Greg Iles - The Devils Punchbowl

“Sometimes,” I admit. “If it happens, don'’t jump out of the boat. We’ll be all right.”

Kelly carefully reverses direction, eases forward, then puts the engine in neutral. The cypresses surround us like ranks of giant soldiers in the night, stretching back to muddy banks thick with undergrowth. Switching on his flashlight, Kelly shines it onto the deck, reflecting enough light upward to see our faces.

“Everybody good?”

“No,” says Caitlin. “Enough with the mystery. Let’s do whatever we came to do.”

“We’re about to. But before we do, I want to show you something.”

Kelly sweeps the yellow beam along the waterline at the base of the cypress trunks. There, among the smooth wooden knees, dozens of red eyes reflect the light back to us with chilling effect.

Caitlin leaps from her seat and seizes my arm. “What the hell is

that

? Penn? What are they?”

Another thud comes from below, but this time the boat doesn’'t shudder.

“Did we hit something else?” Caitlin asks anxiously.

In answer, Kelly sweeps the light along the waterline on both sides of the boat, then aims it into the cypresses again. The red eyes glow in pairs, some only a couple of inches apart, others more widely spaced.

“What

are

those things?”

“Alligators,” I say. “Locals call this place Alligator Alley.”

As she shakes her head in disbelief, a loud slapping sound reverberates over the lake.

“They’re headslapping,” Kelly says. “Warning us to get out.”

“I want to go back,” Caitlin says anxiously. “This is crazy.”

“This is karma,” Kelly says enigmatically. “We’'ve all been through a lot this past week, but nobody more than you. Nobody who lived, anyway.”

She looks back at him in confusion. “And?”

“You remember that talk we had at that other lake house? About Sands being a one-bullet problem?”

Now he has her attention. “Yes.”

“Tom told you it wasn'’t up to you, only to him and Penn.”

“I remember.”

“Well, this time you get a vote.”

“A vote?” She glances at me, then looks back at Kelly. “On what?”

He passes the flashlight to me, then steps down and opens the door to the forward cabin.

“What’s he doing?” Caitlin asks.

Kelly disappears into the cabin and pulls the door shut behind him.

“I'm not sure.” Even as I say this, I know it’s a lie. I’'ve known Kelly too long to be surprised. Now I know what he means by

closure.

I hear muted ripping sounds, some scuffling, and then the cabin door opens and Kelly drags a human form up onto the deck. When I shine the light down onto it, Caitlin gasps.

Seamus Quinn lies on the deck carpet, bound and gagged with duct tape, both eyes blackened and burning with virulent hatred. He’s wearing dark pants, a bloodstained white T-shirt, and one shoe. His other ankle and foot are too grossly swollen to fit inside the other.

Why has he done this?

I wonder. Kelly and I have come to this fork in the road before, and I chose the rule of law. Why would he think I’d decide any different now? My decision to assassinate Sands was defensive; killing Quinn would be revenge. Also, stupid. We need Quinn as a witness against Sands.

Although,

I reflect,

if Jiao continues to cooperate with Shad, Quinn’s testimony would be superfluous.

There’s something going on here that I don'’t understand. Could Kelly simply be flirting with an idea that he knows I'’ll never agree to, but one I might push far enough to teach a murderer a lesson he’ll never forget?

No.

He wouldn'’t waste his time hazing somebody. He’s hard-core, all the way. But whatever he’s up to, one thing is sure: He won'’t kill Quinn unless Caitlin and I tell him to do it.

“I thought this guy was dead,” I say.

Kelly shrugs. “As far as anybody knows, he is.”

After a few seconds of dazed comprehension, Caitlin breaks away from me and kicks the Irishman savagely in the ribs. He grunts but doesn’'t attempt to defend himself. Caitlin draws back her foot and kicks him again, harder this time. When Quinn shows no sign of terror, she throws the flashlight at his head, then hammers her foot into his arm, his neck, and his head. Quinn rolls away from the blows, but the bulkhead stops him. After that, he absorbs the kicks with resignation, like a man accustomed to beatings. Caitlin, by contrast, is crying and whining as she struggles to make Quinn feel some fraction of the pain he inflicted on Linda Church.

Caitlin stops after half a minute, probably because she’s winded. I too am breathing hard, as though I participated in the assault. But my distress is emotional. Never have I seen Caitlin lose complete control, much less become violent. Even now she seems poised to begin kicking Quinn again. Her chin is quivering, and her eyes are wild. What I thought might be a reflexive discharge of pent-up fury seems to be only the first flicker of an unquenchable anger. What, I wonder, would it take to drive her into such a state?

