Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl

“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 shakes as I set the receiver in its cradle. For a prodigal son, a journey home after eighteen years is a sacred one. I’ve been home for a few Christmases and Thanksgivings, but this is different. Looking down at Annie, I get one of the thousand-volt shocks of recognition that has hit me so many times since the funeral. Sometimes Sarah’s face peers out from Annie’s as surely as if her spirit has temporarily possessed the child. But if this is a possession, it is a benign one. Annie’s hazel eyes transfix mine with a look that gave me much peace when it shone from Sarah’s face: This is the right thing, it says.

“I love you, Daddy,” she says softly.

“I love you more,” I reply, completing our ritual. Then I catch her under the arms and lift her high into the air. “Let’s pack! We’ve got a plane to catch!”

TWO (#ulink_838d4118-8c27-5e59-bf87-e4a2b00623d6)

One of the nice things about first-class air travel is immediate beverage service. Even before our connecting flight lifts out of Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport, a tumbler of single-malt Scotch sits half-empty on the tray before me. I never drink liquor in front of Annie, but she is conveniently asleep on the adjacent seat. Her little arm hangs over the padded divider, her hand touching my thigh, an early-warning system that operates even in sleep. What part of her brain keeps that hand in place? Did Neanderthal children sleep this way? I sip my whisky and stroke her hair, cautiously looking around the cabin.

One of the bad things about first-class air travel is being recognized. You get a lot of readers in first class. A lot of lawyers too. Today the cabin is virtually empty, but sitting across the aisle from us is a woman in her late twenties, wearing a lawyerly blue suit and reading a Penn Cage novel. It’s just a matter of time before she recognizes me. Or maybe not, if my luck holds. I take another sip of Scotch, recline my seat, and close my eyes.