The Bishop's Pawn (Cotton Malone #13)(64)

Chapter Thirty-eight


I rode out of St. Augustine on Highway 16, heading west toward Green Cove Springs. Originally, all I had was a name from Bruce Lael’s pad.

Cecelia Heath.

And a telephone number.

Luckily, it included the area code.

So I borrowed the house phone at the Café Alcazar and called a friend I’d made at the Naval Criminal Investigative Service in Jacksonville. Thankfully, he was at his desk and helped me out, linking an address to the telephone number. The Orange County Sheriff’s Department used that capability when Coleen had called, and NCIS had it, too. The address he provided was located in Starke, a small community in central Florida, about fifty miles from St. Augustine. Its claim to fame was twofold: a National Guard base and the Florida State Prison. I then found a local taxi company that agreed to drive me the fifty miles for $100. Luckily, I had that amount in my wallet.

I sat in the backseat of an old Chevy Impala converted into a cab and drank my iced tea, which I’d switched into a to-go cup. The sweet, cold liquid ran down my throat and felt good, spreading relief to all channels in my body. I thought about the questions Coleen would have for her father. Why had he been given a 1933 Double Eagle? And yet he never cashed the coin in. Holding on to it for over thirty years. If Valdez had not made contact, and Coleen hadn’t gone behind his back, no one would have ever known.

I realized exactly what she was thinking.

Valdez had been paid with a coin. Her father had been paid with a coin. We knew what Valdez had done to earn his payment. He’d recruited, encouraged, then made sure James Earl Ray went to Memphis.

But what had her father done?

The cab kept heading west down a twisting lane of asphalt, through stands of hardwoods and pines and farmland. I appreciated the fact that the driver stayed silent. The last thing I needed right now was a chatty Cathy.

Florida wasn’t so flat here. There were actually hills, the highway rolling in spots. No palm trees or beaches in sight. Just dense pine forests and verdant thickets that occasionally gave way to agricultural fields. I had no idea who I was heading to see, only that Bruce Lael had wanted me to make the journey. I wondered what it took to live with the fact that you’d participated in the death of Martin Luther King Jr. The man had been a son, husband, father, minister, activist, Nobel laureate, icon. He helped change the face of America, leaving a mark on the entire world. Imagine what more he could have accomplished if he’d lived. No wonder Lael was tormented. But what about Foster? Was he equally tormented? Or had his involvement been something else entirely, something more selfish that he did not want revealed to anyone.

Especially to his daughter.

All good questions.

The cab drove into Starke, a tiny town among a sea of trees, home to about five thousand people. Lots of gas stations, fast-food places, billboards, and power poles. Everything about the place yearned back to a time before tourism became the state’s number one industry. No flashy neon or high-rises, just quaint and walkable. The address I had was Greek to both me and the driver, so we made a stop at a 7-Eleven and learned directions. We found the house a few miles outside the town limits on a rural, two-lane blacktop, not far from the state prison. I paid the fare and climbed from the cab into the afternoon’s humid gloom.

A dirt lane led from the highway about fifty yards through palmetto spikes and scrub trees to a white brick house with reddish-brown shutters. The drowsy caw of a crow offered me a greeting. No name appeared on the mailbox, only an innocuous route number. I opened the box and was pleased to see envelopes addressed to either Cecelia or Cie Heath.

Apparently I was at the right place.

I walked ahead, following a low chain-length fence hidden under a bank of honeysuckle.

The crack of gunfire broke the silence.

A bullet plucked at the ground to my right, scaring the crap out of me. I stopped, a hard knot of apprehension knotting my muscles.

“Who are you?” a woman’s voice called out.

I stood there, with the backpack in one hand, focusing on the house and an open window under the front porch.

“I came to speak with you. Bruce Lael sent me.”

“You have a name?”

“Cotton Malone.”

“Walk down the drive. Real slow. And keep those hands where I can see them.”

I did as ordered, realizing that I’d been shot at more during the past twenty-four hours than ever in my entire life.

“Are you Cecilia Heath?”

“I prefer Cie,” she said, pronouncing her name See. “Why are you here?”

I came close to the porch steps and could see the rifle barrel in the half-opened window.

“Stop there.”

“Bruce Lael is dead,” I told her.

No reply.

So I drove the point home.

“Tom Oliver blew him up with a car bomb.”

Still silence.

But the rifle disappeared.

Then a small, sparrow-sized woman emerged into the porch shade, the screen door banging back on its hinges. She was in her late sixties or early seventies, mouth wide, face slightly squared off, her cheekbones framed by an unruly mass of gray-brown hair. She held the rifle angled down, her face and eyes as flat, dark, and expressionless as stone. I stood in the afternoon sun, watching her.

“How did you know Lael?”

“We were married fifteen years.”