a raw new voice of realism on race, one that might someday rival that of Toni Morrison. That kind of hyperbole was sure to put off most veteran writers, and at forty-five, I am certainly a member of that club.
Almost resentfully, I flipped open the book, which revealed the dedication page. The dedication read: For my mother, who died bringing me into this world; and my father, whoever he might be.
I swallowed once, reread the lines, then turned the page.
I’m a big believer in first lines. If a writer doesn’t grab you with their first sentence, even in a literary novel, they might need to think about another line of work. As my eyes sought out the first line of Serenity Butler’s memoir, I realized she had a killer.
Not every child has a father, nor every mystery a solution.
When my eyes reached the period, I realized I wasn’t breathing. In eleven words, Serenity Butler had reached through my chest wall and tapped her fingernail against my heart, like an archaeologist searching for an echo. As my eyes retraced the line, I backed over to my Eames lounge chair, collapsed into it, adjusted the lamp, and began to read.
Friday
Chapter 10
Keisha Harvin’s brothers arrived from Alabama in the small hours of Friday morning. Despite the time, John Kaiser arranged for them to see their sister in the St. Catherine’s ICU. I didn’t see the two brothers until later that morning, when I went to check on Keisha. Both were big men, but it was obvious which one had played defensive tackle for Auburn. Everything about Roosevelt Harvin was round: head like an oversized bowling ball, arms like anacondas, thighs like live oak trunks. The man’s hands defied description: they weren’t simply huge; he looked as if he could open the valve on a fire hydrant without a wrench. His brother, Aaron—who was maybe thirty—was big by conventional standards, but at least he fell within the normal frame of reference. He had a close-trimmed mustache and looked like a ladies’ man.
When I saw the two of them standing over their sister’s hospital bed, Roosevelt’s big tears falling on the sheet beside Keisha’s scarred face and taped-shut eyes, I had no idea what to say. After I quietly introduced myself, Aaron shook his head and said, “I’d cry, but I done cried all my water out.”
“Look what they done to her, Mr. Cage,” said Roosevelt, his hand on her upper arm. “Why they did that?”
My deepest fear was that Keisha’s attackers had chosen her because they could not get to me or my family. But I couldn’t bring myself to voice that here.
“They didn’t like the stories she was writing.”
“She was writing the truth, wasn’t she?”
“These assholes don’t like the truth. Pardon my language.”
Roosevelt nodded.
Aaron said, “They killed your fiancée a few months back, huh? Keisha’s boss?”
“That’s right.”
“I seen you got bodyguards around your family now. I met your little girl earlier this morning. I like her.”
“Thank you. Yes, the Double Eagle group has made several death threats against us.”
Both men stared at me for a while without speaking. Then Aaron said softly, “Keisha thought maybe after Ms. Masters got murdered, you, uh, maybe took things into your own hands. Killed that Knox fella. That dirty cop.”
I looked back at them but acknowledged nothing.
“Li’l K didn’t want to make a thing out of it,” Aaron went on. “That’s what we call her in the family, Li’l K. She said guy killed your fiancée, and if you’d wasted him, you was right to do it.”
I communicated as much as I could to them without speaking.
Roosevelt nodded, then squinted and said, “The man who owns the newspaper don’t pay no security for my baby sister?”
I felt my cheeks redden. “He paid for additional security at the paper, but he didn’t cover all the reporters at home. I told my guys to watch out for Keisha when she left in the mornings, and most times she’d text them and say she was leaving. But yesterday she was running late and didn’t text anybody.”
“Sounds just like Li’l K,” Aaron said. “Always in a hurry.”
Roosevelt reached out with one of his enormous hands and gently patted his sister’s leg. Then he looked up at me again. “Do you know who done this to Keisha, Mr. Cage?”
“I don’t. Keisha said in the ER that a woman threw the acid, an older woman, but that’s all she knew. Yesterday I went to a restaurant where some of the old Double Eagle guys hang out, and I got in their faces pretty good. Pulled my gun on them. But I don’t think I accomplished much.”
The two brothers shared a look. “How about you show us where that place is?” Aaron asked. “Maybe we’ll get further than you did.”
“I’m afraid you’ll get yourselves thrown in jail.”
“I been in jail before,” Roosevelt said. “Ain’t the end of the world.”
“What about these motorcycle guys we hear been hangin’ around town?” Aaron asked. “Keisha wrote about you and one of your guys shooting two of them a few weeks back. You think this was some kind of payback for that?”
Aaron Harvin spoke without rancor, but he sounded very familiar with the concept of payback.
“I’m afraid it could have been, yes. That’s my deepest fear.”
Both young men nodded sadly, but neither implied that their sister’s present condition was my fault.