He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me. If I’d manned up this morning, Henry might not have gotten stabbed. Brody Royal and the Knoxes have had their way in my parish for too damn long. It’s time to shut ’em down.”
After a grim salute, he climbs into his cruiser and pulls away, following the invisible tracks of Lincoln Turner. The memory of that white truck sends a rush of anxiety through me. Where did the man who believes himself my half brother run to? Where is my father at this moment? How long have the two of them known about each other? Have they spoken before? Have they embraced? If so, who brought them together? Who could have, other than Viola Turner? With an exhausted sigh, I turn and walk toward my front steps, praying I can get my mother and daughter to safety without being seen.
CHAPTER 53
TOM HAD BEEN watching the fluorescent glow of the Sidney A. Murray Jr. Hydroelectric Station from a great distance as the Roadtrek hummed over the empty croplands of the Louisiana Delta. Over Walt’s protests, he’d deposited Sonny Thornfield in the ambulance bay of Mercy Hospital, and once Walt had got them safely out of town, Tom had come forward and sat in the passenger seat. There was zero risk of a cop pulling them over. They were following the levee road that paralleled the river southward, and it felt like they were driving on the dark side of the moon. No streetlamps, no service stations, not even billboards broke the black monotony that enveloped them. Only the occasional glimmer of moonlight on the borrow pits at the foot of the levee reassured Tom that they were still on Earth.
Walt was so angry that he’d hardly spoken since they left the dead trooper behind. Tom understood, and didn’t try to force conversation. He knew his decision might have doomed them both. He also knew he had no right to put Walt into further jeopardy. Yet he didn’t regret what he’d done. No matter what Walt believed, another murder wasn’t going to save them.
Tom’s shoulder still throbbed relentlessly, but he’d endured worse in Korea, and with adequate treatment the bullet wound wouldn’t kill him. His angina, however, still lingered high between his shoulder blades like a harbinger of death. He didn’t want to take any more nitro until more time had passed, but as soon as they found a safe phone, he would call Drew Elliott and arrange for some clandestine trauma treatment.
Tom had hopes for the hydroelectric station, which was a major installation. Sited at the Old River Control Structure, it harnessed the power of the Mississippi by diverting part of the river through a dammed offshoot channel and converting that inexorable momentum into electricity. The station had a public reception area, and that seemed as good a place as any to find a pay phone.
“We can’t risk the power station,” Walt said, as though reading Tom’s mind.
Tom’s shoulder throbbed in reply. “Why not? We haven’t heard a thing on your police radio.”
“Don’t mean they ain’t looking for us. And that station’s a level-one terrorist target. There’re probably fifty cameras around it, and every one wired to the NSA.”
“Why?”
“If somebody blew that that dam at high water, it would change the course of the Mississippi by a hundred miles. In ninety days, New Orleans would be a useless marsh and Baton Rouge would be screwed as a port. The stock market would crash a lot quicker than that.”
Tom looked at one of the tall control towers and realized Walt was right. Every time the Mississippi flooded, engineers worried that the river would divert through the Atchafalaya Basin and find the Gulf of Mexico by that much shorter route. Once it did, it would never return to its present course.
“Flip down your visor as we pass,” Walt said, “and don’t even look in that direction. The NSA has facial recognition software, and the FBI can run checks through their system if they want. Since Nine-Eleven, every agency is connected.”
Tom kept his face forward, looking at the fallow fields in the glow of the station’s floodlights. “Why would a state trooper be hunting for Sonny Thornfield, Walt? Was Thornfield a fugitive?”
Walt squawked a laugh. “Man, you’re thinking ass backwards. I told you, that trooper was working with the Double Eagles.”
“A state cop?” Tom said skeptically.
“State, federal, local—don’t make a spit’s worth of difference. There’s always been a thin line between the black hats and the white in this state. Do you know of any connections between the Double Eagles and the state police? Think of the Eagles you know about, one by one.”
The first thing that came into Tom’s mind was Ray Presley, dead seven years now. Ray had been a crooked cop in both New Orleans and Natchez, and he’d had shady dealings with the Double Eagles—with Brody Royal, too. Tom also seemed to remember Ray telling him something about one of the Knoxes’ sons and the state police. Frank’s son, if he remembered right. Tom only recalled this because the boy had been named after a talented Confederate general.
“I believe Frank Knox’s son may have been a state trooper at one time,” Tom said. “Ray Presley told me that.”
Walt didn’t react immediately, but after a few seconds, he turned to Tom and spoke in a taut voice. “What’s his name?”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest, believe it or not.”
“His last name is Forrest? Or Knox?”
“Knox. Nathan Bedford Forrest Knox.”
“Forrest Knox?” Walt’s jaw hung slack.
“I think so, yeah. What is it?”
“Christ, man! There’s a Forrest Knox way up in the Louisiana State Police. I think he might even be chief of the CIB now.”
“What’s the CIB?”
“The Criminal Investigations Bureau. That trooper I shot mentioned that he worked for the CIB sometimes. Remember?” Walt shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense, though. I know the head of the whole damned outfit—Colonel Griffith Mackiever. Griff spent fifteen years in the Texas Rangers before he took a job with the LSP. No way would he have a dirty cop that high in his organization.”