“I did something stupid, Penn. . . . I went looking for the Bone Tree by myself. I found it and . . . got myself shot . . . my own damn fault. A black kid offered to show it to me and . . . because he was black . . . I just assumed we were on the same side. Anyway . . . he shot me with a .22. Otherwise I’d be dead. . . . I scared him away with my pistol, but . . . doesn’t matter now . . . wasn’t him anyway. . . . Forrest Knox . . . did this to me. The kid . . . who shot me told me . . . Forrest promised to get his brother paroled . . . from Angola . . . if he killed me.
“After the boy ran . . . I realized Tom was in the tree . . . don’t know how he got there. He was unconscious . . . sugar shock, I think. . . . Thought he was dead at first . . . revived him with . . . a goddamn peppermint. I’m sorry I sound this way. . . . Veins in my neck are filling up. . . . Can’t get my breath. Tom said I have . . . pericardial something . . . my heart’s being smothered by blood . . . in the sac around it. Sorry . . . the point was to tell you some things. . . . I feel like that guy on Mount Everest . . . who got to talk to his wife on the radio before the end. . . . I heard a chopper a couple of minutes ago. I hope it’s you . . . or at least Danny and Carl. Anyway . . . here goes nothing.”
There were more savage wheezes, and then she said, “First, I love you. I . . . don’t know why the hell we waited so long . . . to get married. . . . Stupid, I guess. Second . . . you have to forgive your father. There’s stuff . . . stuff you need to know. Viola and Tom killed Frank Knox. . . . Frank was hurt, but . . . Viola finished him off. She shot his heart full of air . . . and Tom stood by while he died. . . . Covered it up. That’s why Tom kept silent all those years. . . . He thought Viola would go to prison . . . he’d be jailed and taken from his family, or . . . killed by the Double Eagles. . . . Oh, God, I feel like my neck’s going to burst. . . . I don’t want to pass out.”
There was only gasping and wheezing for a few seconds, and when Caitlin spoke again, her voice was much weaker, and far less coherent. “. . . to think about. . . . Forrest raped Viola . . . when he was a teenager. He raped another woman, too . . . here at the Bone Tree. . . . I think Forrest may be Lincoln’s father. . . . Look at his skin color. Anyway . . . can’t believe I actually found the Bone Tree. . . . I’m leaning against the thing . . . but didn’t find what I was really looking for. . . . Tell John that Frank Knox kept something . . . something from the assassination. . . . It tied him to Marcello. . . . Frank killed JFK, Penn. . . . I believe that now. . . . Tell John to look for a letter written in Russian. . . . Snake told Morehouse about it. . . .”
At this point her voice constricted into a strangled squawk, and I feared I would hear no more. Then she coughed and somehow went on:
“I’ve got my multi-tool . . . tell Jordan it saved me . . . fucking pen in my chest. . . . Need some kind of suction . . . but Tom can’t help me. . . . I’m afraid he’s dead, Penn. . . . Oh, God. . . . If I don’t make it, tell Annie . . . I loved her . . . like she was my own. . . . I want to tell her myself, though, because . . . I don’t want to die in this fucking swamp. Okay . . . this is me, babe, signing off. . . . Heard rotors again . . . hope to God you’re in that chopper. . . . Don’t ever blame yourself for this. . . . I asked for it and . . . I got it. I love you. . . . Bye for now.”
The first ten times I listened to this recording, her voice was like a blade shaving shreds of muscle from my heart. Then I started to curse Caitlin for talking so long, talking to me when she could have been trying to save herself. But finally I realized the terrible truth: she’d known all along that without my father’s help her efforts would be futile. Whatever she said into that cell phone would be the last words I would ever hear from her. Typical that she spent so much of that precious time catching me up on facts, as though the message were her final news story.
When I get within a mile of where I expect the Valhalla road to be, I start watching the turns that lead into the woods between the highway and the Mississippi River. I try two that lead nowhere, logging roads that wind through the dense trees and then peter out. But then I come to an asphalt lane blocked by a wrought-iron gate set between two enormous stone pillars. A gleaming sign on one reads:
VALHALLA EXOTIC HUNTING RESERVE
Absolutely No Trespassing
Seeing no other option, I press a small black button on the keypad and wait while the wind blows through the dry leaves still clinging to the trees. A fire is burning somewhere nearby, but the scent of woodsmoke brings me no pleasure. To the right of the gate I notice a small sign nailed to a tree trunk. It reads: FORT KNOX. The letters look as though a child made them with a woodburning iron.
“Who’s there?” asks an accented voice that reminds me of Captain Ozan.
“Penn Cage.”
The silence from the intercom lasts a long time. Then the same voice, laced with amusement, says, “Come on in, Mayor. But if you’ve got a weapon, be advised I’m going to take it off you.”
“I didn’t come here to kill anybody,” I say in a robotic voice. “I came to talk.”
Five seconds later, the great gates slowly part. For a moment I’m reminded of Corinth, Pithy Nolan’s mansion, but then I realize that the two places could not be more different. Corinth is essentially a sanctuary, while Valhalla has always been a killing ground. Approaching the lodge, I see a large rough-hewn timber building served by central air and heat. The telephone wires, satellite dishes, and antennas make the place look more like an army outpost than a hunting camp.