The Quiet Game (Penn Cage Book 1)

Praise for The Quiet Game “The pace is frenetic, the fear and paranoia palpable, and the characters heartbreakingly honest. Iles strikes not one false note.”— Cleveland Plain Dealer “Would make James Lee Burke or even Pat Conroy proud. This is storytelling at its absolute best, a tale of near-epic status.”— Providence Sunday Journal “The plot turns and twists with surprise after surprise...inventive and satisfying. [Iles’s] mastery of the Southern setting rings with the truth of his own experience.”— New Orleans Times-Picayune “A definite page-turner...Extremely well-written...profound...wise and disconcerting.”— The Daily Mississippian “The plot twists and turns magnificently...A grand thriller with a wonderful Southern seasoning.”— Orange County Register “A don’t-touch-that-dial courtroom climax.”— Charlotte Observer “When the final page of The Quiet Game is turned you feel a pang as when good friends move away.”— Orlando Sentinel “A superb legal-conspiracy thriller that brings the deep South to life…an enthralling tale.”— Kirkus Reviews Greg Iles is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Penn Cage series. His novels have been made into films, translated into more than twenty languages, and published in more than thirty-five countries worldwide. Is there space in the overcrowded courtroom for one more writer of sharp, very suspenseful legal thrillers? Yes--if that writer is Greg Iles, who has proven in such varied efforts as Black Cross , Mortal Fear , and Spandau Phoenix that he knows how to squeeze the last drop of suspense out of all sorts of situations. Iles immediately makes us feel both sympathy and empathy for his glossy hero, Penn Cage--a former ace Texas prosecutor turned suspense novelist whose sales are up there in the John Grisham Himalayan range. Trying to cope with the recent death of his wife, Cage takes his 5-year-old daughter to Florida's Disney World, where the child sadly sees visions of her mother everywhere in the fantasy-filled environment. Wouldn't a trip to his parents' stately home in Natchez be more soothing for all concerned? Wrong, as it turns out--and before Cage can catch his breath, he's deeply involved in several dangerous matters. His father, a dedicated doctor, is being blackmailed for a past mistake in judgment, and a powerful judge (who just happens to be the father of Penn's high school sweetheart) has a nasty personal agenda of his own. Then there's the unsolved 1968 murder case of a black man, which Cage insists on reopening with the help of an attractive, ambitious newspaper publisher. Iles does for Natchez what John Berendt did for Savannah in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil , creating a gothic Southern landscape where elegance and depravity walk hand in hand. --Dick Adler --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From AudioFile There is literally nothing "quiet" about either the plot or the reading of Iles's new thriller. It is a bold, explosive mystery about Penn Cage, a former assistant DA turned novelist, who returns to his Mississippi birthplace to uncover a thirty-year-old conspiracy to murder a black war veteran. Sometimes the plot is packed in suspense, and other times it is so hokey it is delicious. Hill is more than up to the job of portraying the predominantly Southern accents. His voices don't waver, whether his character is rescuing a victim from a burning house or addressing judge and jury. When Cage wins against all odds because of an unforeseen twist, the listener is tempted to stand up and cheer him and Hill. A.L.H. © AudioFile 2001, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER 1 I am standing in line for Walt Disney’s It’s a Small World ride, holding my four-year-old daughter in my arms, trying to entertain her as the serpentine line of parents and children moves slowly toward the flat-bottomed boats emerging from the grotto to the music of an endless audio loop. Suddenly Annie jerks taut in my arms and points into the crowd. “Daddy! I saw Mama! Hurry!” I do not look. I don’t ask where. I don’t because Annie’s mother died seven months ago. I stand motionless in the line, looking just like everyone else except for the hot tears that have begun to sting my eyes. Annie keeps pointing into the crowd, becoming more and more agitated. Even in Disney World, where periodic