Tom shrugged. “It sure would explain some things, though.”
Walt was silent for a few seconds. “I guess it could. Damn. I should have made that connection before.”
“Nathan Bedford Forrest was the founder of the original Ku Klux Klan,” Tom thought aloud. “Up in Tennessee. That sure sounds like Frank Knox, naming his son that way.”
“I’ve been in Texas too long,” Walt muttered. “That, or I’m getting Alzheimer’s.”
“Do you know this Mackiever well enough to call him?”
“And say what, genius? Hey, Griff, I just shot one of your troopers, and I’m trying to find out whether he was straight or bent?”
Tom didn’t respond. Instead, he fiddled with the satellite radio dial until he got it tuned to the 1940s station: Lena Horne was singing “Stormy Weather.”
“We’ve got to get this van under cover,” Walt said. “Not to mention getting your shoulder squared away.”
“That trooper couldn’t have reported our license plate, could he?”
“No, but he could have called in the make and model. And this van’s pretty rare in these parts. Once they find his corpse, they’ll do everything but call out the National Guard to find us.”
“How are we supposed to get this elephant under cover? What is it, ten feet tall?”
“Right at ten. And the LSP’s got six choppers in their Air Support Unit. We need some damned thick woods or a warehouse. Boat garage, maybe. You know of anything like that around here?”
Tom shook his head out of reflex, but a moment later a possible answer came to him. “You know, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone. But I need a safe telephone.”
“If a call can get us off the road and under cover, I say we go ahead and use my last burn phone.” Walt dug a black mobile phone out of his pocket and jabbed it at Tom. “Get on the horn. If we’re not under cover by the time the APB goes out, we’re going out like Butch and Sundance in Bolivia.”
The old Ranger hadn’t a trace of humor in his voice.
CHAPTER 54
CAITLIN SAT ALONE in her office at the Natchez Examiner, feverishly studying the notes she’d made over the past hour. Since leaving Penn’s house, she’d interviewed Sheriff Walker Dennis; Lou Ann Whittington; Hugh Fraser, the publisher of the Concordia Beacon; and Sherry Harden, Henry Sexton’s girlfriend. Her anger at Penn for failing to trust her had driven those interviews, and her success had left her in a state of excitement that rivaled sexual arousal.
The most thrilling revelation had come from Lou Ann, who (after giving a modest account of saving Henry’s life) had confided that Henry had told her he intended to begin writing for the Examiner. Henry had asked Lou Ann to keep this quiet for one day, but Henry’s decision had been the reason he’d been moving his files out of the Beacon building. Hugh Fraser confirmed that Henry had asked his permission to write for her, and that he’d given his blessing. The publisher added that Henry had been planning to write a front-page story for Thursday’s edition of the Beacon, covering his theories about at least five of the cold cases he’d been investigating for so long.
“Now that story might never be written,” the publisher had said in a voice freighted with grief. “If I had his files, I’d try it myself, but what those lowlifes didn’t steal is going to take weeks to get organized into some kind of order. I think I’m too old for that now.”
Caitlin couldn’t help wondering whether there might be a rough draft of Henry’s story on his office computer, but she hadn’t summoned the nerve to ask Mr. Fraser if he would check it. Maybe tomorrow.
Her interviews had yielded other nuggets, too. According to Lou Ann, as Henry slipped from consciousness, he’d been desperate to make sure that someone got certain “keys.” No one had any idea what keys he had been referring to, or even if they were physical keys at all. For all anyone knew, Henry might have been talking about digital keys, codes, or important clues to a particular case. From the moment Caitlin heard about those keys, she’d been hoping Sherry Harden would tell her that Henry kept backups of his stolen files somewhere. But the nurse had refused to tell Caitlin anything. She believed Penn’s failure to adequately protect Henry had allowed the attempt on his life, and she had no intention of helping Caitlin. Caitlin had tried to pour oil on the waters, but Sherry was having none of it (which was a shame, because what Caitlin most wanted was to go sit by Henry’s bed and wait for him to regain consciousness).
Her office door opened, and Jamie Lewis, her editor, stuck his head inside. Jamie had recently transferred down from their Charleston, South Carolina, paper, and he’d made an almost seamless transition into the small-town atmosphere of Natchez.
“I found a file photo of Lou Ann Whittington,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “She belongs to one of the local Mardi Gras krewes, and we have a shot of her riding a float. You want to run it with the story?”
“Is she in costume or anything?”
“No, it’s a decent shot.”
“Run it. She’s going to be a national hero by nine A.M. tomorrow, and people are going to want to see what she looks like.”
Jamie grinned. “Granny to punks: Make my day! We should change our name to the Natchez Enquirer.”
Caitlin grabbed a pen and threw it at him, but Jamie dodged the missile easily. Then he clucked his tongue three times and left.