“Talk to Henry Sexton.”
“I will. But meanwhile, I don’t have control over what Billy Byrd does.”
“You’re the DA. He’s the sheriff. Muzzle that son of a bitch.”
“I’ll try, but it’s not going to be easy. If anything goes down in the morning, you call me before you do anything crazy.”
“I might not have time, Shad. The Examiner has that Web edition now, and Caitlin’s always hungry for a good story.”
“Penn … please, man. I’m not doing anything that any other DA wouldn’t do.”
I slam my hand against the wheel, outraged at having to resort to blackmail. “If Sheriff Byrd goes forward with an arrest, you make damn sure he does it late enough that I can post bail immediately. Because if Dad sees the inside of a cell, you’re going to be packing your bags before lunch.”
“I hear you. But you’re assuming that the judge will grant bail.”
Fury blazes along every nerve in my body. “The only way Dad won’t get bail is if you argue that the judge should deny it! And if you do that, you know what to expect. Some pictures are worth more than a thousand words, bud. Some are worth a career and a law license.”
“I’ve told you about the political pressure. I can’t believe you’re threatening me like this.”
“Karma’s a bitch, Shad.”
This time he says nothing, and I cut the connection.
Without noticing, I’ve crossed the apex of the eastbound bridge and started descending toward the cut in the Natchez bluff. A hundred feet below the span, two floating casinos disguised as nineteenth-century steamboats glitter on the black water. A third was put out of commission eight weeks ago, in what would have been the greatest river catastrophe since the Sultana exploded in 1865, had not luck intervened. The refitted casino boat is scheduled to go back into operation eleven weeks from now, and many of our local citizens are waiting anxiously for their paychecks to resume.
As I pass through the cut, my heart pounds from my exchange with Shad. But rather than dwell on what he said, my mind turns to my session with Henry Sexton, and to action. Glancing down from the highway, I search my phone’s contacts list for Kirk Boisseau.
Kirk graduated from St. Stephen’s Preparatory School four years ahead of me. After a truncated career in the Marine Corps—a Force Recon unit—he spent several years working as a commercial diver, both in the Mississippi River and the Gulf of Mexico. Kirk owns an earthmoving company now, but he devotes much of his time to kayak racing on the Mississippi River. Guys like Kirk never quite adjust to civilian life, and thus are usually open to pushing the envelope, especially in a good cause.
“Mayor Cage,” he says by way of answering his cell phone. “Don’t tell me—research question for a novel. Could I really cut somebody’s throat with a Visa card?”
“Not this time.”
“You’ve finally found the funding for my white-water park?”
“Uh … no. Sorry.”
“Then what the hell are you bothering me for?”
“Are you in the mood to break the law?”
There’s a brief pause, during which I hear Susan Werner singing “Barbed Wire Boys” through the phone. Then Kirk says, “What you got in mind?”
“A little creative trespassing.”
Kirk grunts. “Sounds mildly interesting.”
“With some diving at the end of it.”
“Now I’m getting a chubby.”
“Are you familiar with the Jericho Hole?”
“I’ve studied it on maps. That’s private property.”
“I’m aware.”
“What you looking for, Penn?”
“Bones. Human.”
“A body?”
“Just the bones.”
“How old we talking?”
“Forty years.”
Kirk gives a skeptical grunt. “That hole was created when a levee crevasse opened up long ago. The river’s probably swept through there several times over the last forty years during flood stage. That would have scoured any bones out of there.”
“From what I understand, quite a few corpses have been dumped in that hole over the years. But the guys we’re looking for may have been wired to something before they got thrown in. An engine block, for example. They might even be locked inside a car.”
“Well, that would certainly help.”
“Do you know how deep that hole really is, Kirk?”
“No. Maybe forty to sixty feet.”
“Can you search it for me?”
“When you need it done?”
“Yesterday.”
“Why did I ask? I’ve still got my lights and equipment. How close can I take my truck without being detected?”
“No idea.”
“Hang on … I’m checking a topo map. I know a crop duster who works that area. He can tell me the lay of the land. Is the property owner the type to shoot first and ask questions later?”
“Again, no idea. But I’d suggest treating this more as a Force Recon mission than a commercial diving job. This is beyond the call of duty.”
“You know what I say to that.”
“What?”
“Oo-rah, motherfucker! Beats the shit out of pushing dirt all day. Who’s the dead guy?”
“Two civil rights activists. Vietnam vets.”
“Even better. Let’s haul those ground-pounders up and make somebody pay.”
My sense of relief is so strong that laughter almost bubbles out of my chest. “Thanks, Kirk.”
“Thank me after I’ve found the guy.”
“Gratitude’s one of my strong suits. You know that.”
“That I do, Mayor. Look, I’m going to need somebody standing post on the bank while I’m down hole. Do you have time to back me up?”
“I’m afraid I’ll be spending tomorrow in court, defending my father.”
“What?”
“It’s a long story. Can you get somebody else?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend can cover it. Just tell me you’ve got my back, legally speaking.”
“Absolutely. I’ll pay any fines and keep you out of jail, no worries.”