The Quiet Game. Greg Iles

what Dad said.”

      “Speaking of your old man, I’m surprised he came.”

      Before I can ask what Sam means, someone taps me on the shoulder. Sam hides a smile behind his drink. I turn and look into the luminous green eyes of Caitlin Masters.

      “Are you going to slug me?” she asks.

      “If you were male, I might consider it.”

      “I know I angled that story in a way you didn’t expect.”

      “Angled it? Try sensationalized it. Remember the words ‘off-the-record’?”

      Her lips part slightly in surprise. “I honoured that request.”

      “About the Hanratty execution. But as for Del Payton—” I force myself to shut up, not wanting to argue the point in front of a crowd.

      “Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow?” she suggests. “I’d like to help you understand why I did what I did.”

      I want to say no, but just as yesterday, something about Caitlin Masters makes me want to see her again. The jade dress is linen, and it lies against her skin like powder. She is a study in elegance and self-possession.

      “Is that a no?” she asks.

      “Once burned, twice shy,” Sam chimes in.

      “I like Wilde’s quote better,” Caitlin rejoins.

      “What’s that?” I ask.

      “The burnt child loves the fire.”

      She winks at me, then turns on her heel and walks away, ignoring the gazes of half the people in the room, who have watched our exchange with intense interest.

      “You sure know how to liven up a town,” Sam says, his eyes glued to Caitlin’s retreating form. “And she knows how to fill out a dress. A shiksa from dreamland, that one.”

      I step hard on his toe. “You already married one of those, remember? What were you saying about my dad?”

      “I’m surprised he came, is all.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I’m pretty sure Judge Marston is on the guest list.”

      I feel a sliding sensation in my stomach. A quick survey of the room yields no sign of either Marston or my father. Squeezing Sam’s shoulder, I push off through the crowd. Natchez is a funny town. People involved in running feuds frequently socialize together. Men who’ve gutted each other in business disputes leave their rancor at the doors of certain seasonal soirées, and it’s not unheard of to see a woman who has caught her husband in bed with someone else pouring punch for that woman—or man—at a party.

      Leo Marston and Tom Cage are different. The judge once made it his mission to try to ruin my father’s medical career, and Dad hates him with a fury that will brook no false bonhomie. He behaves, in fact, as though the judge were dead. Since Dad rarely goes anywhere other than his office or the hospitals, he rarely crosses paths with Marston, making that illusion easy to maintain. But if Sam Jacobs is correct, that might change tonight. Dad has already drunk one bourbon, probably two by now. If Marston provokes him, Dad is capable of swinging on him. With that thought my blood pressure plummets, because with it comes the memory that my father is carrying a gun tonight.

      Catching sight of a silver head a few inches taller than the others near the bar, I move quickly forward, take Dad’s arm, and pull him into the kitchen. It’s empty save for a black maid, who smiles and nods when she sees us.

      “What’s going on?” He takes a sip of his bourbon and water sans water.

      “Judge Marston’s on the guest list. He may already be here.”

      Dad blinks. Then his cheeks turn red. “Where is he?”

      “Dad, this isn’t the time or the place.”

      “Why not? I’ve avoided that SOB too many years already.” His breathing is shallow, and his motions have a jerky quality that might be the result of anger or alcohol.

      “That’s the whiskey talking. You’re a hundred percent right about Marston, but if you talk to him now, you’re going to hit him.” Or shoot him. “And I’ll have to spend all my time at home defending you on a battery charge. That’s after I bail you out.”

      “What do you want me to do? Leave?”

      “Considering what we have to do in the next few days, I think you should.”

      That brutal reminder of the blackmail situation gets his attention.

      “What about talking to Mackey?” he asks.

      “I already did. And this isn’t the place to discuss it.”

      His eyes flit back and forth; then he dashes his plastic cup against the stainless steel sink. “Goddamn it. Let’s go.”

      “Stay close to me.”

      I take his forearm, lead him into the hallway, and freeze. Twenty yards away, in the open front door, stand Judge Marston and his wife, Maude. The odds of getting through that door without anyone making a smart remark are zero. I drag Dad back toward the kitchen.

      “Where the hell are we going now?”

      “The back door’s closer to where I parked.”

      “You saw Marston, didn’t you?”

      He tries to pull free. I tighten my grip and hustle him toward the back door, knowing that if he really tries to resist me, I won’t be able to stop him.

      “Goddamn it, I’m not running!”

      “That’s right, you’re not. You’re taking the advice of your lawyer.”

      “You’re not licensed in this state.”

      “Actually, I took the Mississippi bar exam when I graduated, and I’ve paid the licensing fee every year.”

      He is so distracted by this information that he allows himself to be pulled through a side garden to the street.

      “Here’s the car.” I unlock my mother’s Maxima—the damaged BMW having been consigned to the garage—and practically push him into the driver’s seat.

      He looks up at me, eyes anxious. “You felt Mackey out?”

      “Yes. It was like feeling out a porcupine. We’re going to have to go the other way.”

      “What other way?”

      “We’re going to have to buy the gun.”

      He blinks in disbelief. “Christ. Are you sure?”

      “It’s the only way. I want you to call Ray Presley at ten in the morning. Tell him I’ll be at his place at ten-thirty. That doesn’t give him enough time to get the police involved.”

      Dad looks down at the steering wheel. “Goddamn it, if anyone has to do this, it should be me.”

      “You’ve been under Presley’s thumb too long. He’d never buy your bluff. Do you have a hundred thousand dollars liquid?”

      He looks up, helpless with rage. “It’ll cost a fortune in penalties, but I can get it. And I won’t have a damn cent to pay the IRS in January.”

      “Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back. But there’s no point in creating a paper trail to me yet. Have the money at your office as early as you can. I’ll pick it up. I may not offer Presley the whole hundred grand, but I need to be able to go up to that.”

      He looks too dazed to keep track of this. “Well … get in. We’ll get it all figured out.”

      “I’m not coming, Dad.”

      “What?”

      “I