“Good enough. Hey, if I do find the guy, what exactly do you want me to bring up?”
“Two or three bones, the bigger the better. I want a DNA match, if possible. I need probable cause for the FBI to come in and drain the whole lake. A bone with barbed wire around it or crushed under an engine block would be fantastic. Photos in situ would be the jackpot.”
“I read you. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, Kirk. Be careful.”
“Way of life, bro. Out.”
Turning right on State Street, I press END and head away from the river, wondering whether Shad will really force me to go public with the dogfighting photo.
As I park by the old carriage step in front of my town house, I feel a powerful urge to talk to my mother. Where our family is concerned, she’s always known all secrets great and small, though she’s carried most in silence. But before I take that irrevocable step, I need to give Dad one more chance to come clean on his own.
Getting out of my car, I stand in the cold wind blowing up Washington Street and bask in the yellow glow emanating from the first-floor windows of my house. For the past seven years, Caitlin Masters and I have lived in separate houses on opposite sides of this beautiful street. Her Acura is parked in her driveway now, but this living arrangement is soon to change, though not in the way Caitlin expects. I have a breathtaking surprise for her, a wedding present she will not quite believe, and it involves our future home. But today’s events have raised a specter of uncertainty in that regard, one I’ve not yet decided how to handle.
As I start up my steps, a big V-8 engine revs loudly, rumbling between the houses. Headlights flash out of the darkness to my left, streaking through the street in front of my house. Washington is a one-way street that runs toward the river, but these lights are shining from the river. Before I can think further, a big white pickup truck blasts out of the line of cars parked beside the Temple B’nai Israel and roars toward me.
Backpedaling up the steps, I stare into the pickup’s open window, searching for the glint of a gun barrel. To my surprise, the truck screeches to a stop, its diesel engine idling low and heavy, like that of a tank. A dark face hovers in the driver’s window; I can just make out the whites of eyes in its upper half.
“You the mayor?” asks a voice that’s not quite James Earl Jones deep, but very nearly so.
“That’s right,” I answer, still wary of an attack.
“I want to talk to you.”
“I have an office.”
The lips part enough for me to see yellow-white teeth. “I ain’t gonna hurt you none.”
“You’re going to hurt somebody, driving like that.” Edging down off the steps, I move warily toward his window. “You’re going the wrong way on a one-way street.”
“That right?” The man laughs without humor. “Well, I’m new in town.”
“Where are you from?”
The eyelids blink once, slowly. “You don’t know who I am?”
His face is darker than those of many local blacks, and squarer than most, as well. There’s a grayish cast to his skin, or perhaps even a blue tint, but it’s hard to tell by the dashboard lights. He has a strong jaw and nose, but I can’t tell much about his eyes. Up close, the sclera are more yellow than white, giving him a jaundiced look. I’m about to say I don’t recognize the face when I realize I must be looking at Viola’s son—Lincoln Turner.
“Does this truck have Illinois plates?”
Lincoln grins. “Give that man a see-gar!”
“What do you want here?”
“Your daddy killed my mama,” he says, all humor gone from the bass voice. “I’d say we’re overdue for a meeting.”
An emotion I’d like to call something else but which is in fact raw fear has scrambled my nerves. I suddenly need to piss—badly.
“Why are you here at my house?”
“I wanted to see your face. And to tell you something. There was a time when your daddy could have done what he did to my mama and have nothing happen behind it. But that time’s past. Even in Mississippi.”
“Are you so certain about what happened to your mother?”
“My auntie doesn’t lie, Mayor.”
Turner must be referring to Cora Revels. I consider raising the question of his paternity, but a dark street doesn’t seem like the best place to bring up a gang rape. Better to let Shad broach this subject with Turner.
“This isn’t the proper venue to discuss these matters, Mr. Turner.”
He grins again. “A lawyer, even now? Out here?” His voice is taunting. “Are you inviting me into your house? With your fiancée and your little girl?”
My chest goes tight and his mention of Caitlin and Annie. The subtextual threat is clear. “Maybe another time.”
As I turn to go, Turner’s voice rumbles in his chest like distant thunder. This must be his version of a chuckle. “Are you going to be defending your father in court?”
“I’m not a defense attorney, Mr. Turner.”
“Call me Lincoln.” He revs the big engine twice, and I resist the urge to cover my ears. “That’s not what I asked you,” he reminds me. “I asked, are you gonna be defending him?”
I turn back and give him a level stare. “I don’t think this case is going to reach a courtroom.”
The luminous teeth shine again in his dark face. “Oh, yes it will. You can bank on that, my brother.”
“I was sorry about your mother. I only knew her when I was a boy, but I remember her. I liked and respected her.”
The teeth vanish. “You didn’t know shit about her.”
My fear that he might be carrying a weapon returns. “I didn’t mean to presume anything. You have a good evening,” I say absurdly, backing away from the truck.
I’m already on the sidewalk when he shouts, “All that fancy legal education you got? All those years you spent in the courtroom? They’re not going to help your daddy one bit!”