The Bone Tree (44 page)

With a queasy feeling in my belly, I walk up to the second-floor bathroom and sit on the commode.
Where could Dad have gotten the money to buy a two-thousand-dollar car in 1959?
I know how John Kaiser would answer that question.

Taking my tape recorder from my pocket, I look at the tiny reels behind its plastic window. After Caitlin interrupted me at her office, I never listened to the final minutes of the hotel conversation. I don’t want to hear my farewell to Stone, but the denouement of the assassination plot still haunts me. It’s got nothing to do with my parents’ Ford Fairlane—nothing overt, anyway—but the implications of that final act weigh upon me like a funeral shroud. When I press
PLAY,
Dwight Stone’s weary voice echoes through the tiled room like a voice from the grave. I turn the volume wheel to 1, then hold the little speaker to my right ear.

STONE:
Carlos’s deportation trial was winding down fast. The lawyers were set to make closing arguments on the morning of November twenty-second. On that day in Washington, Bobby Kennedy was chairing a meeting of district attorneys from around the country. They were strategizing in their war against organized crime. Bobby hoped to come back from lunch and announce the conviction and imminent deportation of Carlos Marcello. Instead, a bailiff walked into the federal court in New Orleans and gave the judge a note. Judge Christenberry then announced that President Kennedy had been shot. Less than an hour later, the jury acquitted Carlos Marcello on all charges and allowed him to stay in America.

ME:
Jesus.

STONE:
Do you know who was sitting at the defendant’s table with Carlos and his lawyer? Guy Banister. I’ve got the pictures to prove it.

ME:
Where was David Ferrie?

KAISER:
About to leave for Houston, which was five hours from New Orleans, in the middle of a heavy thunderstorm. Supposedly to go ice skating.

ME:
I remember that from the movie.

STONE:
He went to a skating rink but didn’t skate at all. He spent the whole time on a pay phone. Calls untraceable. He died in New Orleans four years later, within days of Jim Garrison’s JFK investigation being made public. He may have died of a berry aneurysm, but we can’t rule out murder. In any case, although he told Garrison there was a conspiracy, there’s no question why he would have remained silent about the details while pushing the DA toward the CIA. No one alive knew better than David Ferrie that the price of betraying Marcello was death.

Here I said nothing. What could I say?

STONE:
The last tragic act on November twenty-second was that Robert Kennedy canceled the afternoon session of his anti-crime unit, and it never met again. Once JFK’s funeral was over, J. Edgar Hoover never spoke to Bobby again in his capacity as attorney general. Not once. Robert Kennedy might as well have been a janitor at the Justice Department. His anti-mob crusade went nowhere. He’d lost all his fire, and he had no backing from the Bureau.

KAISER:
Carlos’s strategy had proved sound. He’d cut the head off the dog, and the tail was dead forever after. At least until Bobby announced for president in 1968.

STONE:
Without that second Carcano being found—which meant no link between Dealey Plaza, Eladio Cruz, and Castro—the picture that emerged of Oswald became the lone-nut theory. If that rifle had been found—a direct link to a Cuban agent—I think LBJ would have invaded Cuba within sixty days.

ME:
You’re saying we might owe Frank Knox for saving us from nuclear war?

STONE:
We just might.

I click off the recorder to avoid the final exchange. Dwight asked me once more to press my mother to reveal any line of communication she might have with Dad. If she denied it, he said, would I consider allowing either him or Kaiser to question her? I gave him a flat no, and he did his best to hide his disappointment. As I walk back to Annie’s room, Kaiser’s final words play in my mind. I had dropped Stone’s feverish hand and started for the door, and Kaiser said, “What about tomorrow? The Double Eagles coming in for questioning. What are you going to do?”

I stopped at the mouth of the little passage that led to the door, turned back, and said in a low voice: “I’m going to pin those bastards to the wall and squeeze their balls until they beg for mercy. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

Kaiser’s face darkened, but before he could say a word, I walked to the door and made my exit. I no longer cared what he had to say, and as for Stone . . . there’s no good way to say farewell to a dying friend.

As I leave the bathroom to return to Annie’s room, my mother calls my name from the landing halfway down the stairs. She stares up at me, her eyes freighted with deep concern.
Could she have heard any of that tape?
I wonder.

“What is it, Mom? Are you okay?”

“Why did you ask me about our old Fairlane? Is it something to do with Carlos Marcello?”

