“Thanks. I’m sorry to make threats, but things are pretty serious down here.”
“They’re serious up here, too, but here he is.”
After several clicks and grunts, Quentin says, “Telling me you’d call the police was a veiled threat against my weed stash, boy. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
“Lincoln Turner just told me Dad is his father.”
Quentin is silent for several seconds. “And that surprised you?”
“Are you telling me it’s true?”
“I don’t know whether it’s true or not. But it doesn’t surprise me that he said it. Hell, a blind mule could see that boy’s game from twelve rows away.”
“Quentin, what are you talking about?”
“Why wouldn’t Viola tell that boy Tom was his father? Beats the hell out of telling him he was fathered by some booger-eating Ku Klux Klansman.”
“You’re deflecting, Quentin. I’m asking you what’s true. Has Dad ever told you he had an illegitimate son?”
“That’s privileged information, as you well know. But I’ll tell you anyway. Hell, no.”
“Lincoln offered to take a DNA test.”
“Well, it may come to that. But that’s not the primary issue right now.”
“What is?”
“I would have said the trial, until I heard about the dead state trooper and the APB.”
At this, I fall silent. Quentin doesn’t sound like a lawyer hiding his client from the police, but he’s a subtle character. “And …?”
“I wish Tom had come to me rather than go running off with Walt Garrity. But I don’t control the man.”
If Dad and Walt are hiding out at Quentin’s isolated compound, then Quentin is a consummate actor. He is, says a voice in my mind. There’s no one better.
“How about we get back to Lincoln for a minute?” I quickly summarize my deductions since leaving the CC’s Rhythm Club, culminating with my theory that Dad is protecting Lincoln, who probably killed his mother. Quentin listens in surprising silence. “Well, what do you think?” I ask.
“That all makes sense, I’m sorry to say. Covering for Lincoln sounds exactly like Tom. Sacrificing himself out of guilt, I mean. He’d probably do that on Viola’s word alone, without even checking to make sure the boy was his.”
“But he hasn’t said anything to you along these lines?”
“No. But I can imagine what you’re thinking now. You figure that if you can prove Lincoln killed Viola, your father’s home free.”
“If I can get him into protective custody before some gung ho cop shoots him.”
“You’re wrong, Penn. Think about it. So long as Tom is willing to get up on a witness stand and say that he killed Viola, you’ve got no play. If your father wants to go to jail for someone, he’s going to jail.”
This stark truth silences me like news of a death. After several stunned seconds, I say, “He’ll be lucky to make jail, Quentin.”
“Well … if Walt Garrity’s with him, he just might be okay. And don’t assume you’re right about Lincoln. Those damned Double Eagles may well have killed Viola. Don’t give up on that angle yet.”
“If they did, how do you explain Dad’s behavior?”
“I can’t. But your father’s no fool. Keep using that brain of yours, and maybe you’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ve got to go. Doris has got to give me my medicine.”
As the old lawyer hangs up, I hear him say, “What the hell is Tom thinking?”
When the connection dies, a smothering solitude closes around me. In five minutes I’ll be sitting in a room watching six yellow-dog Democrats and six Fox News–addicted Republicans argue about the prospect of rebuilding the second-largest slave market in America. This notion is almost unbearable, yet I must bear it, for I set the process in motion. The best thing I can do now is make use of my last minutes of freedom.
While I can’t prove or disprove Lincoln’s paternity on my own, I can try to find out whether he was in Natchez at the time of his mother’s death. Chief Logan has access to all kinds of digital records, and what he can’t find out, John Kaiser can. As my Audi skids onto Highway 61, I call up Chief Logan on my cell phone.
“How’d it go at CC’s?” he asks by way of greeting. “You’re still breathing, obviously. Is Turner?”
“You sound nervous, Don.”
“You could say that.”
“Billy Byrd paid us a visit, and he almost got stomped for his trouble. Everything’s cool now, but I need another favor.”