meltdowns are common, her fit draws stares. Clutching her struggling body against mine, I work my way back through the line, which sends her into outright panic. The green metal chutes double back upon themselves to create the illusion of a short queue for prospective riders. I push past countless staring families, finally reaching the relative openness between the Carousel and Dumbo. Holding Annie tighter, I rock and turn in slow circles as I did to calm her when she was an infant. A streaming mass of teenagers breaks around us like a river around a rock and pays us about as much attention. A claustrophobic sense of futility envelops me, a feeling I never experienced prior to my wife’s illness but which now dogs me like a malignant shadow. If I could summon a helicopter to whisk us back to the Polynesian Resort, I would pay ten thousand dollars to do it. But there is no helicopter. Only us. Or the less-than-us that we’ve been since Sarah died. The vacation is over. And when the vacation is over, you go home. But where is home? Technically Houston, the suburb of Tanglewood. But Houston doesn’t feel like home anymore. The Houston house has a hole in it now. A hole that moves from room to room. The thought of Penn Cage helpless would shock most people who know me. At thirty-eight years old, I have sent sixteen men and women to death row. I watched seven of them die. I’ve killed in defense of my family. I’ve given up one successful career and made a greater success of another. I am admired by my friends, feared by my enemies, loved by those who matter. But in the face of my child’s grief, I am powerless. Taking a deep breath, I hitch Annie a little higher and begin the long trek back to the monorail. We came to Disney World because Sarah and I brought Annie here a year ago—before the diagnosis—and it turned out to be the best vacation of our lives. I hoped a return trip might give Annie some peace. But the opposite has happened. She rises in the middle of the night and pads into the bathroom in search of Sarah; she walks the theme parks with darting eyes, always alert for the vanished maternal profile. In the magical world of Disney, Annie believes Sarah might step around the next corner as easily as Cinderella. When I patiently explained that this could not happen, she reminded me that Snow White rose from the dead just like Jesus, which in her four-year-old brain is indisputable fact. All we have to do is find Mama, so that Daddy can kiss her and make her wake up. I collapse onto a seat in the monorail with a half dozen Japanese tourists, Annie sobbing softly into my shoulder. The silver train accelerates to cruising speed, rushing through Tomorrowland, a grand anachronism replete with Jetsons -style rocket ships and Art Deco restaurants. A 1950s incarnation of man’s glittering destiny, Tomorrowland was outstripped by reality more rapidly than old Walt could have imagined, transformed into a kitschy parody of the dreams of the Eisenhower era. It stands as mute but eloquent testimony to man’s inability to predict what lies ahead. I do not need to be reminded of this. As the monorail swallows a long curve, I spy the crossed roof beams of the Polynesian Resort. Soon we will be back inside our suite, alone with the emptiness that haunts us every day. And all at once that is not good enough anymore. With shocking clarity a voice speaks in my mind. It is Sarah’s voice. You can’t do this alone, she says. I look down at Annie’s face, angelic now in sleep. “We need help,” I say aloud, drawing odd glances from the Japanese tourists. Before the monorail hisses to a stop at the hotel, I know what I am going to do. I call Delta Airlines first and book an afternoon flight to Baton Rouge—not our final destination, but the closest major airport to it. Simply making the call sets something thrumming in my chest. Annie awakens as I arrange for a rental car, perhaps even in sleep sensing the utter resolution in her father’s voice. She sits quietly beside me on the bed, her left hand on my thigh, reassuring herself that I can go nowhere without her. “Are we going on the airplane again, Daddy?” “That’s right, punkin,” I answer, dialing a Houston number. “Back home?” “No, we’re going to see Gram and Papa.” Her eyes widen with joyous expectation. “Gram and Papa? Now?” “I hope so. Just a minute.” My assistant, Cilla Daniels, is speaking in my ear. She obviously saw the name of the hotel on the caller-ID unit and started talking the moment she picked up. I break in before she can get rolling. “Listen to me, Cil. I want you to call a storage company and lease enough space for everything in the house.” “The house?” she echoes. “Your house? You mean ‘everything’ as in furniture?” “Yes. I’m selling the house.” “Selling the house. Penn, what’s happened? