When I did finally close my eyes last night, I saw nightmarish images of Leo Marston raping Livy as a child, forcing her into a conspiracy of silence, raising her in a schizophrenic world of material bounty and spiritual agony, somehow maintaining such a hold on her that she still allowed him sexual access at the age of eighteen. When I pondered the nature of that hold, I felt the dread and horror I felt the first time I saw Roman Polanski’s Chinatown. The dread came when Faye Dunaway told Jack Nicholson that the young woman she had been hiding was her daughter and her sister. The horror arrived with the next line when Jack, reaching for a thread of sanity, asked about her father: “He raped you?” and Dunaway looked up and slowly shook her head. All sanity spun away with this terrible confession. I remember something similar from reading Anais Nin in college, that Nin had seduced her father several times; but Nin had been profligate in her sexual adventures, and besides, she was French. The idea of Livy Marston voluntarily having sex with her father simply would not set in my mind as reality.

“Continental Airlines passenger Penn Cage, please pick up the nearest white courtesy phone.”

It takes a moment for my name to sink in, but when it does, my fear escalates to alarm. The caller could be Kelly or Caitlin, but it could also be someone who means me great harm.

“Continental Airlines passenger Penn Cage, please pick up the nearest white courtesy phone.”

There’s a white phone across the concourse from me, near a bank of pay phones, but I can’t make myself walk over to it. What if Portman’s people are waiting to snatch whoever walks up to answer that call? On the other hand, what choice do I have? The caller could be Daniel Kelly.

“This is Penn,” I say, picking up the phone.

“It’s Kelly.”

“Jesus, are you in the airport?”

“Yes, but we can’t meet. Listen to me, Penn, we only have a few seconds.”

Kelly’s use of my first name rather than the facetious “boss” brings my inner self to attention. “What is it?”

“Portman’s men are in the airport right now. You’re going to have to get home on your own. I’m going to divert these guys, but you have to move fast.”

“I’m listening.”

“My Taurus is parked in sight of the terminal, in the short-term lot, space A-27. The keys are under the mat, and there’s a cell phone under the seat. You got that?”

“A-27.”

“Right. Next: downstairs, near the baggage carousels, there’s an Infiniti Q45 on display. I left a gun sitting on the left inside lip of the rear bumper.”

“Jesus—”

“Listen. You get that gun, get to the car, and haul your ass back to Natchez.”

“What are you going to do?”