Jordan turned up her palms. “Well, that’s the job, isn’t it? At least until it’s time to publish. The question is, who and what gets hurt by you holding back? Is it just a matter of bruised male pride? Or will trust be damaged long term? Are you risking someone’s life by withholding information?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m definitely risking Penn’s trust. As for the rest . . . haven’t we all been at risk from the moment we took on the Double Eagles? After what I saw last night, how do you even gauge the risk? You know the stakes in this story. How much risk is justified?”
“I’m afraid only you can answer that. Or your loved ones, if you wind up getting killed.”
Caitlin looked deeply into the photographer’s eyes. “John did something that really shook your faith in him, didn’t he?”
Jordan took a deep breath and sighed. “Yes. It was an end-justifies-the-means kind of problem.”
“I can relate.” Caitlin drank her first swallow of vodka, puckering from the cold sting. “Right now I’ve got a problem with conflicting promises. To keep one, I have to break another. The question is, do I keep the one to my future husband, because he is my future husband? Or do I keep the one that I feel is right?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Do I?” She thought of Tom and Melba hiding in the forest in Jefferson County. “The thing is, the path I think is right could lead to disaster. Unforgivable disaster.”
Glass rattled the ice in her cup. “You’re in a war. There are going to be casualties. The real question is motive. What is it you’re working in service of? Justice? The truth? Revenge for Henry Sexton? Or is it just the story?”
“All the above. But the story means a lot to me, I won’t lie about that.”
Jordan smiled knowingly. “No need, girl, not with me. But I warn you, not everyone else will be sympathetic to that choice.”
Caitlin sagged in her chair. “I know.”
“You told me you had a plan for tomorrow. A lead of your own. Are you still going to follow through with that?”
“Will my answer leave this room?”
Jordan gave her a conspiratorial shake of the head. “Not via me. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a Girl Scout?”
“For about five minutes. Oxford, Mississippi.”
Caitlin laughed, and the laughter felt good. “I can’t believe it.”
“I can build a fire in the rain like that,” Jordan said, snapping her fingers. “That’s what I got out of that experience.”
“Good thing to know.”
“It saved my ass more than once.” Jordan hung her hands over her knees and leaned forward. “So are you up for company on this quest of yours?”
Caitlin sipped her vodka to hide her expression. The plain truth was, she needed somebody with her on tomorrow’s trip. She’d promised Henry Sexton she wouldn’t go into the Lusahatcha Swamp alone, and she’d be a fool if she did. Yet some juvenile compulsion urged her not to tell a soul about her trip. The lure of whatever Henry had called Frank Knox’s “insurance” against Carlos Marcello made her heart beat faster, and she swallowed some more vodka. Then, before she could second-guess herself, she said, “Be here at five thirty tomorrow morning if you really want to know. If we find what I’m hoping to find, you’ll be hanging another Pulitzer on your wall.”
Jordan waved her hand dismissively. “I’m over that crap, honey. But I’d like to see you get a second one. That’s when you know you’ve proved yourself.”
Caitlin couldn’t help but grin.
“The only problem,” Jordan said, “is my Havana trip. I need to get to the New Orleans airport by four thirty P.M. Can I go with you and still make that?”
Caitlin nodded. “The place we’re going is south of here, so it’s on the way. I can ride with you, then call one of my reporters to pick me up while you drive on to New Orleans.”
Jordan tilted her head and pursed her lips in thought. “I know of two interesting things south of here. The Lusahatcha Swamp and the Valhalla hunting camp.”
Caitlin ignored this bait. “What are you going to tell John?”
Jordan looked into her drink and thought about it. “That I got an earlier flight to Havana. The Castro brothers can’t wait to see me again.”
“Again?”
“I met Fidel about twenty years ago, and he flirted shamelessly with me.”
Caitlin laughed, wondering what it would be like to move in Jordan’s journalistic circles.
“John will want to send an escort with me, so I may have to get creative.”
Caitlin drank off the last of her drink. Then, emboldened by the alcohol buzz, she asked, “Did John say anything about his meeting with Dwight and Penn?”
The photographer shook her head. “John’s still at Dwight’s hotel. I think he’s afraid Dwight won’t survive tomorrow’s surgery. And even if he does, he’s facing a liver transplant.”
Caitlin shut her eyes, trying to push away premature grief. “God, I hate that. Dwight’s one of the good guys. Maybe that’s why Penn was so upset tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
“He kind of flipped out earlier. He tried to pick a fight with Sheriff Byrd, and there was no real reason to do it. Something had pushed him to a place where he was ready to lash out, regardless of the consequences.”
“You couldn’t find out what it was?”
Caitlin shook her head. “He wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. We made love, and he worked his anger out that way. I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever seen him this tense.”
Jordan looked thoughtful. “John, too, in his own way. I’ll tell you something you might find interesting. John gave me a couple of questions to ask Fidel if he shows up at the shoot.”
A fillip of excitement went through Caitlin. “Seriously? About what?”
“The Kennedy assassination. What else?”
Caitlin’s pulse picked up and stayed there. “Jordan, what the hell’s going on? Are they really close to breaking new information about the assassination?”
“I don’t know. John’s pretty good at his job, and Dwight’s no slouch.”
“What were the questions he gave you?”
Jordan winked at her. “Sorry. I can’t go that far. Even if we are partners.”