I nod but say nothing.

“We know the Kennedys meant to destroy Marcello. We know Frank Knox worked as a military instructor at a Cuban exile training camp funded by Marcello. We know your father knew Frank Knox from his work for Triton Battery, and that he kept quiet about at least one Knox family murder for forty years. We also know that Tom personally visited Marcello in 1968, and that he treated some Marcello soldiers in Natchez. Finally, we know he signed the medical excuse form that got Frank Knox out of work for the week prior to the assassination in Dallas.”

This ruthless recitation leaves me speechless, but Kaiser piles on with more facts. “Henry Sexton had a photo of your father with Frank Knox and Ray Presley at a Natchez KKK rally in 1965. There’s the fishing boat photo of your father with Royal, Ray Presley, and Claude Devereux from 1966. Penn, if that many pictures survived to support these relationships, then what are the odds that those were the only times Tom ever saw those men?”

“I don’t care,” I insist, my voice filled with irrational defensiveness. “You’ll never convince me that my dad was part of any plot to kill Kennedy. Would he screw his black nurse, or even fall in love with her? Sure. But knowingly participate in an assassination? Hell no.”

“As I said before,” Stone says quietly, “Tom might have done something without understanding what the consequences would be—until it was too late. You know how the Mafia works. They do you a small favor, and the next thing you know, you’re in up to your neck. They lend you money, but when you go to pay them back, you find out they don’t want money in return. They want a name, or a key to a building—”

“Or a medical excuse,” says Kaiser.

“Fuck you, John.” I keep my gaze on Stone. “I thought you said you believed it would turn out that Dad hadn’t done anything.”

“I said his decisions would turn out to be justified.” An embarrassed sadness seeps from the old agent’s eyes. “Penn, I’m as human as the next man. You know my record. I did a lot of things I’m not proud of, and often for no good reason other than whiskey. But if I feared for my family’s safety, I doubt there’s much I wouldn’t do to protect them.”

The universal motivation gives me pause. It might even be the reason Dad is still doing crazy things today.

“Brody Royal told you that Tom saved Viola Turner in 1968,” Stone says. “The only person with the power to save that woman from the Double Eagles was Carlos Marcello. Nobody else could have muzzled Snake Knox.”

I can’t argue this point.

“That simple truth,” says Stone, “begs one question.”

I know what he’s suggesting. “What did Dad do in exchange for Marcello saving Viola?”

“No,” says Stone, surprising me. Then he speaks like an oncologist delivering a devastating diagnosis. “The question is, why did Tom think Marcello would help him in the first place?”

With these words, a black abyss yawns open at my feet.

“I know all this has been a blow,” Stone goes on softly. “I wish I could have padded it, but I don’t have the time.”

Without realizing it, I’ve begun pacing out a path of futility in the little room. Part of me wants to bust out of this hotel and run for miles along the river. But where would I go?

“What do you want from me, Dwight? I know something’s coming.”

Kaiser nods at the older man.

“You’re right,” says Stone. “Penn, I don’t mean any offense, but . . . I can’t accept that Tom is completely out in the cold. He wouldn’t leave your mother without some kind of reassurance. If you don’t know where your father is, then your mother does.”

For the first time in a long while, laughter bubbles up my throat. “Man, you do not know my parents. Mom’s faith in my dad is unshakable, almost absurdly so. As for Dad, he thinks Mom is safer not knowing where he is, and he knows she’s tough enough to stand the waiting.”

Stone ponders this for a bit. “And you?”

I shrug. “I don’t think he’s thinking about me at all. He’s got other things on his mind.”

“You’re wrong about that. And I think you’re wrong about your mother. Ask her, Penn. Push her. You might be surprised.”

I step closer to the bed, my sympathy for Stone’s plight forgotten. “You’ve got some nerve, man. You accuse me of lying, then ask me to push my mother into telling you where my father is . . . but you can’t even protect him if he did decide to come forward. I’ve been searching for him from morning till night, even though I’d like to kill him myself. But here’s the bottom line: if you can’t guarantee to keep him alive while we try to get to the truth, then I won’t do a damned thing to help you. Not either of you.”

“You’re upset,” Stone says.

“You’re goddamn right I am.” I look from Stone to Kaiser, then back at my old friend. There’s something I’m missing, still. “You guys are still holding back on me, aren’t you? That medical excuse doesn’t prove any kind of complicity, or even guilty knowledge. But last night John told me that Dad knows who killed Kennedy.”

They share another glance.

“Come on, damn it! Out with it. What have you got to lose at this point?”

“We do know one more thing about your father,” Stone says quietly. “It’s not damning, but it does prove guilty knowledge.”

“For God’s sake, Dwight. Tell me.”

The old man finally gives me an unguarded look, and in his eyes I see a fear that’s almost pathetic. “I’m afraid that if I do, you’ll walk out that door and never come back.”

“So what? Do you expect me to stay here all night?”

“No. I only want you to listen to John for ten more minutes.”

I turn to Kaiser. “What for?”

This time Kaiser doesn’t speak. He’s waiting for guidance from Stone. The old agent looks like he’s come to the end of his rope. I feel strangely guilty for fighting him, but he’s left me no real choice.

“Penn,” he says finally, “you and I are both standing at the doors of mysteries. You want to know why everyone wants your father dead, and why he won’t come in from the cold. I want to know what happened in Dallas and why. But I believe that once we get those doors completely open, we’re going to find that our mysteries are the same. All my instinct tells me that.”

“I don’t see how,” I say wearily.

“Stay for ten more minutes and find out. I’m asking you as a friend.”

“You’re holding me hostage to information about my father. Is that what a friend does?”

A flash of guilt crosses his face, but then his gaze hardens. “This is bigger than we are, son. Bigger than your family, even. Help me put this case to rest.”

I’m about to tell them I’m leaving when Kaiser stands and walks up to me.

“I know you don’t want to listen to me anymore,” he says. “But I want you to know that I’m not against your father. In fact, I think he’s innocent of killing Viola Turner.”

My mouth falls open. This is the first time Kaiser has even hinted at this possibility. “Why are you only telling me this now?”

“Because I knew it would drive you crazy that I couldn’t do anything about it. Once your father and Garrity killed that trooper, my hands were tied.”

“You’re just trying to manipulate me. You want me to talk Walker into backing off from the Double Eagles tomorrow.”

“Yes, I do. But that’s got nothing to do with my opinion about your father.”

“Who do you think killed Viola?”

“I think Forrest Knox gave the order.”

“Can you prove that?”

Kaiser turns up his hands. “If I could, I’d have done it already. But Forrest was sixteen when Viola was raped, when her brother and Luther Davis were killed. I think he took part in those crimes. And if he did, then he had every reason to want Viola dead.”

I don’t know how to respond to this new tack.

“Whatever deal your father made with Carlos Marcello kept Viola safe until Marcello died,” Kaiser says. “After that, force of habit was probably enough. Viola was way up in Chicago, and she hadn’t said anything about the Knoxes in twenty-five years. But once she moved back to Natchez, and Henry Sexton started visiting her . . . that was too much. The Knoxes had to kill her, exactly as they’d threatened to do.”