“I honestly don’t know. The thing that confuses me about Marcello is that you told me Dad treated him in the Orleans Parish Prison back in 1959, but as far as I can find out, Marcello didn’t serve a day in jail while you and Dad lived in New Orleans.”

Her eyes narrow, and she rubs her hand over her mouth, but even before she speaks I know my mother is not trying to deceive me. I’ve seen that look ten thousand times. She’s simply thinking back, trying to be sure of her memory.

“I guess I could have been mistaken,” she says finally. “But I don’t think so. Tom told me
some
story about treating Marcello at the jail,
because when we saw him later on at those restaurants, Tom said that was the only reason ‘Uncle Carlos’ knew who he was.”

“It’s okay, Mom. Don’t keep worrying about it.”

The concern carved into her features tells me how little chance there is that she’ll follow my advice.

“Is Annie all right?” she asks.

“She’s doing good. We’re watching a movie.”

“You spend all the time with her you can. I think she’s more upset than she’s letting on.”

Aren’t we all?

“I will. You try to get some sleep. I’ll wake you up if I have to go out again.”

“Is there any chance of that?”

“I hope not. But if I have to, I’ll wake you. I promise.”

Mom nods, but her eyes are still troubled. “We needed that car, Penn,” she says softly. “But there was nothing improper about it. I’d tell you if there was.”

“I know you would.”
If you knew about it
. “Don’t sit up thinking about it. I know how you are.”

She sighs heavily, then turns and walks back toward the kitchen.

“Dad?” Annie calls from the top of the stairs.

DESPITE TOM’S EDICT
that they not watch any medical show, he and Melba were on their second episode of
House, M.D
.
,
a program that his granddaughter had always begged him to watch. While some of the social situations were outrageous, Tom had to admit that the medical dilemmas were real enough, and Hugh Laurie’s sarcastic disdain for bureaucratic meddling was something every doctor in the world could relate to.

About twenty minutes ago, during a commercial break, Melba had thought she’d heard a helicopter in the distance. Tom had been unable to hear it, but that was no surprise, given his progressive hearing loss, and she’d heard nothing since. He told her it was probably nothing to worry about. Statistically, Mississippi had some of the worst drivers in the nation, so LifeFlight helicopters were common at all hours, even over rural counties.

Tom had thought Melba felt reassured, but five minutes ago she’d left him on the sofa and begun her long circuit of the ground-floor windows again. Waiting alone was starting to bother Tom. He wanted to switch on his old burn phone and check to see if Walt had sent any additional messages. The cell phone was in his hand when he heard a strange, muted
phtt
sound from the garage side of the huge house.

“Mel?” he called.

She didn’t answer.

“Melba!”

Nothing.

With his heartbeat picking up, Tom switched on the new burn phone and waited for the device to find a tower. As soon as it did, a single text message came through, and popped up on the tiny screen.

Almost sure trouble’s headed your way. SWAT team deploying. Get out ASAP. Sorry I’m late. Phone jamming here. Listen for chopper on your way out. Good luck. Text me when safe. Walt.

“Listen for chopper,” Tom whispered, and then his heart hammered in his chest. The hard-pumping blood made his shoulder scream with pain, but two seconds later he was on his feet with his .357 in his hand. He wanted to call out to Melba, but she hadn’t answered the first time, and if there were men in the house, his shout would only bring them to him.

As quickly as he could, Tom moved toward the darkest part of the living room, a short pass-through that led to the hall that ran half the length of the great house. His only hope was to find Melba and get outside into the dark, then into the nearby forest. A SWAT team would have night-vision devices, but the dense trees might be enough of a shield to conceal two fleeing figures.

As Tom reached the spot where the pass-through made a T with the main hall, a man wearing a black mask and body armor appeared in profile less than a foot away from him. Knowing the head would turn toward him at any moment, Tom jammed the .357 under the man’s chin and said quietly: “I’ll pull the trigger if you do anything but drop your gun.”

He meant it, for surrender would mean not only his death, but Melba’s also. Tom jabbed the barrel of his pistol hard under the mandible of the SWAT officer and kept pressing until he heard the thud of metal hitting carpet.

“Now what?” the man croaked, his eyes obscured by his insectile face mask. “You’ve got no play, Doc.”

“Where’s my nurse?”

“Who?”

