“Jesus, Penn. That’s a natural reaction, I guess. But also childish. You never trained as a soldier.”
“Maybe not. But I know how to fight. And that wasn’t George W’s war, which was bullshit. It was the first one. Anyway, I guess on some level, when I was reading Serenity’s book, I kept seeing that mother from that newscast.”
“Was she black? The woman in the news story?”
“No, white.”
Mia nodded but said nothing further. It was strange to realize that by suppertime we might be sitting at the table with the young celebrity on Mia’s computer screen, a woman who has done far more dangerous—and traditionally masculine—things than I, a man ten years her senior.
“Well,” Mia said finally, turning her computer back around. “I can’t wait to see what all the fuss is about.”
Chapter 11
Walt Garrity watched Tom Cage shuffle into the visiting room at the Pollock federal prison and carefully take a seat at the empty table. The two men said nothing at first. They didn’t need to. They had survived the hell of Korea together. Heat, snow, VD, the Chinese coming over the wire in suicide waves . . . even the Bugout. Once you shared history like that, speech tended to be redundant.
“How you makin’ it?” Walt asked finally.
“Can’t complain,” Tom said. “Beats a sleeping bag in forty below.”
“Scraping ice out of the men’s noses.”
Tom chuckled. “Hypodermics taped under both armpits?”
“And your mouth full of morphine ampoules.”
Tom lifted his arm to take in the prison visiting room. “Luxury by comparison.”
Thirty seconds passed, during which Tom looked over at the window in the door to see if anyone was observing them.
“I’m glad to see you, Walt,” he said finally. “Something happen?”
Walt shook his head. “Nothing on my end.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Is it safe to talk in here?”
Tom nodded. “Within reason.”
“I heard about that colored reporter. The one who got acid thrown in her face yesterday.”
“People don’t say ‘colored’ anymore, Walt.”
“Well, I do. Among friends, at least. No harm done. Anyway, it seems like an escalation. I’m afraid that acid attack is just the beginning of something.”
“You and me both. Kind of puts teeth in Snake’s message about wives and children.”
Walt grunted. “That old boy makes it easy to pick a side, don’t he?”
A shadow came into Tom’s face. “Not for you. Not when the stakes are what they are.”
“The stakes are what they always were, pardner.”
“Walt. Carmelita wants you home, and don’t try to sell me anything else. She feels lucky to have you, and you’re damn lucky to have her. You keep this up for me, and you could get killed. You might not get home to her.”
The old Texas Ranger sat in silence for half a minute. Then he said, “I reckon I’ll stick a while longer.”
“Walt—”
“I figure I owe it to you.”
“You don’t owe me a goddamn thing. We’re even. We’ve been even since Korea. We each of us saved the other.”
Walt smiled in a way that cut right through Tom’s assertion. “No, sir. When we escaped from that Chinese patrol, you should have left me behind.”
“Left you? Go to hell, Garrity.”
“You know I’m right. My leg was broke. I couldn’t walk for shit. If you hadn’t carried me down that mountain, I’d have spent the past fifty years buried in North Korea.”
“Well. Whatever you think you owe me, you paid off last December, with change to spare.”
Walt shook his head. “Maybe that’s not even it now. Sometimes during the long nights, I get to thinking about Knox and his bunch. They’ve outlived their time, you know? We have that in common with them. And I think maybe they’re our burden to bear. Our evil to deal with.”
Tom nodded. “I can’t argue with that. But we haven’t exactly done a bang-up job so far.”
“Sometimes it takes a while to stir a rattlesnake out of his hole. Sometimes you gotta smoke him out.”
“I thought Penn was going to do that for us.”
“Give it time, buddy.”
Tom winced in pain as he shifted on the chair. “I don’t know how much time we have. My trial starts in three days.”
Walt tapped his fingernails on the table. “I look for something to happen before then. But I tell you, things would be a damn sight easier on me if I could tell Penn what I’m doing. I wouldn’t have to spend so much time hiding from him and his bodyguards.”
Tom thought about this for a while. Then he said, “No. Penn can’t know about this. First, he’s got to be able to deny all knowledge. Second . . . the people he’s talking to might sniff it on him.”
Walt squinted at his old friend. “Are you sure that’s it? Or do you just not want to tell your son he’s playing bait?”
Tom’s face hardened. “This is war. You know that.”
Garrity held up his hands. “Let’s not plow the same field twice. I’m just making sure you face this straight-on.”
“Don’t worry about that. Look, are you sure you haven’t noticed anything? Sensed anything?”
“Not even a rustle in the tall grass.”
“But you’re ready?”
Walt didn’t bother to answer this.
“You’re settled with it, I mean. In your soul?”
Walt stretched his creaky frame, then looked back at the window in the door. “Believe it or not, I talked to Carmelita about it.”
Tom blinked in disbelief.
“Don’t worry about her,” Walt said. “She saw some rough stuff in Juarez before she moved up here.”
“What did Carmelita say?”
“She talked to her brother. He’s a priest down there still.”
“Jesus, Walt—”
“He’s a priest, goddamn it. He can’t say nothing. Anyway, Carmelita told him a bit about the Knox family history.”
“And?”
“He quoted some scripture, but I can’t remember the exact words. What it came down to was this: in a just war, certain things are permitted.”
“Would he call this a just war, I wonder?”
“Given the facts he knew, he did. He gave me his blessing.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Tom rubbed his forehead, then said, “Damn, I’d give my left arm for a cigar.”
Walt smiled. “Can’t help you there, bud. Got some chaw in the truck.”
“God forbid.” Tom looked over at a cabinet mounted to the wall. “How about a game of gin?”
Walt grinned. “Penny a point?”
Chapter 12
By the time our doorbell rings at 6:35 p.m., Annie and Mia have combed through everything available on the Internet about Serenity Butler, including a video of her acceptance speech for the National Book Award. They’re particularly excited that she spoke fondly of Mississippi rather than trashing it, which would have been easy for a black writer to do.
When I answer the door, I find Tim Weathers standing beside one of those rare authors who looks like her jacket photo come to life. Serenity’s eyes hold a steady light, and her smile is quick and broad. She’s wearing jeans and a white tank top, and her hair is gathered in a low ponytail at the back of her neck. She might be a little thinner than in her photograph, but her arms are full and muscular.