“Do you know whether Marcello and David Ferrie knew each other?”

“This I do not know, I’m afraid. But”—the president smiled—“I will inquire among certain men of my acquaintance.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me anything more that might be helpful?”

“Perhaps. But first you must tell me something. I watched you while you were photographing my brother. You seem very sad, mi cariño. Not like the girl I remember from before. Has your trip been made unpleasant in some way?”

Jordan felt heat come into her face. “I lost a friend today. A young woman, only thirty-five.”

The old man’s eyes released the tension they had held. “I see. I am sorry. I experience the same thing often now . . . more with each passing year.”

Jordan forced herself to stay on point, not so much for John as for Caitlin, who would have tried to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. “Can you tell me any more about Carlos Marcello or the other men?”

Castro’s eyes flickered again. Jordan noticed his brother watching carefully from across the office, but the president kept his eyes on her. “Perhaps,” he said finally. “But I shall not. Not today, anyway. I wish to reflect on what you have told me.”

At that point the dictator had nodded with enough formality to let Jordan know that her impromptu interrogation was over.

“Please let your escort know if there is anything we can do to make your stay in Havana more enjoyable. And next time bring your husband with you. I would like to speak to him on this matter. Like so many, I, too, would like to know with certainty who was behind the death of Kennedy.”

And that was the end of it.

After she left the capitol, Jordan had gone to the restaurant in her hotel, but found she had no appetite. She did feel thirsty, which had led to her drinking four Russian vodkas in quick succession. Then she’d begun her walk along the Malecón, watching the dark blue surf hammer the seawall, the waves hurling cold spray over her more than a few times. She’d wanted to fly home immediately, but to New Orleans, not Natchez. With Caitlin dead, the town was forever tainted for her. Yet John was still there, leading a forensic team as they excavated the heart of the tree that had drawn Caitlin to it like a moth to flame.

Jordan could still hear Caitlin laughing in the car as she’d talked about Elizabeth Taylor and Montgomery Clift filming Raintree County in Natchez, and how the Bone Tree was like a dark manifestation of that myth. More than ever, Jordan thought of Caitlin as a younger incarnation of herself. Only unlike Jordan, who had cheated death all over the world, Caitlin had walked into its embrace in her own backyard.

Realizing that she’d just walked past the door of her hotel, Jordan backed up and turned in, meaning to buy a double vodka to carry up to her room. But before she reached the bar, the desk clerk called her over in an excited voice. The fiftyish man she remembered as arrogant was a living stereotype, with slicked-back hair and a mustache that looked drawn on with a grease pencil.

“What is it?” Jordan asked, afraid that something had happened to John.

The man’s eyes sparkled with innuendo. “You have a present, Ms. Glass. A very special gift.”

The newly unctuous clerk turned and lifted a breathtaking bird-of-paradise blossom that Jordan had assumed was part of the hotel’s décor. This he presented to her with a suggestive smile. Jordan couldn’t imagine John sending this to her. For one thing he was busy, for another he knew nothing about flowers. If anything, he would have sent roses.

“I think there’s been a mistake,” she said.

The desk clerk gave her a leer. “No mistake, Ms. Glass. El presidente, madam. See? There is a note.”

Jordan opened the sealed envelope and read the brief lines written in what appeared to be painstaking English script on common white notepaper.

I am sorry for your loss, mi cariño. Thirty-five is far too young for anyone to die. As for the other matter, please tell your husband that I agree with him about Señor Marcello. A man who knows much of these things tells me that the pilot Ferrie had close dealings with Marcello’s people. I would be interested to receive a report on this matter, though I do not expect to see one. And anyway, the truth is depressing and simple. The president’s brother pushed too hard against the shadow, and the shadow pushed back. This is the way of life. I doubt we will meet again. Like your young friend, we all share the fate of this flower.

Farewell.

Fidel

Jordan looked down at the flamboyant signature with a disturbing sense of dislocation. She felt a visceral echo of the excitement Caitlin would have felt to hold that piece of paper.

“Well, Señora?” asked the desk clerk. “Will they be sending a car for you?”

Jordan looked up with a glare that backed the clerk up a step. “I’d like a double vodka sent to my room. Two, in fact.”

Then she turned and walked toward the elevators.

“And the flower, Ms. Glass?”

Jordan pressed the elevator button, then looked back at the desk clerk. “You can send that up, too.”

She’d decided to return to Mississippi after all. She would take the bird-of-paradise and leave it beside Caitlin’s grave. The brave girl deserved some symbol of the exotic journalist’s life she’d always wanted, even if in truth that life did not exist.

CHAPTER 81

COLONEL GRIFFITH MACKIEVER watched Special Agent Kaiser’s face as he studied the computer screen on the desk in the study of the Valhalla hunting lodge.

“How long have you had this video?” Kaiser asked, shaking his head as he replayed it.

“I got it yesterday,” Mackiever replied.

“Where?”

“I’d rather not say just yet.”

Kaiser looked up momentarily, then reviewed the video again. “Those are definitely your SWAT officers?”

Mackiever nodded. “I’m sure of it. That’s definitely one of our spotting scopes, and I know I’ve heard those voices before.”

“And they just killed those kids in cold blood.”

“I think that’s the only possible interpretation of that footage. I’m trying to identify the two speakers based on their voices, but I have to be careful. I’m not sure who I can trust in my tech division.”

Kaiser pushed the computer away and leaned back in the chair. “If that goes public, it’ll do irreparable damage to the state police.”

“I realize that. I’ve been struggling with this decision, and in all honesty, I’d prefer not to use it.”

“But . . . ?”

“It may be the only way to bring down Forrest Knox. And if it is . . . then I’ll use it.”

Kaiser nodded thoughtfully. “How can you tie Forrest Knox to this video if you don’t know who the men in it are?”

“The video was found on a computer in Knox’s residence.”

Kaiser looked up sharply. “You searched his home?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Kaiser mulled this over. He obviously had enough experience to know he should not ask questions he did not want the answers to. “Why bring it to me?” he asked finally.

“I have a feeling you want to stop Knox as badly as I do.”

Kaiser’s reaction was difficult to read. “Let me ask you a question, Colonel. I’ve read Forrest’s LSP record. You promoted him twice after you took over the state police. You elevated him to his present position. Can you explain that?”

Mackiever had asked himself this a thousand times. And the answer was depressingly simple. “He was the smartest son of a bitch under my command. He tested off the charts on paper, and he was the best man in the field, bar none. By any objective standard, he ought to be sitting in my chair.”