The Devils Punchbowl

with me?”

“Because they'’re still vulnerable,” Kelly says. “They don'’t have all

the variables locked down. The USB drive copy may still be out there. And now we find out this Ben Li kid may have kept some kind of insurance. Sands means to keep you on the hook for that stuff too. That'’s what he’s saying with this.”

“Surely if they found the DVD, they found the other stuff long ago. They’ve known about Ben Li from the beginning.”

“I doubt they hired the kid because he was stupid.”

The screen saver has started on the Mac’s display; pastoral scenes of the four seasons fade in and out, providing jarring visual counterpoint to what we just heard.

“What do we do now?” Caitlin asks.

“I'm tempted to call Sands,” I say. “Tell him that as far as I'm concerned, everything is settled. He’s got his DVD, and I'm going back to normal life.”

Kelly shakes his head. “That won'’t accomplish anything. Not unless you’re really backing off. Is that what you’re doing?”

Caitlin looks at me expectantly.

“You mean tonight?” I ask. “The kayaks? The photo op?”

Kelly nods. “They probably feel more secure right now than they have since the night Jessup died.”

I close my eyes, trying to see the larger picture.

“Look at it this way,” Kelly says. “Do you feel good about bringing Annie back to town as things stand?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“How did Sands find that DVD?” I ask. “Even if he somehow heard Tim’s message—if Shad Johnson played it for him—he couldn'’t have understood Tim’s clues.”

“Who knows?” says Kelly. “Metal detector, maybe. He’s probably had flunkies searching that cemetery ever since Jessup died. Don’t worry about it.”

An insistent buzzing starts in the room.

“Is that your cell phone?” Caitlin asks Kelly.

Kelly reaches into his pocket and silences the phone. “There’s only one way to get these guys out of your life. Send them to prison or kill them. We can put an end to this thing tonight. Three good photos and you'’ve got them on felony charges. Then you can take backbearings and fill in the missing pieces. Linda Church. The USB

drive. Ben Li. The freaking ‘bird’ thing, whatever that is. What do you say, boss?”

“I'’ll get the boats. Are Danny and Carl on line for it?”

“What do you think?” Kelly smiles at Caitlin. “Why don'’t you make a few copies of Linda’s note? It wouldn'’t hurt to dub Tim’s voice memo either, and make some backups of the last part of that DVD.”

She nods excitedly, glad for something to do.

Kelly looks at me. “Are you going to share any of this with Chief Logan?”

I don'’t answer immediately, but I know what my gut is telling me. “I don'’t think we can risk anyone finding out that Linda Church is alive.”

Kelly nods in agreement. “Logan didn't tell you about the voice memo, did he? Even though it was meant for you.”

This hadn'’t struck me until now. “I wonder if he knows about it. Maybe Shad Johnson took the phone the night of the murder, and Logan never saw anything but the texts. When I asked him at the station if he had the phone, he wouldn'’t tell me.”

“So we’re definitely not showing the DA anything?”

I actually laugh at the absurdity of this idea, then sit back on the chair, suddenly drained by the release of tension. When Kelly takes out his phone to check his message, it’s instantly obvious that something is wrong. Before I can ask him what, he hands me the phone. There’s a text message on the screen, short and to the point:

Cease all inquiry re Jonathan Sands immediately. Conflict of interest. The assets will be protected, but you’re to stand down in Mississippi soonest. TOC Kabul 48 hours. Burton. PS Don’t push this.

“Daniel?” I say, handing the phone to Caitlin. “Are Annie and my mother the ‘assets’?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, no,” Caitlin says. “This is crazy.”

“Are they truly safe, Kelly?”

“Absolutely. I’'ve checked on them twice today.”

“It looks like things are changing fast.”

Kelly squats beside me, his eyes intense. “Personal protection is what Blackhawk was founded on. They’ve never lost a client, and they can’t afford to now. Especially people related to someone who can make as much noise as you can.”

“I don'’t feel reassured.”

“Me either,” says Caitlin.

Kelly squeezes my shoulder. “I know the guys guarding them, Penn. Both shifts. Even if someone at the company gave out information, these guys would take out anybody who made a move.”

“What if Blackhawk people showed up at the door?”

Kelly licks his lips, then seems to take a silent decision. “Look, they'’re not even where the company thinks they are, okay? Not anymore. As soon as I got the call about that bounceback on the Sands query, I told the guys to move them.”

My heart begins to race. “So you

are

worried.”

“No. I just don'’t take chances. Annie’s fine, man. I told you how to make her truly safe. Stick to the plan. When you get this deep in, only one thing can get you out. Leverage.”

“You made that plan before you got the text message.”

“The message changes nothing.”

“

What?

You’re ready to lose your job over this?”

Kelly’s blue eyes are as steady as a man’s can be. “I took that risk the minute I moved Annie and your mother. I don'’t know who’s protecting Jonathan Sands, but I know this: They’re on the wrong fucking side.”

CHAPTER

31

The river is black glass tonight, and I'm thankful for it. It’s been three months since I’'ve been on water in anything but a ski boat, and then only on a lake. We put in our kayaks a half mile above the city, on the Louisiana side of the river. The western shore is dark except for the digital depth markers the push boat pilots use to find the main channel. The sky to the south glows from the ambient light of Natchez. The air over the water is chilly and calm, but high above us black clouds are scudding across the face of the moon.

Kelly paddles beside me with smooth assurance, like a wingman flying escort. He learned his moves when his Delta team did an exchange program with Britain’s Special Boat Squadron; their commandos taught him the mysteries of handling small craft of all types. Our kayaks are Seda gliders, nineteen-foot touring boats with razor bows that move through the water like Kevlar arrows. With a seasoned paddler in the cockpit, they can do twelve miles an hour going downstream. The steamboats of the 1870s moved only slightly faster than this. I'm a recreational paddler, but I’'ve mastered the art of powering the boat with my torso and hips, using the rudder pedals as braces for my long touring stroke. Kelly uses a power stroke, keeping his offset blades close to the kayak throughout his movement.

We can easily talk as we paddle, as long as he stays within ten or

fifteen feet of me, which he has made a point of doing. Kayaks are inherently unstable, and push boats can throw up four-foot waves in their wake as they drive their barges up and down the river. I can almost feel Kelly tensing to perform a rescue every time our boats hit a boil in the otherwise smooth river.

We almost scrubbed tonight’s mission five minutes before we put the kayaks in the river. That was when I confessed to Kelly that I’d contacted my closest friend in the FBI about Jonathan Sands. I probably wouldn'’t have risked it if it weren’t a Sunday, but I knew Peter Lutjens would be home with his family, and not in the Puzzle Palace—FBI headquarters—where he works in the IT department of the National Security Division. The result wasn'’t what I’d hoped for. In less than two hours, Lutjens called back and told me that no information could be given out about Sands under any circumstances, and I should be very careful whom I questioned about him.