And that’s when I realize that Kelly’s decision to bring us here has nothing to do with me. He’s done this for Caitlin’s sake.

Because he knows something you don'’t,

says a childlike voice within me.

Something awful.

My throat tightens as I perceive something huge and dark beyond the surface of things, like a misshapen form behind a curtain I’'ve been unwilling to pull back. Did Quinn’s bruises and blackened eyes result from his fight on the

Magnolia Queen

? Or when Kelly uprooted every detail of his crimes from the toxic soil of his memory?

Kelly knows what happened in the dog kennel,

says the voice.

And whatever it was, he thinks she needs to witness this kind of punishment to exorcise it.

Kelly has laid his hands on Caitlin’s shoulders, as though to hold her back. Without knowing why, I kneel and rip the tape from Quinn’s mouth.

“You going to drown me, Your Honor?” the Irishman asks, working his lower jaw up and down as though to relieve a cramp. “That the plan?”

“That'’s up to the lady,” Kelly says softly. “What do you figure your odds are?”

“Drownin’s not so bad,” Quinn says philosophically. “I’'ve drowned many a runt for the good of the litter. There’s worse ways to go.”

Kelly smiles appreciatively. “You’re right about that, ace.”

Caitlin looks warily from me to Kelly, then back to me again. “Is he serious?”

“Oh, he’s serious, all right.”

The Caitlin I thought I knew would be yelling for us to take Quinn back to Natchez and hand him over to the police. But the woman before me is not doing that. Instead, she takes the flashlight from me and shines it around the boat in a slow circle, watching the reptilian eyes watch her.

I try to catch Kelly’s eye, but he’s gazing at Caitlin like a knight awaiting a decision from his queen. Christ. When I first saw Quinn lying on the deck, I thought Kelly had chosen a cruel path by exposing Caitlin to such a situation. But now I understand that she’s already far down a road I wouldn'’t have expected her to set foot on before tonight. She’s no longer the woman I knew before she was taken prisoner. She is sister to a thousand women I knew and tried to serve as an assistant DA in Houston. She’s a victim: violated, bereft, forever changed. A rush of emotions too powerful to understand swells in my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Kelly was clever to choose this place. It’s difficult to step outside the law when you’re surrounded by all its tangible expressions. But here, in this prehistoric darkness under the cypress trees, it’s easy to ask why we should bother taking Seamus Quinn back to the world of cops and lawyers and plea bargains. Intellectually, I know the answer to that, of course. But the shape behind the curtain is becoming clearer to me, even as I try to hold the curtain shut.

“What the fuck’s she gawkin’ at?” Quinn asks.

Caitlin swings the beam away from the red eyes and aims it down at Quinn. Then she switches off the flashlight and covers her face with a shaking hand. Five minutes ago I thought of Caitlin’s period of captivity as a transient nightmare she had miraculously managed to escape. Now I know she might never escape it. Thinking this is like cracking the gate to hell.

“Stand him up,” she says. “Let him see.”

Kelly grabs Quinn under the arms and heaves him up onto one of the seats. The Irishman looks out, but all is darkness around the boat. Then Caitlin shines the light toward the cypress knees, and the red eyes gleam like rubies in its beam.

“Bloody hell,” says Quinn, his voice in a higher register. “What’s that?”

The satisfaction I feel at the sound of fear in his voice cannot be denied. “American alligator,” I inform him. “

Alligator mississippiensis.

I'm sure you'’ve seen them on TV.”

As Quinn slowly draws back his head, a throaty bellow blasts out of the dark at unbelievable volume. His bound feet scrape against the deck, but he has nowhere to run.

“You’re a big fan of people fighting animals,” Caitlin says. “You told me all about the Romans and their games, how they made animals rape girls.”

Reaching out my right hand, I touch her shoulder softly. “Caitlin…? What did he do?”

She looks back at me, her eyes wet with tears. “It’s what he didn't do.”

“What didn't he do?”

“He didn't

stop.

It was…unforgivable.”

Anger like corrosive acid burns the lining of my heart.

“Where’s your Christian mercy, darlin’?” Quinn asks mockingly, but his eyes are those of a cornered animal—desperate and calculating. He looks at Kelly. “It’s always the women. The most bloody-minded creatures ever the Lord made.”

