your biggest fan, if your affair with Kate becomes public, Jenny may feel she has no choice but to demand your head on a platter. If it were known that she sanctioned your relationship, she’d be crucified right along with you.”
“Jenny’s never been too concerned about the opinions of others.”
“This is a little different than … Oh, hell, the point’s moot anyway. If your affair becomes public, the police or the sheriff’s department will probably charge you with murder. Spurred on by the district attorney, of course.”
“Shad Johnson,” Drew says softly.
Even the name makes my gut ache. Shadrach Johnson is a black lawyer who was born in Natchez but raised in Chicago. Five years ago, he returned to Natchez to run for mayor, an election he lost by one percent of the vote. A year later he won the post of district attorney, taking the office from a white man who had never distinguished himself in the position. The mayoral race Johnson lost happened to be going on during my investigation of the unsolved civil rights murder, and during the stress of that case, Shad revealed his true colors to me. The man has one interest—his own political career—and he doesn’t care who he steps on, black or white, to advance it.
“Shad would charge you in a heartbeat,” I murmur. “He has wet dreams about getting a case like this.”
“Anything for headlines,” Drew agrees.
I’m starting to think Drew may have been right not to call in the cavalry when he discovered Kate’s body. My chivalrous side is revolted by his callousness, but the modern world is not a chivalrous place. In this world, no good deed goes unpunished.
“What will the blackmailers do now?” Drew asks.
“You gave them the whole twenty thousand?”
“Yeah. I thought about stacking some bills over a newspaper, but the geometry of the stadium wasn’t right for that. I knew he’d have too much time to check the bag before I could get him.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t just take your rifle down there and shoot the guy when he showed up.”
Drew looks uncomfortable. “I figured whoever it was would be watching me, looking for a gun, so I didn’t take it down with me. I figured I could sprint back up to the four-wheeler before he got to the bag. I’d scanned the whole stadium with the night-vision scope before I went down, and I knew nobody was close to the fifty-yard line.”
“Actually, you did make it in time to shoot him,” I observe. “Only I showed up.”
Drew nods, but I can’t read his emotions. “So, what will our motorcyclist do now? Will he try to milk me or will he turn me in?”
“No way to know. But he knows one thing for sure after tonight. Blackmailing you is risky business. He probably didn’t realize you were such a psycho.”
“I think he’ll keep playing me for a while. If he turns me in, he won’t get another penny out of me. No more drugs either.”
“You gave him drugs?”
Drew shrugs. “Just some samples. Nothing big. You know, that guy on the hill couldn’t shoot worth a damn.”
“He may not have been trying to hit us. Only to slow us down.”
Drew snorts at the idea of such half measures.
“Can we get out of here yet?” I ask.
He leans over the ATV where the big padded seat usually sits and checks the rectangular box that holds the air filter. Then he snaps the seat back on, pulls out the choke, and turns the ignition key. The engine turns over a few times, dies. He tinkers with something, then turns the key a second time. This time the motor sputters resentfully to life. He nurses the throttle with a lover’s touch, and soon the motor is roaring with power.
“Ready,” he says with a satisfied smile.
The trip back to St. Stephen’s is much more agreeable than the roller-coaster ride out here. If it weren’t for the wind chilling my wet clothes, I might enjoy it. Several times we startle deer, which freeze in our headlight with wide yellow eyes, then explode into chaotic motion like panicked soldiers. All the way, we watch the ground for my Springfield, but we don’t find it.
Drew brings us out of the woods on the high rim of the stadium, then drives swiftly around to the elementary school. I worried that there might be a police car waiting, but my car is still parked by itself in the shadows. A police patrol would probably be drawn to the glaring stadium lights before rifle fire. It’s not uncommon to hear rifle shots on this end of town after dark, as poachers spotlight deer out of season.
“Did you drive all the way here on your four-wheeler?” I ask, getting off the ATV.
“No, my pickup is parked behind the main building.”
“Do you need help loading this thing?”
“Nah, I’ve got some ramps.”
I reach for the door to my Saab, then turn back to Drew. “When was the last time you had sex with Kate?”
“Last night.”
“Did you wear a condom?”
He shakes his head. “She’s on the pill.”
“She got pregnant while she was on the pill?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” he says. “That’s what I kept telling her. She always took it on time, so the chance of pregnancy was really nil.”
Unless she got pregnant on purpose, I think, but I only nod and open my door.
“What is it?” Drew asks.
“By tomorrow, a sample of your semen is going to be on its way to a DNA lab somewhere. New Orleans is my guess. And if the cops get any reason to test your blood against that sample, you’re going to look guilty of murder. There’s only one way to prevent that perception, Drew.”
“Tell the police I was having an affair with her?”
I nod again. “Right now. Don’t wait five minutes.”
He cuts the Honda’s engine. “If I do that, the first thing they’ll do is ask me for a DNA sample.”
“It’s still better than the alternative. You tell them first, they see you as trying to help. You don’t … you’re guilty as hell.”
Drew ponders this. “If I were going to tell them, who would I call? The sheriff or the chief of police? Not Shad Johnson, right?”
Like many communities, Natchez has suffered from a long-running rivalry between city and county law enforcement. And Kate’s body was found right at the border of the city limits, which could cause serious jurisdictional problems.
“Whoever you tell, it’s going to get to Shad eventually. You might as well tell him first. The only way to play this kind of thing is get out ahead of it and stay there. If you volunteer the information, people can get angry, but they can’t paint you as a liar. Think of Ted Kennedy at Chappaquiddick. Tell it now, Drew, before anyone beats you to the punch.”
“Everything? Even that I found Kate’s body?”
“I didn’t hear that question, brother.”
He looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“We have a saying in the legal profession. Every client tells his story once.”
“Meaning?”
“The first and only time you tell your story is on the witness stand. That way—until that day—you have time to adjust the truth to emerging facts.”
Disgust wrinkles his face.
“A cynical view, I admit,” I tell him, “but experience is a hard teacher. If I hear you tell me one story tonight, I can’t put you on the stand and let