The Devils Punchbowl

“Well, Kate,” he says, his eyes glinting as he looks at Caitlin. “It’s sure been dull without you around.”

“No more boredom,” she says with a smile. “I guarantee that, at the very least. Have you heard from Peggy and Annie?”

Dad shakes his head. “We’re talking as little as possible. And only on the satellite phone.”

“I have it with me,” I say. “We can get an update after this meeting.”

“Good. I have a surprise for you, Son.”

“What’s that?”

“Walt’s here.”

“Garrity?”

“Right.”

“What do you mean ‘here?’ In Natchez? Or

here

here?”

“He’s in the shed now, talking to Kelly.”

For the first time, I feel a rush of real optimism.

“The sly son of a bitch just appeared in my house,” Dad says. “Almost gave me a coronary. I have James Ervin watching me, and he had no idea Walt was even there.”

James Ervin is a black cop my dad used to treat. “That'’s not encouraging.”

“Walt’s pretty slick,” Dad says.

“Who’s Walt Garrity?” Caitlin asks.

“A Texas Ranger,” Dad explains. “Met him in Korea, when we were still boys. He’s semiretired, but I guess once you learn to sneak past Indians and Mexicans, retired city cops aren'’t much of a challenge. This will be the only night we see him. He wants to work totally apart from everyone else.”

As well as I got to know Walt in Houston, there are many things

I don'’t know about him. For example, I know that my father saved Walt’s life during the Korean War, and that Walt later returned the favor, but I don'’t know the circumstances of either episode. Both men belong to a generation that doesn’'t talk about certain things without a compelling reason.

“I'm sure Walt knows best,” I say. “We’ll talk about your security later.”

Dad ignores this and motions for Caitlin to continue up the road. She gives his hand a squeeze, then begins driving us deeper into the forest.

We’re meeting in a sixty-by-forty-foot shed of galvanized aluminum, the kind you see along highways all over the South. My father leads Caitlin and me past a ski boat on a trailer, a 1970s-vintage Corvette with a hole in its fiberglass, an orange Kubota tractor, a zero-turn lawn mower, and various other power machinery used for grounds maintenance. Near the far end of the building, sitting in folding lawn chairs beneath two camouflage-painted deer stands, are Danny McDavitt, Carl Sims, Walt Garrity, and Daniel Kelly. At first glance, they look incongruous, like an illustration of different American types: an astronaut, an NFL cornerback, a cowboy, and a surfer with a blond ponytail. I'm surprised to see Carl Sims here, but before I can ask about his descent into the Devil’s Punchbowl, Walt Garrity drawls, “Look what the cat drug in.”

Rising from his lawn chair, Walt catches sight of Caitlin and quickly doffs his Stetson. “Ma’am. I didn't realize we’d be having female company.”

Kelly rises to give Caitlin a hug. They met seven years ago, when we were drawn together by the Delano Payton case. “What do we have here, Penn?” Kelly asks. “The Seven Samurai?”

Carl Sims smiles from his chair. “Kind of looks like it, if you count the lady.”

“Oh, she pulls her weight,” Kelly says.

Gratitude shines in Caitlin’s eyes as she shakes hands with Carl and Danny.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. “Leaderless soldiers gathered to save a village.”

“Well, I'm impressed,” Caitlin says. “An air force pilot, a marine sniper, a Texas Ranger, a Delta Force commando, and a doctor.”

“You left out lawyer and reporter,” McDavitt points out.

“Superfluous on any important mission, I'm sure,” she quips, getting a chuckle all around and putting everyone at ease.

“Not these days,” Kelly says. “Even the army needs a legal department and a propaganda machine.”

He unfolds three more chairs, and we sit in a tight circle, surrounded by chain saws and Weed Eaters and the oily smell of two-stroke engines. I look across the circle to Carl.

“So, you made it out of the Punchbowl?”

The sniper grins and shakes his head like a man who’s spent a week crossing a desert. “Took a while, but I finally did.”

Danny McDavitt says, “I would have called and told you, but I figured you needed the sleep.”

“Thank you,” says Caitlin. “He did.”

“Did you find anything down there?” I ask.

“Not a damn thing. Not in the car or around it. I grid-searched on my hands and knees. If there was anything down there, somebody else already got it.”

“Do you think the car burned when it crashed, or somebody torched it and dumped it there?”

“Somebody torched it, but I don'’t think they did it until yesterday. I think somebody else made the same climb I did, either to find something or to be sure they destroyed something.”

As I recall the USB drive Tim concealed in his own body, Dad says, “So, where do we start? Is everybody on the same page, or whatever they say these days?”

Walt leans back and speaks from beneath the brim of his hat. His voice has been roughened by years of cigarette smoke, and the clear eyes in the weathered face give him a natural authority that the others seem ready to defer to, at least for now.

“Mr. Kelly was just telling me some things his company has learned in the past few hours. Reckon he ought to start us off.”

“Everybody good with that?” Kelly asks.

The group nods as one.

“As most of you know, I work for Blackhawk Risk Manage

ment. We have a research department, and they’ve been checking out Jonathan Sands. In some ways, our research people aren'’t much different from those at any other corporation. They use Google, Nexis, et cetera. But Blackhawk also employs former counterterror operators from the U.S., Britain, Israel, Germany, South Africa—basically every major military power. We also employ former government lawyers and retired line officers. So our informal network of sources is pretty good. The initial bio I got back is detailed, but it only goes back to February 1989, when Sands left the UK. Northern Ireland, to be exact. This was just after some of the worst fighting in the so-called Troubles over there. The Brits are stonewalling on exactly what Sands did before ’89, so we’ll have to be content with what we have for now.”

“Why would they hold back?” I ask.

Kelly shrugs. “We don'’t know that yet. But he has an amazing story, and I’'ve heard a few. When Sands left Northern Ireland—one step ahead of somebody, is my guess—he worked as a mercenary for almost a decade, then settled in Macao. He started in the security department of a casino owned by Edward Po. Po is a legend, a whole separate story, so let’s forget him for now. Suffice to say he’s a sixty-eight-year-old Chinese billionaire, utterly ruthless and notoriously kinky. The important thing is that Sands arrived just before Macao was returned to Chinese sovereignty. It was about to expand from a serious-gamblers-only city to a Vegas-style destination, and Sands proved a valuable asset to Po. He was white, he could pass for English, and he had the kind of skill set that rough boys develop in Northern Ireland, plus what he’d learned in the interim. That doesn’'t explain his meteoric rise within Po’s organization, though. He was promoted very quickly, and within three years he was often seen with Po at various public functions in China. And not as a security officer, but a corporate officer. Sands even seemed to overtake Po’s son, whose name is Chao.”

“What explains that?” asks my father.