"Why?"

"Because I'm pretty sure Judge Marston is on the guest list."

I feel a sliding sensation in my stomach. A quick survey of the room yields no sign of either Marston or my father. Squeezing Sam's shoulder, I push off through the crowd. Natchez is a funny town. People involved in running feuds frequently socialize together. Men who've gutted each other in business disputes leave their rancor at the doors of certain seasonal soirees, and it's not unheard of to see a woman who has caught her husband in bed with someone else pouring punch for that woman-or man-at a party.

Leo Marston and Tom Cage are different. The judge once made it his mission to try to ruin my father's medical career, and Dad hates him with a fury that will brook no false bonhomie. He behaves, in fact, as though the judge were dead. Since Dad rarely goes anywhere other than his office or the hospitals, he rarely crosses paths with Marston, making that illusion easy to maintain. But if Sam Jacobs is correct, that might change tonight. Dad has already drunk one bourbon, probably two by now. If Marston provokes him, Dad is capable of swinging on him. With that thought my blood pressure plummets, because with it comes the memory that my father is carrying a gun tonight.

Catching sight of a silver head a few inches taller than the others near the bar, I move quickly forward, take Dad's arm, and pull him into the kitchen. It's empty save for a black maid, who smiles and nods when she sees us.

"What's going on?" He takes a sip of his bourbon and water sans water.

"Judge Marston's on the guest list. He may already be here."

Dad blinks. Then his cheeks turn red. "Where is he?"

"Dad, this isn't the time or the place."

"Why not? I've avoided that SOB too many years already." His breathing is shallow, and his motions have a jerky quality that might be the result of anger or alcohol.

"That's the whisky talking. You're a hundred percent right about Marston, but if you talk to him now, you're going to hit him." Or shoot him. "And I'll have to spend all my time at home defending you on a battery charge. That's after I bail you out."

"What do you want me to do? Leave?"

"Considering what we have to do in the next few days, I think you should."

That brutal reminder of the blackmail situation gets his attention.

"What about talking to Mackey?" he asks.

"I already did. And this isn't the place to discuss it."

His eyes flit back and forth; then he dashes his plastic cup against the stainless steel sink. "Goddamn it. Let's go."

"Stay close to me."

I take his forearm, lead him into the hallway, and freeze. Twenty yards away, in the open front door, stand Judge Marston and his wife, Maude. The odds of getting through that door without anyone making a smart remark are zero. I drag Dad back toward the kitchen.

"Where the hell are we going now?"

"The back door's closer to where I parked."

"You saw Marston, didn't you?"

He tries to pull free. I tighten my grip and hustle him toward the back door, knowing that if he really tries to resist me, I won't be able to stop him.

"Goddamn it, I'm not running!"

"That's right, you're not. You're taking the advice of your lawyer."

"You're not licensed in this state."

"Actually, I took the Mississippi bar exam when I graduated, and I've paid the licensing fee every year."

He is so distracted by this information that he allows himself to be pulled through a side garden to the street.

"Here's the car." I unlock my mother's Maxima-the damaged BMW having been consigned to the garage-and practically push him into the driver's seat.

He looks up at me, eyes anxious. "You felt Mackey out?"

"Yes. It was like feeling out a porcupine. We're going to have to go the other way."

"What other way?"

"We're going to have to buy the gun."

He blinks in disbelief. "Christ. Are you sure?"

"It's the only way. I want you to call Ray Presley at ten in the morning. Tell him I'll be at his place at ten-thirty. That doesn't give him enough time to get the police involved."

Dad looks down at the steering wheel. "Goddamn it, if anyone has to do this, it should be me."

"You've been under Presley's thumb too long. He'd never buy your bluff. Do you have a hundred thousand dollars liquid?"

He looks up, helpless with rage. "It'll cost a fortune in penalties, but I can get it. And I won't have a damn cent to pay the IRS in January."

"Don't worry, I'll pay you back. But there's no point in creating a paper trail to me yet. Have the money at your office as early as you can. I'll pick it up. I may not offer Presley the whole hundred grand, but I need to be able to go up to that."

He looks too dazed to keep track of this. "Well… get in. We'll get it all figured out."

"I'm not coming, Dad."

"What?"

"I want to talk to Sam Jacobs about Presley. Sam knows everything that goes on in this town. Have you got everything straight?"

He takes a deep breath and nods slowly. "I'll have the money waiting. Ray too."

"Good. Now, go home and get some sleep. And don't speed. The last thing you need tonight is a DWI."

He gives me a somber salute, then shuts the door, starts the engine, and pulls slowly away. I stand at the curb and watch the taillights wink out as he hooks around the block to get headed home on the downtown streets, which are all one-way.

After years of putting men into prison-even into their graves-for committing crimes, I am about to cross the legal line myself. Tomorrow morning I am going to risk prison, forced separation from my child, to try to spare my father the same fate. That knowledge simmers in my stomach like a bad meal, acid and portentous. Is it the right thing to do? Is it stupid? Ultimately, it does not matter.

It's the only thing I can do.

As I pass through the wrought-iron gate of the Perry garden, I see a figure standing at the foot of the steps leading to the side door of the mansion, and the orange eye of a cigarette burning in the dark.

The shrubs and trees in the garden are lighted with white Christmas lights, like little stars. Nearing the steps, I realize that the figure is Caitlin Masters. She's rocking slightly to the rhythm of "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" wafting from the back of the house. I stop a few feet from her.

"I didn't know you smoked."

She blows a stream of smoke away from me. "I don't. You're hallucinating. Is your father okay?"

"He had an emergency call. So, you only smoke at parties?"

"Only when I'm bored."

She doesn't look bored. She looks like she's been waiting for me. "Are there many people in town your age?"

She cuts her eyes at me. "You mean men?"

"I guess I did."

"Nada. It's a desert." She stubs out the cigarette with her sandal and takes a sip of her drink. It looks like white wine, but it's not in a wineglass, and in the dim light has a tinge of green.

"Is that Mountain Dew?"

"God, no. It's a gimlet. Gin and Rose's lime juice. Raymond Chandler turned me on to them."

The Chandler reference surprises me. I'm starting to suspect that Caitlin Masters is full of surprises.

"You know the book?" she asks.

"The Long Goodbye."

"Very good. For that, I'll tell you a little secret I learned today. Interested?"

"Sure."

"Remember I told you about the Sovereignty Commission files? How forty-two of them are sealed for security reasons?"

"Yes."

"One of my reporters requested a Sovereignty Commission file today, and I was more than a little surprised to learn that it was one of the forty-two."

I think for a minute. "Not Del Payton?"

She nods. "I thought you'd be interested."