Claude had always known that Frank Knox’s son was tough—Forrest had more than proved himself in Vietnam—but he hadn’t known that the boy possessed his father’s temper. Seeing the state trooper challenge the silver-haired old multimillionaire had shaken Claude deeply. At bottom, he was watching a young wolf whose power was waxing try to establish his supremacy over an older one whose power, while still considerable, was on the wane. But if Forrest Knox believed Brody Royal would be easily dislodged from his alpha position, he wasn’t as astute as Claude believed he was.
Ensconced behind his heavy desk, Brody continued to display a forbearance that Claude had never known he possessed. But with each passing second, Devereux became more certain that this was like the quiet before a hurricane. Brody always kept at least one pistol in his desk drawer, and Claude worried that his old friend might simply shoot Knox out of hand, without even deigning to argue with him. Royal had been raised in a world where that kind of thing was still possible. The Redbone behind Forrest looked like he expected something of the sort; he reminded Claude of a guard dog waiting for an attack command.
“Your real problem,” Forrest went on, “is that you’re acting out of fear. That’s a reflex, Brody, and a stupid one.”
Royal’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time he spoke in answer. “You’re not your daddy, boy,” he said with venom. “Be careful.”
Forrest drew himself to his full height, then gave himself a few seconds before replying. “You’re right, I’m not. You and Pop were lions in your day. Everybody knows it. But we’re not living in the jungle anymore. You got scared of payback for something you did forty years ago, and you decided the best response was to kill somebody. Worse, you gave the job to this guy”—Forrest pointed at Randall Regan, who instantly went red—“and he fucked it up beyond belief.”
“Nobody knew that fat secretary had a gun,” Regan snapped. “And I want to know where those boys are now. One of ’em was my nephew.”
Forrest gave him a contemptuous look. “Then you shouldn’t have told him to make his own way when he called you for help.”
Before Regan could respond, Forrest stabbed a forefinger at Royal. “Do you sell all your stock when the market starts crashing? No. You buy. This is the same situation. The FBI has had forty years to prove these murders, and they couldn’t do it. They won’t prove ’em this year, either. So, what are you scared of?”
“Guilt,” said Brody, his gray eyes steady in the hawklike face. “Some born-again fool’s conscience. I wanted Sexton questioned properly, not killed in the street. I wanted to know the identity of every Eagle he’s talked to, everything he told Penn Cage last night, and whatever Viola Turner told him before she died. Then I wanted him to disappear. I still do.”
“Guilty consciences are a legitimate worry with old men,” Forrest conceded. “But let me worry about that from now on. You don’t see me trying to run a bank or an agribusiness, do you? Well, shutting people up is one of my specialties. When it has to be done, nobody does it better.”
Ozan chuckled ominously behind his master.
“That doesn’t reassure me,” Brody said. “You’ve let Henry Sexton write whatever he pleased for years now.”
“And what’s come of it? Nothing but talk. Not one prosecution. Not even an arrest.”
“That could change overnight, son.”
Forrest Knox smiled, probably at the idea of being seen as young. Devereux figured he was about fifty-five.
“And you think burning the goddamn Beacon is going to help your cause?” Forrest asked. “That fire was like a Jumbotron screaming, This reporter’s on the right track! Brody, before that fire I had a direct digital line into Sexton’s computers. I saw everything that fool was going to publish, days before it appeared. You’ve destroyed all that. Worse, Randall’s rookie crew failed to finish Henry off. Now we have no way of knowing what he’s telling the FBI.”
Royal lifted the glass of single malt whisky Claude had poured him earlier and drank it off neat. Then he spoke with an unnerving precision that silenced even Forrest Knox, his eyes never leaving Knox’s face.
“You don’t know as much as you think you do, Lieutenant. For instance, are you aware that Sexton interviewed my daughter, Katy, at her home only one week ago?”
Forrest blinked but said nothing.
“He arranged the interview under false pretenses, then questioned her about that young nigger Wilson, and Albert Norris.”
Forrest looked intrigued. “What did he ask her, exactly?”
“Enough to upset her greatly. My daughter is fragile, Lieutenant. I’m not sure what she remembers about that period, but I do know that further questioning of that kind could dredge up information that none of us wants exposed.”
Forrest nodded slowly. “I see. Well, I can pay you back for that tidbit. A week ago, some nigger showed up at the deathbed of Pooky Wilson’s mother. He knows all about what you and Daddy did back in sixty-four. In fact, he saw you and Daddy jump from Norris’s store window, and he saw Randall drive you away.”
Claude felt his stomach tighten. This was the first he’d heard of such a potentially devastating witness.
“Sexton’s been looking all over for him,” Forrest went on, “only he doesn’t know the man’s name. The mama died before he could get it out of her. But now that you’ve cut off my line into the Beacon, we won’t even know if Henry finds him.”
“All the more reason to deal with the problem at its source!” Royal leaned over his desk, his face darkening with passion. “Do you remember being three years old, boy?”
Forrest looked perplexed by this question.
“I do,” Brody said. “It was 1927, and my mama was standing on tiptoe, holding me over her head while the floodwater rose up to her mouth, then her nose. My daddy was diving down to try to find an axe to hack through the roof. If he hadn’t found it, we’d all have died that day.”