The Bone Tree (Penn Cage #5) - Greg Iles Page 0,150

not damning, but it does prove guilty knowledge.”

“For God’s sake, Dwight. Tell me.”

The old man finally gives me an unguarded look, and in his eyes I see a fear that’s almost pathetic. “I’m afraid that if I do, you’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

“So what? Do you expect me to stay here all night?”

“No. I only want you to listen to John for ten more minutes.”

I turn to Kaiser. “What for?”

This time Kaiser doesn’t speak. He’s waiting for guidance from Stone. The old agent looks like he’s come to the end of his rope. I feel strangely guilty for fighting him, but he’s left me no real choice.

“Penn,” he says finally, “you and I are both standing at the doors of mysteries. You want to know why everyone wants your father dead, and why he won’t come in from the cold. I want to know what happened in Dallas and why. But I believe that once we get those doors completely open, we’re going to find that our mysteries are the same. All my instinct tells me that.”

“I don’t see how,” I say wearily.

“Stay for ten more minutes and find out. I’m asking you as a friend.”

“You’re holding me hostage to information about my father. Is that what a friend does?”

A flash of guilt crosses his face, but then his gaze hardens. “This is bigger than we are, son. Bigger than your family, even. Help me put this case to rest.”

I’m about to tell them I’m leaving when Kaiser stands and walks up to me.

“I know you don’t want to listen to me anymore,” he says. “But I want you to know that I’m not against your father. In fact, I think he’s innocent of killing Viola Turner.”

My mouth falls open. This is the first time Kaiser has even hinted at this possibility. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

“Because I knew it would drive you crazy that I couldn’t do anything about it. Once your father and Garrity killed that trooper, my hands were tied.”

“You’re just trying to manipulate me. You want me to talk Walker into backing off from the Double Eagles tomorrow.”

“Yes, I do. But that’s got nothing to do with my opinion about your father.”

“Who do you think killed Viola?”

“I think Forrest Knox gave the order.”

“Can you prove that?”

Kaiser turns up his hands. “If I could, I’d have done it already. But Forrest was sixteen when Viola was raped, when her brother and Luther Davis were killed. I think he took part in those crimes. And if he did, then he had every reason to want Viola dead.”

I don’t know how to respond to this new tack.

“Whatever deal your father made with Carlos Marcello kept Viola safe until Marcello died,” Kaiser says. “After that, force of habit was probably enough. Viola was way up in Chicago, and she hadn’t said anything about the Knoxes in twenty-five years. But once she moved back to Natchez, and Henry Sexton started visiting her . . . that was too much. The Knoxes had to kill her, exactly as they’d threatened to do.”

“John . . . goddamn it. If you really believe that, surely you can do something to protect Dad?”

The FBI agent shrugs helplessly. “My faith buys him nothing with the director. Your only currency is information we can use.”

“Information about the assassination?”

“That’s the gold standard today.”

As I look from him to Stone, I realize the time has come to gamble on the integrity of these two men. I don’t like risking my mother’s privacy or feelings, and I don’t want to implicate my father any further, but his survival is more important than his guilt or innocence.

Taking a seat on the edge of Stone’s bed, I say, “In 1959, my dad worked as a medical extern in the Orleans Parish Prison. At one point Carlos Marcello was a prisoner there, and my dad treated him. Later that year, in some Italian restaurant, Carlos came over to their table to make sure they were happy. He seemed to know Dad. I only just learned about this. My mother told me last night, when I asked her about Marcello. She thought it was funny, just a colorful story. The point is, Dad knew Carlos at least four years before the assassination. So he may very well know things you want to know.”

“Christ,” Kaiser exclaims. “I knew it. I mean, I believed there’d be something like this. I’ll bet the restaurant was Mosca’s.”

I think he’s right, but