“You believe Lincoln Turner is your son?”

“You don’t?”

“No. How long have you known about his existence?”

“Since the night Viola died.”

Caitlin nodded with satisfaction. “Did Viola show you any proof of paternity?”

“What kind of proof could she offer, other than the timing?”

“Tom . . . in some ways, I respect you more than any man I’ve ever known, but you have always been a soft touch. Sharp customers have always taken advantage of you, and you’ve always let them. Peggy told me that years ago, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes many times.”

“Viola wasn’t a con artist, Caitlin.”

“No. But she was a woman. And if she truly had a son by you, do you really believe she’d have kept it secret from you for forty years?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I disagree. She knew what kind of father you are. Sooner or later, she would have told you about the boy. And if not you, she would have told the boy himself. And he would have sought you out. I don’t buy this, Tom. Not any of it.”

The kettle began to whistle. Caitlin had to tear her gaze away from Tom’s face, and she sensed that he was grateful for the break. She poured the water into the mugs Melba had set out, then dunked two bags of Earl Grey. Tom took a pink packet of sweetener from a rack on the counter, poured the contents into his tea, and gently shook the mug.

“So Viola suddenly made it up. That’s what you’re saying,” said Tom. “Why would she lie to me about that?”

“Oh, dear Lord. She was dying, and she had a son she was worried about! She knew that one word in your ear would ensure that Lincoln would never want for anything for the rest of his life. By telling you what she did, Viola provided for her son in perpetuity.”

“That’s pretty cynical.”

“I’m a woman, Tom. Just like Viola.”

“You think all women are the same?”

“No. But about the fundamental things, we’re pretty similar. I’m sure Viola was noble and selfless, but all women are selfish when it comes to providing for their children.”

“Lincoln is my son, Cait. Have you spoken to him yourself?”

“No. But I want to. One of my reporters is trying to find him right now. I hope she doesn’t, to be frank.”

Tom sipped from his mug but said nothing more.

Caitlin decided to try a different tack. “Does Peggy know about Lincoln?”

Tom’s eyes went flat, opaque. “No. Not yet.”

“I advise you to keep it that way, at least until you have a DNA test performed.”

“I’ve already initiated one.”

This shocked her. “How did you do that? Have you had personal contact with Lincoln?”

“No. And I didn’t doubt Viola, but I knew Peggy would demand proof. And Penn too—as they should, of course.”

“Then how . . . ?”

“Viola had some keepsakes from Lincoln’s childhood. One of them was a little pewter box that held a few baby teeth. I took that the night she died.”

Caitlin had a feeling Tom had said more than he intended. “Did Viola know you were going to do the test?”

“No.”

“When will it be completed?”

“Soon, I hope. I use a Baton Rouge lab for my clinical tests. I have a friend who’s a part owner. He said he’d rush it for me. Three or four days from now is possible.”

She was glad to know Tom hadn’t completely abandoned reason. “I know you said you won’t talk about Sunday night. But do you know what Penn thinks about Viola’s death?”

Tom’s silver eyebrows went up.

“He thinks Lincoln tried to euthanize his mother, but somehow screwed it up and killed her painfully. Maybe he had second thoughts and tried to revive her. Penn thinks you figured that out, and you’re protecting Lincoln out of guilt over forty years of neglect.”

The flatness in Tom’s eyes gave way to an unreadable depth, as though a crust of ice had melted away to reveal bottomless ocean. Caitlin’s first thought was that Penn’s theory had struck home, but then something in Tom’s face changed her mind.

“That’s not what happened, is it?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when I said it, you looked like that idea had never entered your head before.”

“You read minds now?”

“What would you think if I told you Lincoln saved Penn’s life today?”

“What?”

“One of the men who tried to kill you last night pulled a gun on Penn at Drew’s lake house. Penn went out there after Drew told him you’d been there. Two guys were staking it out, in case you came back.”

Tom looked stricken. “Oh, no.”

“They got the drop on Penn, but Lincoln pulled up out of nowhere with a shotgun and ran the guys off. They were off-duty cops. Apparently, Lincoln has been following Penn in the belief that Penn knows where you are.”

“With a shotgun . . .”

“Mm-hm. They told Penn that they’d tried to take you last night, and you killed one of them. A Monroe, Louisiana, cop. Is that true? Have you killed two cops now?”

Tom waved his hand angrily. “I did what I had to do.”

Caitlin took two steps toward him and spoke as gently as she could. “Remember last Sunday’s dinner at your house?”

Tom nodded like an amnesiac suddenly recalling a bit of reality.

“Now look at where we are. You’re the author of all this insanity, Tom. And you’ve got to stop it before somebody else gets killed. Like Penn.”

Tom’s breathing had grown labored. “I intended to.”

“How?” she demanded. “I see no method whatever in the madness of your actions.”

Tom slid carefully off the bar stool, then picked up his mug and carried it into the den. Caitlin followed and watched him set the mug on a coffee table that had been pulled close to a comfortable sofa covered with quilts and pillows. With a groan he sat heavily on the upholstered sofa.

“Was that your idea of a strategic retreat?” she asked, sitting in the club chair nearest the sofa.

“The geography’s pretty limited.”

She sipped her tea, giving Tom time to process all she’d told him. Her eyes played over the prescription bottles that stood like little soldiers around a laptop computer. At length she said, “Since Griffith Mackiever is unlikely to be able to help you, what option do you have other than arranging a safe surrender?”

Tom rubbed the back of his neck for a while before answering. Then he turned to her with his startlingly clear eyes and said, “You want the truth, Cait? If Colonel Mackiever can’t help us, then there’s only one person who can.”

Caitlin tried to guess who he was talking about. When it came to her, an electric chill raced over her skin. “Not Forrest Knox.”

Tom nodded gravely.

“Why in God’s name would Forrest help you? He’s trying to kill you.”

“The same reason anybody makes a deal. I’d have to offer him something in exchange for his help.”

“Good Lord. You don’t understand. I just went through this with Penn. He tried the same thing with Brody Royal, and that’s what nearly got us killed. It did kill Henry and the others. You’re talking about the very same idea—offering to bury information in exchange for protection.”

This time Tom said nothing, but she saw the truth of it in his face.

“A promise like that is worthless unless you can guarantee that I won’t do anything to hurt Forrest. That I’ll stop the newspaper’s investigation.”

Still Tom remained silent, and the longer he did, the more horrified she became. “I won’t do it!” she cried.

Tom’s gaze was like a hot lamp, making her ever more uncomfortable.

She shifted in her chair. “Like father, like son, huh? Unbelievable.”

“How much evidence do you really have against Forrest?” Tom asked. “Not the Double Eagles. Just Forrest Knox?”

“Some. Not as much as I’m going to have. Because I’m going to get it all. And if I can prove that Forrest—and by extension Trooper Dunn—are crooked, then Quentin can get you and Walt acquitted for shooting Dunn.”

Tom seemed to be exercising great forbearance. “Do you really believe Forrest Knox will let you do that? And even if you survived to see your story printed, do you think you’d bring Forrest down before his men killed Walt and me?”