“I’m going to videotape your statements when we get there,” Sheriff Dennis says, “but I’d just as soon know ahead of time what you’re going to say. I don’t want to talk you into a corner you can’t get out of.”

“Thanks, Walker.”

“Are you and your fiancée straight on your stories?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Because whatever you say is gonna get picked apart by a lot of agencies.”

I nod but add nothing.

“I got the basic gist of what went down, but why don’t you tell me who killed who, and in what order.”

I take a breath and organize my thoughts before speaking. “Two of Royal’s men knocked out the Natchez cop who was guarding the parking lot at the Examiner before they snatched us. I think they probably killed him, because I felt no pulse in the van. Once we reached Royal’s, those two guys hauled his body away.”

“Can you give me a good description?”

“Decent. I’d like to kill the sons of bitches.”

“If they killed a cop, you’ll have to get in line. Who died next?”

For a moment I can’t speak. Walker considers it a given that cop killers will die violently, and he’s so caught up in the moment that he doesn’t realize he just condemned my father by extension.

“Royal and Regan were torturing Caitlin and me in the basement,” I tell him, “in Royal’s gun range.”

“Jesus, Penn. I’m sorry. I always heard Brody had some kind of million-dollar collection down there. Never saw the place, though.”

For an instant the two putative assassination rifles flash behind my eyes. “A million might be low,” I murmur. “Royal was trying to find out who had visited Pooky Wilson’s mother before she died. He knew there was a witness who could place him at the scene of Albert Norris’s death.”

“How did he know that?”

“Between you and me . . . I told him, earlier tonight.”

Walker gives me an angry glare. “Damn it, Penn.”

“I know. I’ll pay for that the rest of my life. But it’s done now. During the torture, Henry Sexton and Sleepy Johnston busted in to try to save us. We heard gunshots upstairs. They pretended to be SWAT, but Royal didn’t fall for it. When Sleepy Johnston came through the door, Brody got the drop on him. After Brody figured out who he was—by calling his lawyer, Claude Devereux—he shot Johnston in cold blood.”

“So this Sleepy Johnston was the guy who went to see Pooky Wilson’s mother before she died?”

“Right.”

“And he was the one who called in tips to me as ‘Gates Brown’?”

“That’s right. And visited Henry at the hospital.”

“How the hell did Johnston know that Royal had kidnapped you?”

“He was watching Brody’s house when we were brought there. He’d been following Royal ever since he got down here from Detroit. That’s why he was in a position to see Royal and Regan burn the Beacon building. He just didn’t get up the nerve to call your office until today. Or yesterday, I guess. Technically. Even after living in the North for forty years, Sleepy was still scared shitless of Royal and the Knoxes. He didn’t think Brody would ever pay for what he’d done.”

“Why did he use a baseball player’s name as an alias?”

“After Sleepy moved to Detroit, he was lonely. Gates Brown was a black star of the Tigers, and he’d had some trouble in his youth, just like Sleepy. But he helped the Tigers win the Series in ’68, and Sleepy saw him as a role model. But his luck ran out tonight.”

Sheriff Dennis, an old baseball player himself, nods with understanding. “Pretty damn sad when you think about it.”

“Worse than sad.”

“So who died next? Henry?”

“Henry was already wounded from the earlier attacks, but I think he’d got hit again in the gunfight upstairs at Royal’s. He could barely hold himself upright. Brody knocked him down and taunted him, then basically forgot him. But when Brody was about to fry Caitlin with that flamethrower—and I was chained to the wall—Henry crawled over there, got to his feet somehow, and protected her with his body.”

“Henry did that?”

“You haven’t heard the half of it. He went after Brody then. Brody was trying to fire that flamethrower, but once Henry lunged at him, he couldn’t fire without risking the flame blowing back on him. Then Henry closed with Brody, and after a brief struggle, Henry pulled the trigger and immolated them both.” I pause to get my voice back under control. “It was the most terrible and heroic thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

“God almighty. And Randall Regan?”

After a few seconds of silence, I say, “I killed Regan.”

Sheriff Dennis grunts. “Well . . . I guess you can give me the details at the station.”

“Thanks.”

“But tell me this: if Sleepy Johnston was shot down in the basement, how’d he wind up outside on the ground?”

“I carried him out.”

The sheriff looks back at me, his eyes skeptical. “Dead?”

“No. He was hit in the spine. I knew moving him might paralyze him, or even kill him, but he’d have burned alive otherwise.” I force back the images of Sleepy Johnston’s face as he resigned himself to death in those flames. “I didn’t even feel the weight, Walker. It was like lifting a little kid.”

Dennis nods slowly. “That’s how it is when shit like that goes down.”

“All I know is, two good men are dead. Three, if that Natchez cop guarding the Examiner was killed.”

“I don’t envy you the call to Chief Logan. Unless you want me to make it.”

I shake my head. “No, I owe Logan that.”

“Well, at least Royal and Regan are dead. I won’t say I’m sorry to hear that news.”

But at what cost? “Caitlin blames me for what happened tonight,” I say dully, voicing my deepest conviction. “She’ll never say it, but she does. She blames my father, too, of course.”

“What about you? Do you blame your old man?”

After a long silence, I hear myself say, “I guess I do. If he’d done anything but what he did, you know? If he’d opened up to me from the beginning, about Viola’s death? If he hadn’t jumped bail? How many people would still be alive?”

“I don’t know, Penn. But wait till you can talk to him before you judge. Your daddy’s a good man. I feel sure there are things you don’t know. Things that will make all this make sense.”

“I tried to write him off tonight, Walker. After Henry died. And Sleepy Johnston. But I can’t.”

Sheriff Dennis turns and gives me a look of pure empathy. “He’s your father, man. He’s blood.”

There it is. Blood. The empirical, evolutionary imperative. What more can be said? “Walker . . . tonight I asked Brody if he killed Viola Turner, or ordered her killed.”

“What did he say?”

“He said no. He admitted that he’d raped Viola, along with some other Double Eagles. Snake Knox and the others. But he said he didn’t kill her. He said . . .”

“What?”

“I’ll deny I ever said this, Walker. But Royal said my father killed Viola.”

Sheriff Dennis seems to freeze behind the wheel. Then he bites his lip for a few seconds. “Did he give you any details?”

“He said Dad saved Viola’s life forty years ago, but he killed her two days ago. He laughed at the irony of it.”

“Do you really believe that sick son of a bitch?”

“He had no reason to lie, Walker. He thought Caitlin and I were about to die, and he’d already admitted ordering the murder of Pooky Wilson.”

Dennis watches Highway 84 and takes his time before speaking. “But do you believe it? In your gut?”

“I don’t know. Could Dad have killed Viola to ease her suffering? Yes. But murder her . . . Not one person I’ve talked to this week believed that’s possible. And in the end, I guess I don’t either.”

“What did Henry think?”

“Henry believed the Double Eagles killed her. They’d threatened to do it if she ever came back to Natchez, and she did. Henry didn’t have any doubt that they fulfilled their threat.”

“That’s good enough for me, bub.”