His face whips back to me. “What are you talking about?”

“I know my father a lot better than you. It was totally out of character for him to run rather than face the charges against him. He’d never do that to protect himself, only someone else.”

“He’s ashamed,” Lincoln says, “and his shame’s made him cowardly.”

“No. He has his faults, but cowardice isn’t one of them. He’s protecting someone. And maybe that someone is you.”

Lincoln looks as though I slapped him. “Why would he protect me?”

“He believes you’re his son.”

The black man’s eyes narrow, and for the first time he looks at me with serious interest. “You’ve finally accepted it, haven’t you?”

“No. But Dad has. I think your mother told him he was your father, and that was enough to make him believe it. I think she was trying to help provide for you after she was gone. I don’t blame her. And I don’t blame you if you tried to ease her passing with morphine.”

Lincoln’s dark cheek twitches.

“But if you made some kind of mistake and gave her that painful death by adrenaline—and then tried to blame Dad for it—then for that I blame you. Is that what you did? Did you have second thoughts and try to revive her?”

Immeasurable contempt radiates from Lincoln’s eyes. “If I’d done that, and Dr. Cage meant to protect me, why would he run? Why wouldn’t he just plead guilty and take his sentence?”

“I’m not sure. He probably figured her death would be recorded as natural, and there’d be no autopsy. He certainly didn’t expect any videotape. And he probably expected you to show some gratitude and keep your mouth shut. But instead you pushed for a murder charge. And Dad knows that both the Double Eagles and the Adams County sheriff would like to see him dead. I don’t think he was ready to die in a jail cell.”

“Why would I press charges if he was protecting me?”

“Bitterness. You clearly still hate him. You saw a chance to get some payback for the pain you believe you suffered at his hands, and you took it. It’s a human response. But things have gone too far now, Lincoln.”

He shakes his head as though he’s tired of dealing with a crazy man, then starts walking back to his truck.

“Aren’t you even going to deny it?” I ask.

“What’s the point? Even after everything that’s happened, you can’t admit to yourself that he might have killed my mother.”

“You haven’t given me any facts!”

Lincoln shrugs and gets into his truck. “The truth will out, my brother. Sooner or later. I’ll see you ’round.”

The big engine roars, Lincoln backs up, and then the white pickup climbs the slope and turns onto the lake road. The rumbling drone lasts half a minute and then fades to silence. Standing alone by the stained grass and the water, I wonder if it’s remotely possible that Lincoln Turner and I have the same blood flowing through our veins. It doesn’t seem so, and yet . . . it’s become clear over the past few days that the history I’ve believed was mine wasn’t nearly the whole story.

With shaking hands I slide my .357 back into my pants at the small of my back, then start up the hill. If Lincoln is still following me, and Forrest Knox is dispatching dirty cops to commit murder, I need to find a more private place to hide Annie and my mother than Edelweiss. Hiding in plain sight is a good principle, but it can’t work forever. The Natchez bluff has too much tourist traffic for someone not to notice that somebody has taken up residence in the famous house. How long before someone gets curious and climbs the steps to the gallery to look through the windows?

Hiding Mom and Annie somewhere safer will require serious thought, and probably some very quiet negotiation with someone I can trust with my family’s lives. But for now I need rest. If I go back to Edelweiss, I won’t get it. Annie is bound to be bored out of her skull, and she’ll talk to me nonstop. City Hall is no refuge either, especially after three days of ignoring my mayoral duties. In this moment, the only place that seems to offer sanctuary is my town house on Washington Street. There I could get some peace.

As I reach my city car, I decide to call Caitlin and ask her to meet me at home. We haven’t seen each other since last night’s nightmare, and while I know she’s probably working at a fever pitch, no one who went through what she did in Brody Royal’s basement can be all right. More to the point, I feel a strong urge to reconnect with her before events spin any farther out of control. In situations like this one, we’re almost always pushed apart by the things we’re forced to keep from each other.

The vibration of the starting engine comforts me a little, but the car has sat too long for the heater to provide any warmth. As I pull onto the road, it strikes me that Grimsby was telling the truth. Dad shot and killed his partner last night. If Forrest Knox isn’t exploiting this fact, it can only be because he’s working a more subtle plan. In my present state of ignorance, I have little chance of guessing what that might be. I only pray that Walt and Dad possess enough information to unravel Forrest’s intent. If they don’t, they’re certain to wind up right where he wants them, which I assume is dead.

CHAPTER 27

CLAUDE DEVEREUX HAD lived a long life, but the old lawyer had never been as afraid as he had since last night, after hearing Brody Royal had died. Yet that fear increased as he walked into the Baton Rouge headquarters of the Louisiana State Police. Unlike most people who dealt with Forrest Knox, Claude Devereux had known his father. And he knew that the will and anger that drove Frank Knox burned in Forrest also. Claude did not fancy bearing bad news to Frank’s son.

Worse yet, the FBI was investigating the recent deaths in Concordia Parish, as well as those dating back over forty years. Though Claude had worked hard to insulate himself from the more violent activities of his clients over the decades, remaining immaculate was impossible. If the Bureau looked hard enough at Brody Royal’s dealings, they would find enough to send Claude to prison.

Claude was shown into the office by Forrest’s Redbone acolyte, a fairly recent recruit who made Claude’s skin crawl. Claude took a seat before Forrest’s desk, ignoring the plaques, awards, and shooting trophies that adorned the walls and focusing on the single samurai sword that hung behind Forrest’s head—one of the katanas that Frank had brought back from the Pacific in 1945.

To Claude’s surprise, a pit bull sat like a statue beside Forrest’s desk. Surely there must be a rule against that, he thought. Then he guessed that Forrest must be testing the boundaries of the authority he hoped to make official in a short time.

“You look nervous, Claude,” Forrest said.

“Oh, I am.”

“Because Brody was killed? Surely you expected that, as reckless as he’s been lately?”

Claude glanced over his shoulder. The Redbone had taken up a station beside the office door, like a second attack dog. “In all honesty, it’s a relief that he’s gone, though I’ll miss the fees. I didn’t think he’d go as far as he did last night. Kidnapping Penn Cage was suicidal. But that’s not why I’m nervous.”

“What is it, then?”

“I’d rather discuss that in private. I have some news.”

Forrest motioned for him to continue. Clearly, Alphonse Ozan was going nowhere.

Claude cleared his throat. “Sheriff Walker Dennis asked that I relay a message to Snake and the other Double Eagles.”

Forrest laid his elbows on the desk. “What message?”

“He’d like the surviving Double Eagles to come to his office tomorrow morning to answer some questions.”

“Voluntarily?”