The Bone Tree

Now, eight years later, having brought A

The route I took here from City Hall is testament to the gravity of our situation. First I drove to Walmart and purchased a half-dozen prepaid cell phones. Then I drove through several residential subdivisions, doubling back often to be sure I wasn’t being followed. As I did, I pondered all John Kaiser had told me outside City Hall. The FBI agent’s goal had been to recruit me to the cause of persuading Dad to give himself up to the Bureau, not for my father’s safety, but so that he might reveal to Kaiser whatever he might know about Carlos Marcello. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one with selfish motives. I had hoped to persuade Kaiser to organize a search of the Lusahatcha Swamp, with its object the elusive Bone Tree, and whatever dead bodies lay in its shadow. Such a large-scale effort would have kept him out of my and Sheriff De

A shadow passes the crack of the bedroom door, then pauses to hover there. My mother. She’s floating outside in the maternal holding pattern all women learn after they have children, one that serves them well after grandchildren come along. When I arrived tonight, I found Mom asleep in the chair next to this bed, her hand on a .38 revolver half covered by a crocheted comforter she brought from home to keep A

Seeing my burned cheek and smelling the smoke on me, she asked what had happened. I assured her that Caitlin and I were all right, and that we’d learned nothing more about Dad’s whereabouts or well-being. Then I gave her an abbreviated summary of what had transpired at Brody Royal’s house. I could tell that my description of Henry Sexton’s death shook her deeply, but she insisted I go downstairs to the newly remodeled kitchen so that she could make me something to eat. I told her I would be down after a few minutes of sitting with A

Mom’s appearance at the door must mean that the food is ready. If so, I’ve been up here longer than I thought. Not wanting to wake A

“Yours or mine?” I ask.

She holds out the sweating glass. “Yours. It’s strong. Knock-you-nekkid strong. You need it.”

I take a large swallow of the bittersweet mixture, then follow her down to the kitchen, where a plate of scrambled eggs, grits, and toast awaits me. Picking up the plate, I motion for Mom to join me on the sofa in the sparsely furnished sitting room opposite the kitchen. She folds her legs beneath her to keep her feet from the cold floor and watches with maternal satisfaction as I devour the food.

Without makeup, my mother looks closer to her actual age, seventy-one, but even with silver hair and her slightly fallen face, she looks younger than her contemporaries with all their plastic surgery, makeup, and expensive dye jobs. Long before Caitlin’s father bought the Examiner, an editor of that paper wrote that when he heard the word class, he thought of Peggy Cage. “One part Do

As I finish the meal she prepared, I sense an expectant tension in her. A strange emotion has animated her face. It almost looks like excitement.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’ve got something to show you, Pe

“Mom, I told you not to do anything like that.”

“Oh, fiddle. I had to, and you’ll be glad I did. Five minutes ago, I got a message from your father.”

“What?” The last forkful of eggs hangs suspended before my face.

She points to my notebook computer, glowing at the end of the sofa. Grabbing the device, I hit the return button to stop the screen saver. It vanishes to reveal the GUI of Mom’s AOL account, which is currently displaying a list of her old mail. In a box in the upper-right corner of her screen is a message from ENGINEERJACK1946.

“Uncle Jack?” I ask, recognizing the AOL user name of my father’s youngest brother, who lives in California.

“Yes! Read the message, and you’ll understand.”

Trying to get my heartbeat under control, I quickly skim the message.

Peggy,

A few minutes ago I received a phone call from someone who identified himself as “a friend of your big brother.” The caller told me not to mention my brother’s name during the conversation. He said that Tom had given him a message for you, which he was going to read to me, and I was to get it to you however I thought best. I called your house and got no answer, so I’m trying e-mail. The caller told me that he’d seen Tom in the flesh, and he was physically all right. I have no idea who the caller was. From traffic sounds, I’d bet he was standing at a pay phone. I don’t know what’s going on, obviously, but if there’s anything I can do, let me know, and I’ll fly in. Tell Pe