The Quiet Game. Greg Iles

hurt, maybe killed. There’s no getting around that.”

      I know what it has cost my father to admit this. He may even be right. But that’s not my primary concern at this point. “That’s not how the law would see it. Technically, your only crime was accessory after the fact. And the statute of limitations ran out on that in 1975.”

      “What about the gun?”

      “That’s another story. If Presley will lie to the D.A. and say you asked him to kill Hillman, and that you gave him the gun—and if he still has the gun—that adds up to capital murder. It puts you in line for what I’ve got to witness in two days. Lethal injection.”

      “That’s what I thought.”

      “Why did you decide to tell me this today?”

      “You want to find out who killed Del Payton. I know you do, and you’re right. Maybe you even have an obligation to do it. But the road to Payton’s killers runs right through Ray Presley, because he worked on the case. I knew you’d eventually go see him, and if you did, you’d probably find out about this. He might even hit you up for money. I wanted you to hear the truth from me.”

      “The hell with Del Payton. There’s only one thing to do.”

      “What?”

      “Go to the D.A. before Presley can. Tomorrow morning we’re going to walk in there, tell the whole story, and demand that Presley be arrested for murder and extortion.”

      Dad raises both hands like a supplicant. “I’ve thought of doing that a hundred times. But why should the D.A. believe me?”

      I think of Austin Mackey, district attorney and former schoolmate of mine. Not my first choice for a sympathetic confessor, but we go back a lot of years. “The D.A. has a lot of discretion in a case like this. And it’s possible we could sting Presley. Wire you before meeting with him. Videotape a blackmail payment.”

      “You’re underestimating Ray. Since he started this, he’s talked and acted as though we were partners from the beginning.”

      “Damn.”

      “Mackey would probably insist that you drop the Payton business, Penn.”

      “I dropped it the second you told me about this. We don’t have any options. We’ve got to come clean, and Mackey’s the man we have to see.”

      Dad seems to sag behind his desk. “If that’s what you think, I’m prepared to do it. It’ll be a relief, no matter what happens. But even if Mackey decided not to prosecute, wouldn’t I still be subject to prosecution in Alabama?”

      He has a point. “Yes. Anywhere that an element of the crime took place. But I can get Mackey to talk to the Mobile D.A. for us.”

      “Hillman’s brother still lives in Mobile. The cop. I checked two months ago.”

      Wonderful. Even if Mackey does his best to convince the Mobile D.A. to lay off, my father’s life will be in the hands of the Alabama authorities. And that comes pretty close to unacceptable risk. That’s why Dad has not come forward before now.

      “Presley has cancer,” I say, thinking aloud. “How long does he have to live?”

      Dad shrugs. “His oncologist thought he’d be dead before now. But he’s still ambulatory. Ray is one tough son of a bitch. One of those I always say is too damn stubborn to die. He could live another year.”

      “A year isn’t so long. We could keep paying him till he dies. Pay his medical bills.”

      “That’s what I’ve been doing so far. It’s getting damned expensive.”

      “How much have you paid him?”

      “A hundred and sixteen thousand dollars to date.”

      I shake my head, still unable to believe the situation. “Over how long?”

      “Seven or eight months. But he wants more. He’s talking about needing to provide for his kids now.”

      “That’s the way it is with blackmail. It never stops. There’s no guarantee it would stop with his death. He could give the gun to one of his kids. He could leave documentary evidence. A videotape, for example. A dying declaration. You know, ‘I’ve got cancer, and I’ve got something to get off my chest before I stand before my maker.’ That kind of thing is taken very seriously by the courts.”

      My father has turned pale. “Good God.”

      “That leaves us only one option.”

      Something in my voice must have sounded more sinister than I intended, because Dad’s eyes are wide with shock. “You don’t mean kill him?”

      “God, no. I just told you his death wasn’t necessarily a solution.”

      Relief washes over his face.

      “Everything depends on that gun.”

      “What are you suggesting? That we steal it?”

      “No. We buy it.”

      Dad shakes his head. “Ray will never sell it.”

      “Everybody has a price. And we know Presley needs money.”

      “You just said it could be a meal ticket for his kids for years.”

      “Presley knows me. By reputation at least. I’m a nationally known prosecutor, a famous author. If I stand for anything, it’s integrity. Same as you. I’ll show Presley a carrot and a stick. He can sell me the gun, or he can watch me go to the D.A. and stake my reputation on convincing the authorities that you’re innocent. I have contacts from Houston to Washington. You and I are pillars of our communities. Ray Presley’s a convicted felon. At various times he’s probably been suspected of several murders. He’ll sell me the gun.”

      A spark of hope has entered Dad’s eyes, but fear still masks it, dull and gray and alien to my image of him. “Buying evidence with intent to … to destroy it,” he says. “What kind of crime is that?”

      “It’s a felony. Major-league.”

      “You can’t do it, Penn.”

      His hands are shaking. This thing has been eating at him every day for twenty-five years. Long before Presley’s blackmail began. God, how he must have sweated during the malpractice trial, worrying that Leo Marston would learn about Hillman’s murder from Presley, his paid lackey. I saw this situation a hundred times as a prosecutor. A man lives morally all his life, then in one weak moment commits an act that damns him in his own eyes and threatens his liberty, even his life. Seeing my father in this trap unnerves me. And yet, to get him out of it, I am contemplating committing a felony myself.

      “You’re right,” I tell him. “We’ve got to take the high road.”

      “Talk to Mackey?”

      “Yes. But I want to feel him out first. I’ll call him tonight. Maybe stop by his house.”

      “He won’t be home. There’s a party tonight, a fund-raiser for Wiley Warren.” Riley Warren—nickname “Wiley”—is the incumbent mayor. “Your mother and I were invited, but we weren’t going to go.”

      “Mackey will be there?”

      “He’s a big supporter of Warren’s. You’re invited, by the way.”

      “By you?”

      “No. By Don Perry, the surgeon hosting the party. He stopped me at the hospital after lunch and asked me to bring you along.”

      “Why would he do that? Especially after the story in the paper?”

      “Why do you think? It’s a fund-raising party, and he thinks you’re loaded.”

      “That’s it, then. I’ll talk to Mackey there. If he sounds amenable, I’ll set up a formal meeting, and we’ll