he adds for my benefit. “It’s fear that drives all this nonsense. If we can get through this first night, we might just make it okay.”
The sheriff’s phone starts ringing, and he leans forward to shake our hands. “You boys try not to shoot anybody else, okay?”
Ike leads us out to the front steps of the building, where he takes a pack of Kool Menthols from the pocket of his uniform. He offers Kelly one, but Kelly declines. As Ike holds his lighter flame to the tip of his cigarette, his hand trembles, and Kelly shoots me a quick glance.
“You sleep with this boy if you have to,” Ike tells Kelly, exhaling a long stream of smoke. “He’s doing some good, even if he is doing it the hard way.”
Kelly winks at Ike. “No sweat, Sergeant.”
“How’d you know I was a sergeant?”
“It’s like a sign around your neck, brother.”
Ike’s laugh is good to hear, but as we move down the steps toward our cars, Kelly leans toward me and says, “He’s speeding like a racehorse, with bourbon underneath. Something’s eating him. Bad. None of my business, of course.”
I slap him on the shoulder. “You say whatever pops into your head, Kelly.”
“Will do.”
Since my mother’s computer was destroyed in the fire, I planned to draft my answer to Marston’s suit at the offices of the Examiner. They occupy an entire building in an old section of downtown, a long one-story structure with inadequate parking.
Even at this late hour the door is open, and we find Caitlin in the newsroom, sitting before a twenty-one-inch monitor, commanding her staff with a cell phone in one hand and a computer trackball in the other. She’s dressed in jeans and a teal pinpoint button-down, which gives her the look of a college yearbook editor. She waves when she sees me but continues her phone conversation. The newsroom is forty feet long and twenty wide, with a half dozen computer workstations—all in use—and photos of distinguished Natchezians decorating the walls.
“Who’s this?” Caitlin asks, sliding her cell phone into a belt holster as we approach.
“Daniel Kelly. Part of the security from Houston. Kelly, this is Caitlin Masters, fledgling muckraker.”
Caitlin sizes Kelly up as she leads us down a hall, noting his average size and easy demeanor. Falling back beside me, she whispers, “Is he qualified?”
Kelly chuckles softly.
“He just saved my life,” I say in a normal voice. “I’m sold. Have you put tomorrow’s issue to bed?”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “Are you kidding? This town’s about to pop.”
She pushes us into a glass-walled conference room screened with venetian blinds for privacy. “We’re pushing back the deadline as far as we can. Two in the morning if we have to.”
“Can you do that?”
“With computers we can reformat the whole paper and go to plate in thirty minutes. There’s a rumor that the police are close to an arrest in the Whitestone killing. And we must have gotten a dozen calls about people carrying guns in and out of their houses. They’re saying it’s just like it was before the riot in sixty-eight.”
“That wasn’t much of a riot. Everybody was scared to death, but nobody got killed. Just a bunch of broken store windows.”
“Let’s hope that’s all that happens this time.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.”
She gives me an icy look. “You think I want the town to explode so I can sell papers?”
“No.”
She doesn’t look convinced. “Three hours ago a CNN crew yelled a question at John Portman as he was leaving the Hoover Building. He walked over and told them on camera that the Del Payton case involved matters of national security, and that the FBI was looking into the question of whether you or I had violated any laws in our pursuit of the case.”
“The best defense is a good offense, I guess. Anything else I should know?”
“Leo Marston’s attorney gave me a phone interview. He said your charges are ridiculous and they’re going to cost both of us seven figures. I’m running it tomorrow.”
“I expected that.”
Caitlin smiles like a child hiding a cookie. “I also have some good news. My father called back and told me that if I was sticking by my story, there must be something to it. He’s going to help.”
“How?”
“By committing the full resources of the media group to investigating Marston and Portman. He’s already spoken to Senator Harris from Virginia. Tomorrow, Harris is going to the Senate Intelligence Committee to ask for a special resolution authorizing the opening of the Payton file. Failing that, he’ll ask that it be moved from FBI custody to a place where it can’t be tampered with, at least until Director Portman’s involvement in the case can be clarified. If that doesn’t work, he’ll stand up on the Senate floor and ask the same things on C-Span.”
I feel the relief of a man trying to push a car uphill when four strong backs join him in his effort. But the feeling vanishes quickly. “Asking that the file be opened is good. But if he can’t get that, it’s best that the file stay where it is. At least until Sunday.”
For a moment Caitlin looks confused. Then she grabs my wrist. “Lutjens is going to try for the file?”
“Sunday.”
“I’ll tell my dad to call the senator back.”
“It’s nice to have powerful friends.”
Her eyes twinkle with irony. “Isn’t it?”
Kelly laughs. He’s not sure what he’s gotten into, but he’s clearly enjoying it.
“How did Mr. Kelly here save your life?” Caitlin asks.
“He killed two guys who were trying to kill me. One was Arthur Lee Hanratty’s brother.”
“Jesus. Did this happen near the river? We heard some kind of call on the scanner, but it was coded.”
“That was it.”
“Can I print this story?”
“Absolutely. The more public this thing gets, the safer we are.”
“We ought to be very safe, then. I’m getting nonstop calls from the major papers, the networks, everybody.”
There’s a sharp knock at the door, and Caitlin walks into the hall for a hurried conference. When she returns, her face is flushed pink with excitement. “The police just trapped the Whitestone suspects in the Concord Apartments. I’m going over to cover the arrest.”
The Concord Apartments are a low-income housing
