lay beneath this ground, it was now—the consequences be damned.
“Where did you come from?” Buck asked. “I didn’t see anybody when I came down here.”
“Oh, Buck … You always were a good ol’ boy. Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone?”
“Do I know you?” Ferris asked, certain that he’d heard that voice before.
“You don’t seem to.”
“I don’t think you understand the value of what I have here,” Ferris said, his voice edged with excitement.
“You don’t have anything there,” said the voice. “You’re not here.”
Buck got the gist of it then, and something started thrumming in his belly, like stretched-taut wire plucked hard. “Wait, listen,” he tried, “this ground you’re standing on … it’s an Indian settlement that’s four thousand years old. Maybe five or six thousand, depending on what I find if we dig deeper.”
“You hoping for a PBS series?”
“God, no. Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”
“Sure. You found some Injun bones. Thing is, that’s bad news for everybody.”
“No, listen. There’s a site just like this only fifty miles from here, in Louisiana. It’s called Poverty Point. It’s a UNESCO World Heritage site. Thousands of tourists visit it every year.”
“I’ve been there. A couple of mounds of dirt, and the grass needs cutting.”
Buck realized then that this was like trying to tell a hillbilly about Bach. “That’s ridiculous. You—”
“A billion dollars,” the man cut in.
“Beg your pardon?”
“A billion dollars. That’s what you could cost this town.”
Buck tried to focus on the conversation, but the ball in his hand still felt like it was vibrating. Known as a “Poverty Point object,” it had been used by Indians to cook meat under dirt. God only knew what else lay in the loess soil beneath their feet. Pottery, spear points, jewelry, religious artifacts, bones. How could someone not understand what it meant to stand on this ground and know what he knew? How could someone not care?
“This doesn’t have to ruin your deal,” he said. “Situations like this get handled all the time, to the satisfaction of all parties. The Department of Archives and History comes in, assesses the site, and then they move things, if that’s even necessary. To protect them. That’s all.”
“Would they have moved all of Poverty Point to build a paper mill, Buck?”
No, he thought. They wouldn’t.
“A billion dollars,” the man said again. “In Mississippi. That’s like ten billion in the real world. And that doesn’t begin to address what it could cost me personally to lose the mill.”
“Could you take that light out of my eyes?” Buck asked. “Can’t we talk like civilized men?”
“Do it,” said the voice.
“What?” Buck said. “Do what?”
“I always liked your guitar pickin’,” said the man. “You should’ve stuck to that.”
Buck heard something shift on the ground behind him, but he couldn’t turn fast enough to see who was there, or to protect himself. A white afterimage on his retinas filled his eyes, and out of that whiteness came a dense black rectangle.
Brick.
He threw up his hands, but too late. The brick crashed into his skull, scrambling his perception. He felt only pain and the lurching nausea of falling into darkness. His wife’s face flickered in his mind, pale with worry when he’d left her earlier tonight. As he collided with the earth, he thought of Hernando de Soto, who died near the Mississippi in 1542, not far from here. He wondered if these men would bury him beside the river he’d loved so long.
“Hit him again,” said the voice. “Beat his brains out.”
Buck tried to cover his head, but his arms wouldn’t move.
MY NAME IS Marshall McEwan.
I ran away from home when I was eighteen. It wasn’t Mississippi I was running from—it was my father. I swore I would never go back, and for twenty-six years I kept my promise, excepting a few brief visits to see my mother. The road was not an easy one, but I eventually became one of the most successful journalists in Washington, D.C. People say it must be the ink in my blood; my father was a legendary newspaper editor and publisher in the 1960s—the “Conscience of Mississippi,” the New York Times called him—but I didn’t learn my trade from Duncan McEwan. My dad was a legend who became a drunk and, like most drunks, remained one. Still, he haunted me, like a second shadow at my side. So I suppose it was inevitable that his death would be the thing that brought me home.
Oh, he’s not dead yet. His death has been approaching like a lone black ship that makes itself felt by the waves pushed ahead of it, dark waves that disturb a once-keen mind and roll over the protective boundaries of a family. What drives that black ship is what the doctors call comorbid conditions: Parkinson’s disease, heart failure, hypertension, an alcoholic’s liver. I ignored the situation for as long as I could. I’ve watched brilliant colleagues—most ten or fifteen years my senior—struggle to care for ailing parents back in the small towns of the republic, and in every case their careers suffered. By chance or by karma, my career entered a meteoric phase after Trump’s election in 2016. I had no desire to leap from my meteor, land back in Mississippi, and start babysitting the eighty-four-year-old man who had pretended I didn’t exist since I was fourteen years old.
I finally surrendered because my father was so ill that I could no longer help my mother manage him from a thousand miles away. Dad has spent the past three decades sliding ever deeper into anger and depression, making those around him miserable and ruining his health in the process. But since I’m a good Southern boy at heart, the fact that an unbridgeable gulf had existed between him and me for more than thirty years was irrelevant. It’s an unwritten law down here: when your father is dying, you go home and sit the deathwatch with your mother. Besides, our family business—the Bienville Watchman (founded 1865)—was disintegrating under his increasingly erratic stewardship, and since he’d stubbornly refused to sell our dinosaur of a newspaper for the past two decades, I had to keep it a going concern until what remained could be sold for salvage upon his death.
That’s what I told myself, anyway.
In truth my motive was more complicated. We rarely act from logic when facing the critical choices of our lives. I couldn’t recognize my self-deception then. I was still in a state of prolonged shock from a marriage that had endured a tragedy—or more accurately, failed to endure one—then spiraled into