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’ve come to my senses, that’s all. Annie’s never going to get better in that house. And Sarah’s parents are still grieving so deeply that they’re making things worse. I’m moving back home for a while.” “Home?” “To Natchez.” “Natchez.” “Mississippi. Where I lived before I married Sarah? Where I grew up?” “I know that, but—” “Don’t worry about your salary. I’ll need you now more than ever.” “I’m not worried about my salary. I’m worried about you. Have you talked to your parents? Your mother called yesterday and asked for your number down there. She sounded upset.” “I’m about to call them. After you get the storage space, call some movers and arrange transport. Let Sarah’s parents have anything they want out of the house. Then call Jim Noble and tell him to sell the place. And I don’t mean list it, I mean sell it.” “The housing market’s pretty soft right now. Especially in your bracket.” “I don’t care if I eat half the equity. Move it.” There’s an odd silence. Then Cilla says, “Could I make you an offer on it? I won’t if you never want to be reminded of the place.” “Noxa0.xa0.xa0. it’s fine. You need to get out of that condo. Can you come anywhere close to a realistic price?” “I’ve got quite a bit left from my divorce settlement. You know me.” “Don’t make me an offer. I’ll make you one. Get the house appraised, then knock off twenty percent. No realtor fees, no down payment, nothing. Work out a payment schedule over twenty years at, sayxa0.xa0.xa0. six percent interest. That way we have an excuse to stay in touch.” “Oh, God, Penn, I can’t take advantage like that.” “It’s a done deal.” I take a deep breath, feeling the invisible bands that have bound me loosening. “Wellxa0.xa0.xa0. that’s it.” “Hold on. The world doesn’t stop because you run off to Disney World.” “Do I want to hear this?” “I’ve got bad news and news that could go either way.” “Give me the bad.” “Arthur Lee Hanratty’s last request for a stay was just denied by the Supreme Court. It’s leading on CNN every half hour. The execution is scheduled for midnight on Saturday. Five days from now.” “That’s good news, as far as I’m concerned.” Cilla sighs in a way that tells me I’m wrong. “Mr. Givens called a few minutes ago.” Mr. Givens and his wife are the closest relatives of the black family slaughtered by Hanratty and his psychotic brothers. “And Mr. Givens doesn’t ever want to see Hanratty in person again. He and his wife want you to attend in their place. A witness they can trust. You know the drill.” “Too well.” Lethal injection at the Texas State Prison at Huntsville, better known as the Walls. Seventy miles north of Houston, the seventh circle of Hell. “I really don’t want to see this one, Cil.” “I know. I don’t know what to tell you.” “What’s this other news?” “I just got off the phone with Peter.” Peter Highsmith is my editor, a gentleman and scholar, but not the person I want to talk to just now. “He would never say anything, but I think the house is getting anxious about Nothing But the Truth . You’re nearly a year past your deadline. Peter is more worried about you than about the book. He just wants to know you’re okay.” “What did you tell him?” “That you’ve had a tough time, but you’re finally waking back up to life. You’re nearly finished with the book, and it’s by far the best you’ve ever written.” I laugh out loud. “How close are you? You were only half done the last time I got up the nerve to ask you about it.” I start to lie, but there’s no point. “I haven’t written a decent page since Sarah died.” Cilla is silent. “And I burned the first half of the manuscript the night before we left Houston.” She gasps. “You didn’t!” “Look in the fireplace.” “Pennxa0.xa0.xa0. I think you need some help. I’m speaking as your friend. There are some good people here in town. Discreet.” “I don’t need a shrink. I need to take care of my daughter.” “Wellxa0.xa0.xa0. whatever you do, be careful, okay?” “A lot of good that