The Devils Punchbowl

“Thanks,” Kelly says. “I’'ve heard of that before, but I’'ve never seen a dog it’s been done to.”

“I have,” I say softly. “Jonathan Sands has one.”

Everyone turns to me.

“It’s white, and it’s

big.

I think the breed is called a Bully Kutta.”

I’'ve rarely seen astonishment on Kelly’s face, but I see it now. “That'’s a Pakistani breed,” he says. “A war dog. It’s related to the Bully Ker. I’'ve seen those fight in Kabul. The tribesmen fight them against

bears.

Two dogs against a bear, and the dogs always win.”

“Who the hell are these people?” Dad asks.

Kelly pats my father on the shoulder. “I don'’t think we’ll know that until we find out how Jonathan Sands spent the first part of his life.”

“Are we going to find out?”

Kelly nods. “The British government can stonewall Blackhawk all

they want, but I’'ve got personal friends in the SAS, vets who served in Northern Ireland. We’ll have the story before long.”

“By tonight?” Caitlin asks.

“Maybe. In any case, I think we should get out of here. It’s going to be a long day, and an even longer night. Everybody know what their job is?”

After everyone nods, Kelly reaches into his gear bag and brings out two more walkie-talkies. One he gives to Danny McDavitt, the other to my father. Then he looks at Caitlin and me.

“You two are together for the duration, right?”

She nods, and I see color in her cheeks.

“Glad to see it,” Kelly says with a smile.

“I am too,” says my father. “Too bad it takes a goddamn crisis to bring them together.”

“Dr. Cage,” Kelly says, “I’d appreciate it if you’d scope out some safe houses for us, on both sides of the river. Think you can do that?”

“This time of year, I'm sure I can. Both of my partners’ lake houses are empty.”

“Hey,” I say, pointing at Kelly. “Caitlin and I are together until tonight. Then I'm with

you.

”

CHAPTER

28

If it were any other year, this would be my favorite day of the Balloon Festivaclass="underline" the “barge drop” event as seen from the Ramada Inn above the Mississippi River Bridge. The flashy trappings of the festival stand a mile away at Fort Rosalie. Here there is no grand stage, no headline act or spotlights, no carnival rides. But the Natchez Ramada Inn, a monument to bourgeois America, commands one of the most breathtaking views of the Mississippi River on the continent. Soon it will be leveled to make way for yet another casino hotel, but for locals it remains the beating heart of the Balloon Festival. A strong pilot presence gives it the buzz of a military command center from Friday until Sunday evening. You can smell the pork ribs being barbecued by the swimming pool even before you get out of your car. Every room with a river view has been rented for a year in advance, many by local organizations who use the event as an excuse for three days of uninterrupted partying.

The object of the “barge drop” is for a balloon crew to drop a beanbag onto a white cross marked on the deck of a barge holding position in the Mississippi River. Many end up landing—sometimes crash-landing—on the grounds of the hotel itself, or in the neutral ground at the foot of the massive hill the hotel stands on. But the true center of the festivities is the long hill that falls precipitously

from the hotel pool toward Highway 84 and the river. Here hundreds of families gather on blankets and lawn chairs to watch their children slide hell-for-leather down the slope on flattened cardboard boxes, toward a concrete drainage ditch. Each sally is potentially life-threatening, and beyond the concrete lies a much longer slope covered with a thick mat of kudzu. I’'ve seen fathers in their forties make twenty or thirty trips up that hill dragging a scarred Maytag box behind them, with a toddler or two still clinging to it like princes on a magic carpet. It’s a miracle the hotel’s owners allow this ritual in our hyperlitigious age. That a dozen lawsuits don'’t arise from this activity every year says more about the crowd than anything else. They’re the kind of parents who, if their son broke his arm, would tell him it was his own damn fault for not stopping short of the concrete and to suck it up until they could get Dr. Cage away from his bourbon long enough to splint the bone.

I spent my first thirty minutes anxiously searching the crowd for Daniel Kelly or signs of people following me. Several times I felt someone

was

watching me, but whenever I turned, I saw nothing suspicious. Ten minutes ago, I presented the citizenship award to Paul Labry, who had no idea he had been voted the honor. I actually saw tears in Labry’s eyes as he accepted the brass plaque, but my mind was only half on the presentation, because five minutes before my speech, my father had called on Kelly’s Star Trek and told me that Jewel Washington, the coroner, was at the Ramada and had something important to give me. I spotted Jewel right after the speech, serving barbecue under a tent, but she gave no sign of recognizing me, so I decided to stick around until she felt an approach was safe.

Caitlin is roaming the crowd, just in case Jewel sees her as an obstacle to our communication. She has my backpack slung over her shoulder, and in it the satellite phone and my gun. We’'ve done a good job playing the role of reconciled lovers; I only hope Libby Jensen’s not here today. Normally, Libby would be able to handle the situation, but with her son in jail, she might make a scene.

“Mr. Mayor?” someone says nervously from behind me.

Turning, I look into the cornflower blue eyes of a girl of about twenty. She’s mousy-haired and round-faced but pretty in her way, a hillbilly girl who will soon lose her looks along with the blush of youth. She’s either tall or wearing very high heels, because I'm look

ing almost straight into her eyes. My first coherent thought is that someone should teach her how to apply eye makeup, because she could take off half of what she’s wearing and look twice as good.

“Hello,” I say. “Are you enjoying the festival?”

The girl smiles, but her eyes are filled with confusion, or even fear. Something about her seems familiar. Before I can figure out what, she shoves something into my front pants pocket. The contact startles me, but the crowd around us is intent on two balloons that are flying too close together as they sweep in off the river.

“Don’t read that until you’re by yourself,” the girl says. “It’s superimportant.”

“Are you—”

“I gotta go,” she says, then turns and moves into the crowd. I see her leather jacket for a couple of seconds, then only a blur of bodies.

“Who was that?” Caitlin asks, suddenly appearing at my side. She’s staring after the girl, but I can no longer distinguish her from the other people swirling between us and the hotel swimming pool.

“I don'’t know.”

“What was she saying?”

“She stuffed something into my pocket. I think it’s a note. She said to read it in private. Jewel must have sent her over. Somebody must be watching Jewel.”

“Or you.”

“Yeah.”

Caitlin takes my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

I look around the grounds of the hotel. Unless you have a room, there’s no privacy to be had. “We shouldn’t leave until we’re sure I have whatever Jewel needs to give me.”

“Have some barbecue, Mr. Mayor!”

Jewel Washington’s sweating brown face appears before me so suddenly that I can’t quite tell where she came from. She shoves a Chinet plate piled high with tangy-smelling pork into my hands. Before letting go of it, she pinches the back of my hand, then adjusts the plate so that I feel something hard taped to the bottom it. It’s small and rectangular and feels plastic.