The Quiet Game. Greg Iles

mean list it, I mean sell it.”

      “The housing market’s pretty soft right now. Especially in your bracket.”

      “I don’t care if I eat half the equity. Move it.”

      There’s an odd silence. Then Cilla says, “Could I make you an offer on it? I won’t if you never want to be reminded of the place.”

      “No … it’s fine. You need to get out of that condo. Can you come anywhere close to a realistic price?”

      “I’ve got quite a bit left from my divorce settlement. You know me.”

      “Don’t make me an offer. I’ll make you one. Get the house appraised, then knock off twenty percent. No realtor fees, no down payment, nothing. Work out a payment schedule over twenty years at, say … six percent interest. That way we have an excuse to stay in touch.”

      “Oh, God, Penn, I can’t take advantage like that.”

      “It’s a done deal.” I take a deep breath, feeling the invisible bands that have bound me loosening. “Well … that’s it.”

      “Hold on. The world doesn’t stop because you run off to Disney World.”

      “Do I want to hear this?”

      “I’ve got bad news and news that could go either way.”

      “Give me the bad.”

      “Arthur Lee Hanratty’s last request for a stay was just denied by the Supreme Court. It’s leading on CNN every half hour. The execution is scheduled for midnight on Saturday. Five days from now.”

      “That’s good news, as far as I’m concerned.”

      Cilla sighs in a way that tells me I’m wrong. “Mr. Givens called a few minutes ago.” Mr. Givens and his wife are the closest relatives of the black family slaughtered by Hanratty and his psychotic brothers. “And Mr. Givens doesn’t ever want to see Hanratty in person again. He and his wife want you to attend in their place. A witness they can trust. You know the drill.”

      “Too well.” Lethal injection at the Texas State Prison at Huntsville, better known as the Walls. Seventy miles north of Houston, the seventh circle of Hell. “I really don’t want to see this one, Cil.”

      “I know. I don’t know what to tell you.”

      “What’s this other news?”

      “I just got off the phone with Peter.” Peter Highsmith is my editor, a gentleman and scholar, but not the person I want to talk to just now. “He would never say anything, but I think the house is getting anxious about Nothing But the Truth. You’re nearly a year past your deadline. Peter is more worried about you than about the book. He just wants to know you’re okay.”

      “What did you tell him?”

      “That you’ve had a tough time, but you’re finally waking back up to life. You’re nearly finished with the book, and it’s by far the best you’ve ever written.”

      I laugh out loud.

      “How close are you? You were only half done the last time I got up the nerve to ask you about it.”

      I start to lie, but there’s no point. “I haven’t written a decent page since Sarah died.”

      Cilla is silent.

      “And I burned the first half of the manuscript the night before we left Houston.”

      She gasps. “You didn’t!”

      “Look in the fireplace.”

      “Penn … I think you need some help. I’m speaking as your friend. There are some good people here in town. Discreet.”

      “I don’t need a shrink. I need to take care of my daughter.”

      “Well … whatever you do, be careful, okay?”

      “A lot of good that does. Sarah was the most careful person I ever knew.”

      “I didn’t mean—”

      “I know. Look, I don’t want a single journalist finding out where I am. I want no part of that deathwatch circus. It’s Joe’s problem now.” Joe Cantor is the district attorney of Harris County, and my old boss. “As far as you know, I’m on vacation until the moment of the execution.”

      “Consider yourself incommunicado.”

      “I’ve got to run. We’ll talk soon.”

      “Make sure we do.”

      When I hang up, Annie rises to her knees beside me, her eyes bright. “Are we really going to Gram and Papa’s?”

      “We’ll know in a minute.”

      I dial the telephone number I memorized as a four-year-old and listen to it ring. The call is answered by a woman with a cigarette-parched Southern drawl no film producer would ever use, for fear that the audience would be unable to decode the words. She works for an answering service.

      “Dr. Cage’s residence.”

      “This is Penn Cage, his son. Can you ring through for me?”

      “We sure can, honey. You hang on.”

      After five rings, I hear a click. Then a deep male voice speaks two words that somehow convey more emotional subtext than most men could in two paragraphs: reassurance, gravitas, a knowledge of ultimate things.

      “Doctor Cage,” it says.

      My father’s voice instantly steadies my heart. This voice has comforted thousands of people over the years, and told many others that their days on earth numbered far less than they’d hoped. “Dad, what are you doing home this time of day?”

      “Penn? Is that you?”

      “Yes.”

      “What’s up, son?”

      “I’m bringing Annie home to see you.”

      “Great. Are you coming straight from Florida?”

      “You could say that. We’re coming today.”

      “Today? Is she sick?”

      “No. Not physically, anyway. Dad, I’m selling the house in Houston and moving back home for a while. What comes after that, I’ll figure out later. Have you got room for us?”

      “God almighty, son. Let me call your mother.”

      I hear my father shout, then the clicking of heels followed by my mother’s voice. “Penn? Are you really coming home?”

      “We’ll be there tonight.”

      “Thank God. We’ll pick you up at the airport.”

      “No, don’t. I’ll rent a car.”

      “Oh … all right. I just … I can’t tell you how glad I am.”

      Something in my mother’s voice triggers an alarm. I can’t say what it is, because it’s in the spaces, not the words, the way you hear things in families. Whatever it is, it’s serious. Peggy Cage does not worry about little things.

      “Mom? What’s the matter?”

      “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re coming home.”

      There is no more inept liar than someone who has spent a lifetime telling the truth. “Mom, don’t try to—”

      “We’ll talk when you get here. You just bring that little girl where she belongs.”

      I recall Cilla’s opinion that my mother was upset when she called yesterday. But there’s no point in forcing the issue on the phone. I’ll be face to face with her in a few hours. “We’ll be there tonight. Bye.”

      My hand