The Devils Punchbowl by Greg Iles

Author:Greg Iles [Iles, Greg]
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2009-07-16T10:59:33+00:00

The sound of Caitlin’s opening her door brings me out of my trance. With one inquisitive look she asks if I still want to go into Kmart. I nod, then refold the note and put it back in my pocket. Motioning for her to hand me her purse, I take the satphone from my backpack and stuff it into her bag, then shove my pistol into my pocket.

“Let’s go.”

When we’re ten yards from the car, Caitlin says, “You still think Tim didn’t have an affair with her?”

“Wait till we’re inside the store to talk. I’ll get the chips and dip and see if we’re being tailed. You get the recorder, some triple-A batteries, two pairs of cheap headphones, and a miniplug splitter. You know why?”

“Because those cheap recorders only put out a mono signal.”

It’s good to be back with somebody who needs no spoon-feeding.

Inside the Kmart, I walk to the snacks section and grab some Doritos, then watch the store entrance. A few people come in and out, but most are black, and none look remotely like Quinn’s goons. The white people are Pentecostals or older folks wearing gardening clothes. Less than five minutes pass before Caitlin appears at the head of my aisle with a stapled bag held low beside her. I walk past her and whisper, “Men’s clothing department.”

Grabbing two pairs of pants off a rack, I ask an older woman staffing the ladies’ department to open a fitting room. She recognizes me as the mayor, makes a show of offering all the help she can, then leaves me with the room. A second later, Caitlin slips into my dressing room and opens the bag. It takes all my strength to get the plastic packaging off the tape recorder, but Caitlin’s deft fingers make short work of inserting the batteries and setting up the headphones and splitter. When this is done, I take the cassette from my pocket, insert it into the recorder, and hit PLAY.

A hiss fills my left ear. Caitlin’s head is tilted, tensely poised, her eyes wide and bright as though reflecting every bit of light in the cubicle. She’s hearing the same thing I am, a low-quality copy of a low-resolution voice memo made on a cell phone and played back through the cheapest equipment available. Yet when I hear Tim’s voice, it pierces me to the quick. He’s breathless, as though he’s sprinted most of a mile, but the whine of an overrevved engine in the background tells me he’s in a car.

“Penn, where are you, man? I waited as long as I could, but they’re onto me. I had to run. I tried to call you, but both my phones say ‘No service.’ They’re jamming the signal like they do on the boat sometimes. They blocked Cemetery Road, so I’m headed out into the county almost to the Devil’s Punchbowl now. I’m going to have to shut off this phone, because they may be tracking me with it. I can’t say much, because they might get the phone.

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