“You think I’m exaggerating? In 1979, the House Select Committee on Assassinations determined that Marcello’s combined operations—both criminal and legitimate—comprised the largest industry in the State of Louisiana. Bigger than the oil business, bigger than agriculture. Carlos wasn’t just a Mafia kingpin. He was a king, every bit as powerful as Huey Long in his day.”

Kaiser has raised his voice, and I’m starting to hear the obsessive passion of a conspiracy nut. “I still don’t understand what we’re doing here, John.”

The FBI agent looks at me like I’m playing a game with him. “You’re holding back on me, Penn.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When you called me Tuesday night, after Henry’s stabbing, you told me you thought Brody Royal might be involved in the major assassinations of the 1960s. You also said your father might know something about them. You used the plural both times. It’s time to tell me what you were talking about.”

I don’t want to answer, but my memory of Dwight Stone and all he did for me seven years ago is pushing me to speak. After some deliberation, I decide to break my father’s confidence.

“My dad told me a story the other night,” I say, not mentioning the incriminating photo that Henry Sexton passed to me earlier that same night—the photo that prompted our conversation. “Back in the midsixties, Dad and Dr. Leland Robb were down on the Gulf Coast at a gun show, and Dr. Robb set up a fishing cruise with Brody Royal. Dad didn’t know about it until the last minute, so he couldn’t get out of going. Claude Devereux and Ray Presley were also on the boat.”

“That’s a pretty motley crew.”

“I know. Anyway, the one other guy on this boat was some kind of paramilitary CIA type. A contractor, probably. He spoke French. Or cursed in French, anyway.”

Kaiser’s gaze has turned intense. “What year was this?”

“In ’65, I think. No, ’66. Dr. Robb was killed in ’69, so it was three years before that. Anyway, the CIA guy got trashed during this little voyage, and he and Royal got to talking about Cuba. The Bay of Pigs. They also talked about some coup d’état operations in South America. Then at some point the guy started bitching about ‘Dallas’ and how the whole thing had been screwed up, like a botched military operation. Dad didn’t know what he meant, but it scared the shit out of him, and he made a point never to see Royal again after that. And that’s all. That’s my story.”

“Why would that scare your father unless he thought ‘Dallas’ referred to the JFK assassination?”

“I know, I know. You’re probably right.”

“Dr. Cage didn’t think this guy was just talking out of his ass?”

“No. Dad was a combat medic in Korea, and he told me he’d seen a certain type of guy over there. The hard type, you know? Professional. He said this guy was like that. No bullshit. A killer.”

Kaiser nods slowly and motions for me to go on.

“That’s all I know, John. Seriously. “

“No, it’s not. You saw those rifles in Brody’s basement.”

“That’s meaningless, man. A gullible old man’s fantasy. You’ll have the rifles themselves soon anyway. The barrels and works, at least. You don’t need me for that.”

“Earlier you told me you thought the JFK rifle might be real. What made you say that?”

“The fishing story, I guess. I figured there might possibly be some connection between Royal and the kind of guy who’d be involved in an assassination.”

“That’s all?”

“Maybe after all I’ve heard about Frank Knox . . . it didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility that he was in Dallas on the day John Kennedy died.”

“No shit,” says Kaiser. “And he might not have been alone, either. His brother Snake served as a sniper in Korea. I told you that over the past couple of years Snake has bragged to a few people that he shot Martin Luther King.”

I groan in protest. “James Earl Ray killed King, John. I don’t think there’s any serious dispute about that. In any case, I honestly don’t care right now. I killed someone myself tonight. I need to sleep.”

“Just one more minute. Tell me about the rifles. What kind of guns were they?”

I close my eyes and think back to the awful few seconds between Royal and Regan pushing us toward the indoor firing range and Caitlin going after Royal with the straight razor. “Hunting rifles,” I say softly.

“Not military?”

“No. Wooden stocks, hunting scopes.”

“What make?”

“I don’t know. My father’s the gun expert, not me. The rifle on the bottom might have been a Winchester. Yeah . . . and the top one was bolt-action.”

“Do you remember which rifle was dated for which assassination?”

“The bolt-action was Dallas. The Winchester-style gun was April fourth. Memphis.”

“That’s good detail for a quick glimpse. I guess former prosecutors make good witnesses. We’ll have to see what comes out of the ashes after the wreckage of Royal’s house cools.”

“Good luck with that.” I reach for the door handle. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Hold up,” Kaiser says, betraying some tension. “We’re not quite done.”

“Damn it, John. Yes, we are. I’m exhausted.”

“You didn’t think the story about the founding of the Double Eagles was relevant to all this? To the rifles, even?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The sandbar south of Natchez? Nineteen sixty-four? Henry didn’t tell you that story?”

I think back to the long conversation in Henry’s “war room,” but nothing rings a bell. “I don’t think so.”

Kaiser purses his lips like he’s surprised. “Frank Knox founded the Double Eagles on a sandbar south of the International Paper Company in the summer of ’64, five days after the FBI found the three civil rights workers in that dam in Neshoba County. That’s the first day Frank handed out the Double Eagle gold pieces.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of that.”

“Snake Knox was there, and Sonny Thornfield, and Glenn Morehouse. They were having a family campout and practicing with plastic explosives. Just good ol’ all-American fun.”

“Okay. So?”

“On that day, Frank told the others they were splitting off from the Ku Klux Klan. Then he drew three K’s in the sand.” Kaiser takes a small notepad from his coat and draws three capital K’s as the points of a triangle. “Morehouse and Thornfield were confused until Frank took out a magazine photo of Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King, Junior, standing with President Johnson in the White House Rose Garden.”

“Go on.”

“Frank had drawn red circles around the heads of Kennedy and King.”

“Shit, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“You don’t think so? When Sonny and Morehouse still didn’t get it, Frank drew more letters in the sand—two before each K.”

As I watch, Kaiser adds letters to his notepad. Now the points of his triangle read:

JFK

MLK RFK

To my surprise, the sight of these letters starts a low buzzing in my head. “But it’s what Frank said,” Kaiser goes on, “that makes me take all this seriously. He scratched an X through the JFK with a barbecue fork and said, ‘One down, two to go.’”

A wave of sweat breaks through my skin inside my coat. “Henry didn’t tell me anything about that.”

“I guess he was too busy telling you other things.”

I don’t bite on this bait, but Kaiser’s probably right. Since the founding of the Double Eagles had nothing to do with my father, Henry didn’t waste time telling me about it. I’ll bet he didn’t tell me half of what he knew that night. He’d been working for twenty years on those cases. Thirty, maybe.

“John, are you seriously working the JFK assassination?”

This time, when Kaiser’s eyes meet mine, it’s as if I’m truly seeing the man for the first time. The intensity in his gaze is not that of a fanatic, but of a soldier committed to his cause. “Like I said, I’m helping Dwight and his buddies. But you still don’t understand. We know who ordered John Kennedy’s murder. We’ve been certain for more than two years. We just haven’t been able to prove who fired the kill shot.”