does. Sarah was the most careful person I ever knew.” “I didn’t mean—” “I know. Look, I don’t want a single journalist finding out where I am. I want no part of that deathwatch circus. It’s Joe’s problem now.” Joe Cantor is the district attorney of Harris County, and my old boss. “As far as you know, I’m on vacation until the moment of the execution.” “Consider yourself incommunicado.” “I’ve got to run. We’ll talk soon.” “Make sure we do.” When I hang up, Annie rises to her knees beside me, her eyes bright. “Are we really going to Gram and Papa’s?” “We’ll know in a minute.” I dial the telephone number I memorized as a four-year-old and listen to it ring. The call is answered by a woman with a cigarette-parched Southern drawl no film producer would ever use, for fear that the audience would be unable to decode the words. She works for an answering service. “Dr. Cage’s residence.” “This is Penn Cage, his son. Can you ring through for me?” “We sure can, honey. You hang on.” After five rings, I hear a click. Then a deep male voice speaks two words that somehow convey more emotional subtext than most men could in two paragraphs: reassurance, gravitas, a knowledge of ultimate things. “Doctor Cage,” it says. My father’s voice instantly steadies my heart. This voice has comforted thousands of people over the years, and told many others that their days on earth numbered far less than they’d hoped. “Dad, what are you doing home this time of day?” “Penn? Is that you?” “Yes.” “What’s up, son?” “I’m bringing Annie home to see you.” “Great. Are you coming straight from Florida?” “You could say that. We’re coming today.” “Today? Is she sick?” “No. Not physically, anyway. Dad, I’m selling the house in Houston and moving back home for a while. What comes after that, I’ll figure out later. Have you got room for us?” “God almighty, son. Let me call your mother.” I hear my father shout, then the clicking of heels followed by my mother’s voice. “Penn? Are you really coming home?” “We’ll be there tonight.” “Thank God. We’ll pick you up at the airport.” “No, don’t. I’ll rent a car.” “Ohxa0.xa0.xa0. all right. I justxa0.xa0.xa0. I can’t tell you how glad I am.” Something in my mother’s voice triggers an alarm. I can’t say what it is, because it’s in the spaces, not the words, the way you hear things in families. Whatever it is, it’s serious. Peggy Cage does not worry about little things. “Mom? What’s the matter?” “Nothing. I’m just glad you’re coming home.” There is no more inept liar than someone who has spent a lifetime telling the truth. “Mom, don’t try to—” “We’ll talk when you get here. You just bring that little girl where she belongs.” I recall Cilla’s opinion that my mother was upset when she called yesterday. But there’s no point in forcing the issue on the phone. I’ll be face to face with her in a few hours. “We’ll be there tonight. Bye.” My hand shakes as I set the receiver in its cradle. For a prodigal son, a journey home after eighteen years is a sacred one. I’ve been home for a few Christmases and Thanksgivings, but this is different. Looking down at Annie, I get one of the thousand-volt shocks of recognition that has hit me so many times since the funeral. Sometimes Sarah’s face peers out from Annie’s as surely as if her spirit has temporarily possessed the child. But if this is a possession, it is a benign one. Annie’s hazel eyes transfix mine with a look that gave me much peace when it shone from Sarah’s face: This is the right thing, it says. “I love you, Daddy,” she says softly. “I love you more,” I reply, completing our ritual. Then I catch her under the arms and lift her high into the air. “Let’s pack! We’ve got a plane to catch!” --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Kirkus Reviews Preposterous, but eminently suspenseful, legal procedural about a Mississippi river town's buried secrets, by the author of Mortal Fear (1996), etc. Penn Cage, once a Texas prosecutor, now an infinitely wealthy bestselling lawyer-novelist, cant get over the recent cancer death of his wife, and is just a bit troubled about death threats from the brother of a demented white supremacist he put on death row. After a vacation in Disney World with his daughter Annie, Cage embarks on an extended visit with his parents in Natchez, Tennessee, where he finds that Ray Presley, a white-trash former cop is blackmailing Penn's saintly physician