“That'’s why you treat them with respect, Seamus.”

Another hard slap rebounds over the water, and Caitlin whips the beam over to the cypress trees. Quinn can’t tear his gaze away from the glowing eyes. When Kelly claps him on the back, the Irishman jumps in terror.

“Ready, tough guy? Here’s your chance to prove what a badass you are. Ultimate Fighting Challenge times fifty.”

“Ah, you’re bluffin’,” Quinn says, turning back from the water and smiling like a man who can appreciate being the butt of a good joke. “Cage is a lawyer. He won'’t have any part of this. He can’t.”

“Do you remember what I told you outside Sands’s house?” I ask.

Quinn nods. “Sure. This isn’t Northern Ireland. You were right about that.”

“‘Stay away from my family.’ That'’s what I told you. Well, Caitlin is family. And this is Mississippi. You remember what I told you about that?”

“Cage, listen—”

“I said, ‘We know how to play rough too.’ But you didn't believe me. And now here we are, with you telling me about the law.”

Recognizing the steel in my voice, Kelly eases the throttle forward, and we begin creeping through the narrow chute. Caitlin shines the light over the bow to assist him, and Quinn stares along the beam as though hypnotized by the unblinking eyes that surround us. After a couple of minutes, the chute opens into a wide pool. The old fishing camp stands somewhere in the trees to our left, but I can’t see it. The place is deserted now, and there’s nothing else down this way. The water’s too shallow and dangerous for people to build here. With seemingly infinite patience, Kelly turns the boat and heads back up the chute.

Quinn’s naturally pale skin looks as white as a movie vampire’s in the moonlight. Fear has drained the blood from his face. This man has fed human beings to dogs. He may even have imagined what it might be like to suffer such a death. But he has never contemplated the fate Daniel Kelly has set before him. Kelly has appointed himself the instrument of the karma he believes in, and for him the terror Quinn suffers now is as important as his dying.

“I’'ve heard a lot of guys brag about the biting strength of pit bulls,” Kelly says in an offhand tone. “But I'’ll tell you something. A gator could bite a chunk out of a

car fender.

”

“Alligators don'’t usually attack people,” I recall aloud. “It’s usually by mistake, or if one feels threatened.”

“This is a unique situation,” Kelly says with relish. “

Lots

of gators out there tonight. Protective females, territorial males.” He glances back at Quinn. “They don'’t need to see you, man. They

smell

you. Which reminds me…”

Motioning for me to take the wheel, Kelly lifts a seat cushion and opens the lid of an ice chest. A rotten smell instantly permeates the boat.

“That'’s awful!” cries Caitlin, holding her nose. “What is it?”

“I'm not sure. Got it out of the Dumpster behind the Mexican restaurant.”

Kelly reaches across me and shifts the engine into neutral, then pulls on a gardening glove and reaches into the ice chest. I pinch my nostrils shut as he tosses something heavy into the trees. The splash silences the frogs, but they soon resume their dissonant chorus.

No one speaks. Something primitive holds us spellbound. Then I hear a single, powerful swish, like a sound effect from a horror movie: a heavy, armored tail moving water. A primitive grunt comes from the dark, then a choked bellow. More swishes follow. Too many to count.

“Feeding time,” says Kelly. He pulls a knife from a sheath on his ankle. Quinn jerks in his seat when Kelly leans down and slices the duct tape binding his ankles. After a few seconds, Quinn stands erect on his good foot and holds out his wrists, but Kelly shakes his head.

“Come on!” says Quinn. “Jaysus, give a man a chance. Give me something to work with.”

I point at Quinn’s feet. “He just did.”

Caitlin turns the flashlight on Quinn. “More of a chance than you gave Linda Church.”

“The water’s only four feet deep here,” I offer. “Kind of tough to run in that, but I know you’ll give it all you'’ve got.”

“I wouldn'’t do that,” Kelly advises. “I’d swim for it.

Real

slow. Alligators have some kind of organ that picks up vibrations in the water.”

Quinn’s dark eyes are bulging. “You’re wired, right?” he says in a hyperexcited voice. “You want a confession? Fine. Let’s start with Jessup.”

“Save your breath,” mutters Kelly.

“Wait a second,” I say. “What about Ben Li?”

Quinn shakes his head angrily. “That kid attacked me on the boat! That crazy Linda jumped into the river, and when I turned around to find her, the chink went crazy. He was kicking me and screaming nonsense. I had to shoot him to try to save Linda.”