Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg IlesЧитать онлайн книгу.
plant like that in a trouble spot.
“So.” Johnson lays his hands on the podium. “What am I asking you to do? Only the same thing Jesus asked. It’s the hardest thing in the world, brothers and sisters. Especially for you younger men. I want you to turn the other cheek. Keep cool. Because if you do, the meek are going to start inheriting a little of this Mississippi earth.”
Shad turns slowly, giving every person in the room a chance to look him in the eye, then stops, facing me. “And I’m asking Penn Cage, right here and now, to withdraw his charges against Judge Leo Marston.”
A low murmur moves through the congregation. Even Reverend Nightingale looks caught by surprise.
“After the election,” Shad goes on, “there’ll be plenty of time to probe the death of Del Payton. And with me running the city, you can rest assured that will happen. But further pressure on Marston at this point could keep Riley Warren in the mayor’s office for another four years. And we simply cannot afford that.”
Shad is staring at me as though he expects me to rise and answer him, here, at the funeral of a woman I loved like a second mother. Every eye in the church is upon me. As though pulled by the collective will of the congregation, I start to stand, but my mother’s hand flattens on my thigh, pushing me back onto the bench. At that moment Althea Payton rises from the first pew and looks around the church. She speaks softly, but in the silent room every word rings with conviction.
“Thirty years ago my husband was taken from me. Murdered. For thirty years I’ve waited for justice. And no man alive has lifted a finger to help me get it, without I paid him money. Last week I went to Mr. Penn Cage and asked him to help me. And he did.”
Althea raises her eyes to the pulpit, from which Shad stares like an attorney facing a dangerously unpredictable witness, and points at him. “That man there wants to be our mayor. He’s come down from Chicago special to do it. And he might be a good one. He sure talks a good game. But I know this. He never came to my house and offered to help me find out who killed my man. And to stand up here like this … to use this poor lady’s funeral to tell a good man to stop trying to do good so he can get elected … well, it don’t sit right with me.”
“Mrs. Payton, I think you’ve misunderstood my motives,” Shad says in an unctuous voice.
“I understand more than you think,” Althea replies. “Get me elected, you say. Then I’ll do good. But like the man said a long time ago, ‘If not now, when?’”
“Tell him!” comes a shout from the back pews.
“Yes, Lord!” from the choir stand. “If not now, when?”
Shad is about to respond when Reverend Nightingale eases him away from the pulpit with a forced smile. Althea retakes her pew as the reverend smooths his jacket and says, “I thank Brother Johnson for that thoughtful comment. We sure have a lot to think about these days. Now, the service is almost over, but I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t give our white friends a chance to speak today.”
This is unexpected, but in the silence that follows, my mother stands and turns to the congregation. Her voice is softer than Althea’s, but it too carries in the church.
“Ruby worked for our family for thirty-five years,” she says. “We considered her part of our family, and we always will.”
And she sits down.
The expression on Shad Johnson’s face makes it clear that he views this statement as white paternalism at its worst, but the faces in the pews say something different.
Reverend Nightingale closes the funeral with a prayer, then directs the choir to sing “Amazing Grace.”
The pallbearers carry Ruby’s casket down the aisle and out the front door, preceded by the deacons, who act as an informal security force, hustling reporters away from the door with the help of Daniel Kelly and the Argus men. The congregation waits for our family to depart, then follows us out, and soon we are all gathered in the small graveyard beside the church while five camera crews film steadily from the perimeter of the crowd.
Ruby’s coffin lies above the freshly turned earth, on straps that will lower her into the ground when the graveside service is done. As Reverend Nightingale begins his prayer, a horn honks loudly from Kingston Road, blaring again and again but thankfully dropping in pitch as the vehicle goes on down the road. While a cameraman runs off to try to get a shot of the heckler, Reverend Nightingale increases his volume and pushes right through the twenty-third psalm. When he finishes, he turns to the gathered mourners.
“The family will remain seated. The members will please turn away from the body.”
Though unfamiliar with this custom, I obey. From the air, this would look strange indeed, two hundred people gathered in a circle around a hole in the ground, facing away from it. I’m not sure of the significance of this ritual, but turning away from death is sometimes the best thing we can do. Reverend Nightingale recites another brief prayer, including the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and the congregation walks away from the grave as one.
A half dozen younger black men remain behind, beside a loose stack of shovels, and I remain with them. After Ruby’s children drop flowers into the grave, they start toward their cars with their own children. I shake hands with them as they pass, and express my condolences. I sense different reactions in each, but all are courteous.
When Ruby’s casket reaches the bottom of the grave, I pick up one of the shovels, and spade it into the soft pile of earth. Dad starts to join me, but I touch his chest, reminding him of his heart trouble, and he rejoins my mother and Annie at the edge of the little cemetery.
I feel like it should be raining, but the sun is hot on the back of my suit jacket. As we shovel the diminishing pile of dirt over the gleaming casket, I think of the white funerals I have attended, how everyone walks away at the end of the graveside service, leaving the coffin to be covered by a backhoe or by a couple of unknown gravediggers. This way is better. We should be covered into the earth by people who loved us.
After the grave is full and tamped down, and the camera crews have shot all the footage they want, only a few people remain on the hill. My parents stand with Annie and Reverend Nightingale beside the BMW, which someone has brought from wherever it was parked. Kelly and his associates drift around the edge of the hill, looking for possible threats. Caitlin and the photographer sit on the church steps, fiddling with a camera as Ike Ransom watches.
After Reverend Nightingale toddles off toward his baby blue Cadillac, Ike beckons me to the side of the church, out of earshot of Caitlin and the photographer. I walk over and speak to my parents, then join Ike.
“What you got?” he growls, stepping around me so that I can see no one but him. The blood vessels in his eyes form a red network around the dark irises, and the smell of cheap whiskey blows past me with his every word. “You got enough to nail Marston on Wednesday?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Working? The trial’s three days from now!”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“So, tell me what you got.”
I quickly summarize my case, from Frank Jones to Betty Lou Beckham and everyone in between.
“Will that bitch testify in open court?” Ike asks, loudly enough to be heard across the hill. “Betty Lou?”
“I don’t know. She’s scared of Presley, and her husband doesn’t want her to testify. I’ve got my father working on her.”
“What about tying Presley to Marston?”
“I’ve got something working,” I say grudgingly, thinking of Peter Lutjens, who at this moment may be risking prison to get a copy of Stone’s original FBI report.
Ike grabs my wrist, his grip like a claw. “What you talking about?”
I jerk my hand free. “I’ll