Tom didn’t like being exposed in the hall. He was about to drag the guy back into the pass-through when a voice with an accent he recognized from medical school in New Orleans shouted from the kitchen at the right end of the corridor.

“Let him go, Doc! Nuttin’ to be gained by killin’ nobody.”

Tom looked up the hall at the man who’d yelled at him. He, too, wore a mask and body armor and carried a short submachine gun in his hands. His accent was pure New Orleans—Brooklyn sautéed in crawfish.

“Then why’d you bring all the guns?” Tom asked.

“We didn’t know what we’d find here.”

Tom felt panic kicking like a crazed animal in his chest. Having lived through last night, he didn’t fancy dying here, and he couldn’t live with Melba’s death on his account.

“Where’s my nurse?” he shouted. “Bring her out here where I can see her!”

As he stared down the hall, waiting, the man raised his right hand as though trying to calm him down. While Tom’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized there was another man standing behind the first, and he held a large bulbous rifle in his hands.
A sniper rifle
.

“Who’s your senior officer?” Tom called.

“I am,” said the man with his arm up.

The animal in Tom’s chest was kicking harder. With every passing second he became more certain that he had no way out of this situation—not alive, anyway. He heard a sliding sound from down the hall behind him. He turned, careful to keep his gun at the masked man’s head, and saw Melba Price lying motionless on her side while a SWAT trooper dragged her across the carpet.
They were trying to hide her body from him!

“You sons of bitches!” he yelled, nearly pulling the trigger on the man under his power. “You killed her!”

“No!” shouted the commander. “She’s not dead. We just darted her.”

“Bullshit!” Tom screamed.

“I swear to God, Doc! We’re just here to pick you up, to deliver you to Colonel Knox—alive. He wants to talk to you.”

“That’s a lie! That wasn’t the deal. The deal was that if he wanted to talk to me, he’d call off the APB first. I saw the news twenty minutes ago, and they’re still running an alert!”

“I don’t know anything about that,” the commander shouted, his hand still in the air. “But you’ve got to see there’s no point shooting anybody. Just put down your gun and go take the woman’s pulse.”

“Sure,” Tom said, almost unable to think. “And this bastard breaks my neck on the way down the hall.”

“Take him with you. Keep your gun on him.”

“Why are you holding your arm in the air?” Tom asked, sensing something wrong. “Is that some kind of signal?”

When the man didn’t answer, Tom turned to try to gauge his chances of dragging his hostage down the hall to check Melba’s pulse.

He’d never make it.

The sight of her prone body brought tears to his eyes. “Bring her to me!” he yelled. “Tell your man to drag her down here, or I pull the trigger. I’ve got nothing to lose. I’m going to die anyway.”

His hostage shouted, “He won’t kill me, Major. Take him!”

Tom moved the gun two inches to the right and fired a round into the ceiling. His hostage screamed and recoiled, but before he could break away Tom stabbed the gun barrel into his neck again.

“Next one goes into your brain,” Tom said, his whole arm alive with energy.

“Don’t move, Sergeant,” called the commander. “I know that tone well. Doc, you take it easy. I’m going to take off my helmet so you can see my eyes.”

Tom heard the sliding sound behind him again. When he turned, he saw the trooper at the other end of the hall dragging Melba out of sight. A wild emotion he’d never experienced surged through him.

“Stand down!” shouted the commander. “Let that woman lie!”

Grief and fury had taken possession of Tom. Whirling back toward the commander, he felt his gun hand tense to pull the trigger. But even as he did, the commander dropped his right hand, and a flash blanked out Tom’s dilated eyes. Pain exploded in his right shoulder, and his gun arm went limp as boots pounded toward him. His hostage twisted the .357 from his hand, then propped him up before he could fall.

“
Target taken!
” shouted the commander. “
Air one, exfil at the front crescent
.”

Tom blinked again and again, his thoughts scrambled into chaos.

“Get everything he had!” someone yelled. “Clothes, drugs, phones—everything.”

“What about the nurse’s car?”

“Leave it.”

In the confusion of Tom’s mind, one clear image rose: Melba lying motionless while men leaped over her as though she were no longer worthy of notice. Pain radiated through him like arcs of fire, and when he looked down, he saw a single bright bloom of blood on what had been his good shoulder. Someone jammed two fingers under his jaw to feel his carotid, but by then his last reserve of strength had given out, and everything went black.