The Bone Tree (Penn Cage #5) - Greg Iles Page 0,63

thing no matter what. He can’t do the wrong thing. It’s not in him.”

What would it take to shake such faith? This is like trying to knock down a granite wall by talking to it. My stomach burns with resentment from holding my tongue about so many things pertaining to my father. The right thing? I want to ask. Lincoln Turner believes that he’s Dad’s son by Viola Turner—and Dad probably believes it, too. This whole crazy nightmare may be happening because Lincoln Turner screwed up a mercy killing and Dad is covering for him. Risking all our lives because he can’t bear to watch an illegitimate son punished by the courts . . .

But I say none of that. Instead, I say, “I don’t think Dad would ever intentionally do something terrible. But he might deceive himself so badly that he wound up doing something that had terrible consequences. We’re all capable of that. And I’m not sure he could bear the idea that our image of him was going to be shattered, or even tarnished.”

My mother looks down into her lap, then takes the gin and tonic from my hand and takes two big swallows. “You’re right about that much. If Tom thought you’d begun to doubt everything he taught you as a boy . . . it would break his heart. So I want you to promise me something. If you do find him, please don’t try to browbeat the truth out of him, whatever it is. That will come in its own good time—if it’s meant to. Maybe even in a courtroom, if there’s no other way. Will you promise me that?”

I take the glass back from her and swallow some gin. “Yes,” I tell her, knowing it’s a lie. This is no time for truth. “But you’ve got to accept that you can’t help Dad by going along with his plans. His only chance now is a safe surrender into federal custody. If he contacts you again, please try to convince him of that.”

Her gaze falls away from me and settles in a dark corner of the room. “I could never have imagined things would go this far.”

“Of course not. How could you?”

She’s staring at the foot of the hall staircase, and she looks strangely preoccupied.

“Mom? I’m getting the distinct impression that you know more than I do about all of this. Do you?”

She doesn’t answer. I’m not even sure she heard me.

“Dad’s message said remember all he told you on Monday. What did he tell you?”

She slowly shakes her head. “Nothing that would help you. Just that Viola’s life had been tragic, and her death was, too. He didn’t want to burden me with anything I might have to lie about.”

Great. Realizing I’m going to learn nothing further about Viola, my mind skips back to my disturbing conversation with John Kaiser. “Mom?” I say gently. “Did Dad ever talk to you about knowing a man named Carlos Marcello?”

For a moment her face remains transfixed, but then the tiny webs of wrinkles move, and her eyes focus on me. They’re filled with surprise.

“Uncle Carlos?” she says.

“Uncle Carlos?” I echo. “Mom . . . are we talking about the same man?”

“The boss of New Orleans?”

Stunned speechless, I can only nod.

“Oh, I don’t know anything. Just a story your father told me. You know Tom did an externship at the parish prison in New Orleans during his final year of medical school. He was the jail doctor, and there was a lot of excitement. He once saw a crazed prisoner shot right in front of him.”

“Mom . . . what about Marcello?”

“Oh, yes. Well, Tom once told me a story about Carlos Marcello serving time in the prison. He said New Orleans policemen delivered his meals every night, from the best restaurants in New Orleans. Marcello even had women visit him in his cell. The godfather lived better in jail than most people did at home, and everybody called him ‘Uncle Carlos.’ The whole thing was like a big joke.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, but this is anything but funny. “What year would this have been?”

“Nineteen fifty-nine, of course. The year Tom graduated from LSU med school.”

The year before I was born. I’d forgotten that my mother and father lived in New Orleans for four years. This means that Dad could have met Carlos Marcello as early as . . . 1955. In any case, he surely met the don in 1959, and not as a random student, but