The Bone Tree: A Novel

Peggy clenched her abdomen in preparation for whatever might follow. “What does she say, honey?”

 

 

Annie read from the screen: “Hey punk, sorry I haven’t been around much. You can see from the paper I’m working around the clock. Today I’m doing Lara Croft meets Nancy Drew. I may be on CNN tonight, so watch the news. With any luck, I’ll be there to watch it with you. Love, Cait.”

 

“Who’s Lara Croft?” Peggy asked, relieved and thankful that Caitlin had thought to reassure Annie.

 

“Just a character from a video game,” Annie said, her face glowing. “I wish Dad and Papa would text us like Caitlin does.”

 

“Me, too. I’ll be right back, sweetie,” Peggy said, getting to her feet. “I’m going to check on Mr. Kirk.”

 

“He’s just plain Kirk,” Annie corrected her. “He told me not to call him mister. He was four years ahead of Dad in school, but they played football together.”

 

Peggy smiled and went into the den, where Kirk Boisseau was leaning against the wall and watching an old western in black and white.

 

“Are you all right, Kirk? Can I fix you a sandwich or something?”

 

“No, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “I’m good.”

 

Unable to think of any small talk—which was rare for her—Peggy looked at the television. On-screen she saw a black-clad cowboy brandishing a bullwhip, and the sight cut her to the quick. The actor was Lash LaRue, a Saturday matinee cowboy from the 1940s and ’50s. Peggy recognized him because she and Tom had once seen an impromptu performance by LaRue at New Orleans’ Dew Drop Inn, a Negro nightclub that Tom sometimes visited to hear certain black musicians. Tom and Peggy were allowed admittance because Tom had treated several employees while working as an extern. As a boy, Tom had worked as a theater usher during the 1940s, and he’d been ecstatic to find a star from his childhood onstage. He watched spellbound as the black-suited LaRue played his guitar with the Negro musicians, then cut paper from the mouth of a waitress with a bullwhip someone had produced from the back of the bar.

 

“Are you all right, Mrs. Cage?” Kirk asked.

 

“What?” Peggy asked, wiping a tear from her eyes. “Oh, yes. This has just been hard. I’m not used to doing without Tom.”

 

Boisseau smiled. “I’m sure it’s all going to work out.”

 

“Are you?” she said quietly. “Because I’m not.”

 

“Penn will get it worked out.”

 

Peggy somehow summoned a smile. “Do you feel like we’re pretty safe here?”

 

Kirk smiled back, and Peggy thought his eyes looked too gentle to belong to a real soldier. But when he spoke, his voice held the hard edge of steel.

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you or that girl. You can count on that. I gave Penn my word. You just try to relax.”

 

“Thank you. We’ll try.”

 

“I saw that pistol in your purse,” Kirk said. “You know how to use it?”

 

Peggy nodded. “Tom taught me. A long time ago. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

 

“What are you guys doing?” Annie asked from the door. “What won’t come to what?”

 

“Me eating healthy food!” Kirk said easily. “Your grandmother was trying to sell me on a salad. I want a big old skillet-fried grilled cheese sandwich.”

 

Annie looked suspicious for a second, but then she started laughing.

 

“I’m going to make another pass around the house,” said Kirk.

 

“And I’m going to make you that sandwich,” Peggy said. “Come help me, Annie.”

 

Annie looked longingly after Kirk as he went out the front door.

 

ALOIS ENGEL BRAKED AT the stop sign at the corner of Auburn and Duncan Avenues and depressed the electric cigarette lighter. The hippie who’d been guarding the front of the house was still nowhere to be seen. There were no cars behind Alois, and none on the intersecting streets. Duncan Avenue felt like it had been transplanted from the Garden District in New Orleans. Facing a golf course dotted with black and white men in their seventies, this sleepy lane was due for some excitement.

 

The cigarette light popped out, ready to go.

 

Alois removed the little metal plunger with its red-hot eye, then picked up the Molotov cocktail and carefully ignited the windproof match taped to the bottle’s side. Then he wedged the bottle between the passenger seat and the console of his pickup. The match burned with a snakelike hiss.

 

Alois scanned 360 degrees around the intersection. Still no traffic. Picking up his cell phone, he texted a question mark to Wilma Deen, whom he’d dropped off on Ratcliff Place, near a home whose yard abutted the yard of the mayor’s safe house. Ten seconds later, his phone pinged.

 

Wilma’s text read: Still in position. Ready 2 rock.

 

Alois picked up the Spider-Man mask from the passenger seat and pulled it over his head. Then he let his foot off the brake and rolled forward.

 

The mayor’s house was fifty yards away.

 

Alois had rolled only ten yards when the blond hippie walked out the front door and surveyed the street.

 

“Goddamn it,” Alois muttered. “I’m gonna blow your shit away.”

 

But he didn’t. He snapped off the head of the sizzling match and grabbed for his cell phone.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 63

 

 

 

 

Greg Iles's books