The producers of Raintree County had obviously felt the same. On Windsor’s steps, Taylor and Clift had struggled through some of the worst lines in movie history, trying in vain to repeat the success of Gone with the Wind. You could almost sense the enveloping darkness that had swirled around the failed production. Ross Lockridge, the author of Raintree County, had committed suicide at age thirty-four—one day before his book reached number one on the New York Times bestseller list. Like Montgomery Clift, who’d recently had his face scarred in a car crash, the author never got to enjoy the success he’d struggled to attain. And Elizabeth Taylor was already being troubled by the demons that would haunt her for the rest of her life. But despite these chaotic elements, Caitlin had always recalled the story that had given the film its title.
In Lockridge’s novel, the mystical Raintree was given several origin stories. Folklore claimed it was an exotic plant brought from the Orient by an idealistic community of pioneers, and that only a single tree had survived, hidden deep in an Indiana swamp. All who found the tree supposedly discovered love under a rain of yellow flowers. A second legend told of a ragged preacher who had planted apple seeds throughout his travels. In his bag, that preacher—later called Johnny Appleseed—had also carried one rare and precious seed: that of the Golden Raintree. “Luck, happiness, the realization of dreams,” said the legend, “the secret of life itself—all belong to him who finds the Raintree.” Was it merely chance, Caitlin wondered, that the Yankee legend of a mystical tree was empirically optimistic, while the southern version was a dark tapestry of blood, betrayal, and murder?
Flattening her left hand over Henry’s sketch, she picked up her Treo and dialed the poacher’s number yet again. The phone rang five times . . . seven. She was moving her thumb to the END button when a surprisingly deep voice barked from the Treo’s little speaker.
“Hello!” she said, jerking the phone to her ear.
The cigarette-parched voice of an older black man said, “Hey, now. Who dis be?”
“I’m a friend of Henry Sexton,” Caitlin said. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”
Silence.
“Are you there, Mr. Rambin?”
“I been workin’. What you want, lady?”
“I want to find the tree that Henry Sexton was looking for. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
More silence. Then the voice said, “Might do. Might not. I read in the Natchez paper a little while ago that Mister Henry be dead. Burned up, it said. I don’t wanna get burned up.”
“I don’t either. And I wrote that newspaper story, by the way.”
“Huh. How you know about Henry and me?”
“I was working with him. And I can certainly make the trip worth your while.”
This time the silence stretched too long.
“You can name your price,” she said quickly, afraid she would lose him like a fish nibbling on a line.
“Henry was gon’ pay me two thousand dollah.”
Caitlin doubted this, but she said, “I can match that.”
After a couple of seconds, Rambin said, “Price gone up now, though. Hazard pay.”
She closed her eyes but did not sigh. “I see. What’s the new price?”
“Double. Fo’ thousand. Take it or leave it.”
After what seemed a suitable interval—which she hoped would mask the fact that she would pay forty thousand dollars to find the Bone Tree—she said, “Four thousand it is. But I want to go this afternoon.”
“No way, lady. I got work this afternoon. Can’t get loose. Plus, I got to make sure the coast is clear. We’ll go tomorrow morning. After that, I’m clearing out. Too dangerous round here. Gettin’ like the old days again.”
The idea of waiting a full day galled her, but Caitlin sensed that upping her offer wouldn’t persuade Rambin to change his mind. “You know what tree I’m talking about, right? Are you positive you know where it is?”
A harsh squawk of a laugh came through the phone. “Lady, they ain’t nothin’ I don’t know ’bout this old swamp. I was birthed on the edge of it, and lived jes’ about every day in it. You jes’ bring your money, hear?”
“Where?” she asked quickly.
“Ain’t but one decent road leads down to the swamp from the state road. There’s others, but you’d never find ’em.”
“I’ll be there. Is eight A.M. all right?”
“Six thirty,” Rambin said. “And bring cash. I don’t take no damn bank check.”
“I will.”
“What’s your name?” Rambin asked.
“Caitlin Masters.”
The old poacher took his time with this. “I see it right here in the paper,” he said finally. “All right, then. You wear a red bandanna around your neck. You see a rusted old school bus, you’ll know you goin’ the right way. Park where the road ends. If I feel like you’re on the level, I’ll let you see me. And no po-lice. You hear?”
“I’ll be there,” Caitlin promised. “Without police.”
Rambin clicked off without another word.
Caitlin sat up, her eyes on Henry’s journal. She was excited, but the reality of tomorrow’s rendezvous presented certain problems. For one, she would have to craft a cover story that would guarantee both secrecy and freedom of movement, one that would satisfy both Penn and Kaiser. At least she had a decent amount of time to come up with something credible.
She suddenly remembered Henry’s warning that she not try to find the Bone Tree alone. Yesterday the reporter had actually made her promise not to do so. Would it be wise to keep that promise? Who could she trust to keep their mouth shut about her mission? Jamie? She needed her editor running the paper in her absence. Keisha Harvin, perhaps? The hungry young reporter would kill to go on an assignment like this one, but Keisha was simply the wrong color. A black girl prowling the back roads of Lusahatcha County in the company of a white woman would attract unwanted attention.
While Caitlin considered other alternatives, an image of Jordan Glass rose into her mind. Jordan would be the perfect companion: the photographer was a veteran of countless war zones and wouldn’t be intimidated by anything they might encounter. The problem was, Glass was married to Kaiser. And even though Jordan had told Caitlin that she kept some things from her husband, Caitlin was unwilling to trust her best lead to a woman she’d only just met—even if Glass was a personal hero to her.
Caitlin jumped when the landline on her desk rang. The second she picked it up, Jamie Lewis said, “Kaiser’s headed back to your office, and he doesn’t look happy.”
“Thanks.”