father. It seems that Presley filched a gun from the good doctor, then used it in an unsolved murder. Now, Penn buys back the gun from Presley with a mountain of cash, and later sits down for a famous author interview with the young, rich, beautiful, and brainy Caitlin Masters, the Pulitzer-crazed publisher of the local newspaper, during which he mentions, in passing, a 1968 racially motivated murder of Del Peyton, a young, black factory worker that both the police and the FBI failed to solve. Masters prints her interview, stirring up old animosities all over, including a rancorous legal dispute between Cage's father and Judge Leo Marston, a local powerbroker who was a district attorney at the time. Peyton's widow suddenly appears and asks the famous writer to find who killed her husband. Penn reluctantly agrees, then runs into his old girlfriend, Livy Marston, Leo's flawless, southern-belle daughter. Livy mysteriously ditched Cage 20 years ago, but now can't wait to stoke the old fire. Meanwhile, FBI Director John Portman, Cage's old nemesis, weighs in with nasty threats as Cage braves bullies, dodges bullets, rides down icy rapids, and prepares for a courtroom battle. Breezy, Grisham-style read that tweaks the conventions of southern gothic. (Author tour) -- Copyright ©1999, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Library Journal A decision to give up a lucrative law practice in Houston and return to his home town in Natchez, MS, plunges author/ attorney Penn Cage headlong into a 30-year-old unsolved murder with all the trappings of a civil rights case. Penn's motives smack of personal vendetta, since the man he suspects of planning the murder is a powerful former state's attorney and judge who tried to ruin the medical practice of Penn's father through an unsuccessful malpractice suit several years earlier. As Penn probes into the murder, he begins to discover an FBI cover-up, thrusting his family into a life-threatening situation. Iles (Mortal Fear) has penned a Southern superthriller that rivals John Grisham's best. Fast-paced action, surprise tactics, and down-and-dirty legal maneuvering played out below the surface calm of the deep South will transfix the reader to the very last page. Recommended for all public libraries. -AThomas L. Kilpatrick, Southern Illinois Univ. Lib., Carbondale Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly Although it takes place in Natchez, Miss., and is flavored with the violence and seamy undertones of a Southern Gothic, this fourth thriller by Iles (Spandau Phoenix) owes just as much to a familiar parallel universe where wealthy male lawyers double as tragic heroes, women are invariably smart and attractive, and trials are by definition "high profile." After his wife's death, Penn Cage, a former Houston prosecutor and a bestselling suspense novelist, retreats to his parents' home in Natchez with his grieving young daughter. The healing process is interrupted when Cage learns that someone is blackmailing his father, a saintly family doctor who once made a lethal mistake. In tracing the source of his father's moral dilemma, Cage stumbles upon a trail of lies surrounding the unsolved murder of a black man in 1968. He determines to reopen the case, even though his antebellum hometown is smoldering with racial tension. With the assistance of Caitlin Masters, the attractive, smart and ambitious publisher of the local newspaper, Cage gradually uncovers an intricate conspiracy that reaches up to the highest levels of the FBI. Forced to confront powerful Judge Leo Marston, who nearly destroyed his father in pursuing an unrelated, unfounded malpractice accusation decades before, Cage must also face Marston's daughter, Livy, his old high school sweetheart, who tries to persuade Cage to let sleeping dogs lie. It is difficult at times to sympathize with Cage, who proselytizes about truth, justice and obligation, yet destroys evidence to protect his father and fails to properly shield his loved ones as he single-mindedly pursues the case. Still, this ably crafted, richly atmospheric legal thriller is engrossing, and readers will forgive Iles's protagonist a few shortcomings. Agent, Aaron Priest. Major ad/promo; 15-city author tour; British rights to Hodder Headline; audio rights to Recorded Books. (Sept.) Copyright 1999 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more