While Sherry guessed answers on a game show in the den, he opened his briefcase and removed an envelope containing several photographs. One was the original photo of Tom Cage with Brody Royal and his cronies in the fishing boat. But another Henry had decided against showing Penn, at the last moment. He slid it out now, keeping one corner under a page in his notebook so that he could easily cover it if someone entered the kitchen.
This photo showed a blurry image of Henry himself, shot with a telephoto lens as he walked out of the Ferriday Walmart. A rifle scope reticle had been perfectly superimposed over his face, with a bull’s-eye on his forehead. He’d received this photo in the mail, and he’d duly turned it over to the FBI, but the Bureau had been unable to trace it. All they could verify was that it had been mailed from Omaha, Nebraska, which Henry could see from the postmark. What Henry didn’t tell the FBI was that he’d spent the week prior to receiving this threatening photo in New Orleans, investigating the real estate dealings between Brody Royal and Carlos Marcello. The old Mafia boss had died in 1993, long after Alzheimer’s claimed his mind, but the MarYal Corporation still had extensive holdings in New Orleans and South Florida. Throughout his investigations of the Double Eagles, Henry had ignored all threats. But investigating Brody Royal and his ties to the Mafia was apparently different, and something had told him he ought to back off, at least for the time being.
“Baby?” Sherry said softly from behind him.
Henry started at the sound of her voice, but it was too late to hide the picture. Sherry already knew about it, anyway. He jerked when she laid her hand on his shoulder. A working nurse, Sherry had an amazingly gentle touch, but tonight Henry was as jumpy as he’d ever been in his life.
“Did you show Penn Cage that picture?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I got it months ago, and nothing’s happened since.”
“Nothing quite as bad, you mean.”
He turned in his chair and squeezed her hand. “Look, Mama won’t have to be here more than a couple of days, if that.”
“Oh, I’m fine with her,” Sherry said with sincerity. “She’s your mother, and she’s welcome. I only hope she doesn’t try to make it as hard on Jamie as she does on me.”
Jamie was Sherry’s fifteen-year-old son.
“She likes Jamie,” Henry assured her, hoping he was right.
“Mmm.” Sherry poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table, her gaze as penetrating as any he’d ever faced. “If this situation is so dangerous, why haven’t you called the sheriff’s department?”
“Because I’m not sure we can trust them.”
Fresh concern furrowed her brow. “What about the FBI, then?”
“I am going to call them tonight. But I don’t expect they’ll send anyone to protect us.”
“They might, if you told them everything you know.”
Henry stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that, babe.”
“Why not? Because you want an exclusive story?”
“No. Because they never tell me a damn thing, yet they expect me to give them everything I’ve spent my life uncovering. I’m doing their jobs for them, and—by God, it’s just not right.”
Sherry stared into her coffee cup for a while, then laid a hand on his forearm and squeezed it softly. “What if you get hurt because of that stubbornness of yours? That’s not right, either. I love you, and I need you.”
Henry acknowledged her concern with a nod, but he knew he wouldn’t change his mind. “That’s a risk I’ve taken from the beginning. It’s just something I’ve got to do.”
“What if Jamie gets hurt, Henry? What then? These men you write about have used bombs. They’ve shot blindly into houses. I remember that stuff from when I was a little girl.”
They’ve done a lot worse than that, he thought. “I don’t think that’s going to happen, Sher. But even if I gave everything to the FBI, they wouldn’t send us a protective detail tonight. That’s not how they work.”
“So it’s you against the world?”
“No. I have Penn Cage helping me now.”
She made a sour face. “Oh, Penn Cage. What can he do?”
“Penn knows a lot of people. When he tried the Del Payton case, he fought the director of the FBI, and he won.”
Sherry lowered her voice to a whisper. “Then why does he send one old colored man to guard us when people are dying left and right? He’s rich—he can afford to get you a real bodyguard. I’m sorry, Henry, but how do you know he’s not trying to steal your story for that Caitlin Masters he lives with?”
Henry shook his head resentfully. “He’s not doing that. Penn’s just trying to help his father.”
“Who may have murdered one of his own patients, according to the reports I heard at the hospital. His own nurse!”
“You know better than that. You’re talking about Tom Cage, for God’s sake.”
Sherry laid a hand over one of his. “All I know is, they’re from the high side of the river. They’ve got money. They’re different from us, and I don’t think you can afford to—”
“I get the message,” Henry snapped, pulling his hand from beneath hers. “But I believe they’re honorable men, as honorable as any I’ve ever known, and I trust them.”
She shrugged to show how little appreciated she felt. “Well, I hope you’re right. That’s all I can say.”
“Time will tell. I need to get back to work. I’ve got some calls to make.”