After the guards came Randall Regan, Royal’s son-in-law, a rawboned, humorless man with the face of a prison guard (which was what he was, in a way, but that was another story). At last the man himself exited the plane: Brody Royal, five feet ten and whipcord-trim, moving with speed and assurance despite his advanced age. His thick silver hair fluttered in the wind as he moved toward the shelter of the terminal with his overcoat folded over his arm. His hawklike face had deep-set eyes that almost never ceased motion, and he caught sight of Snake even before his guards did. When Snake raised his hand in greeting, both guards moved toward him, but Royal called out that Snake was a friend.
Snake lit a Winston and waited for Royal to join him in the lee of the terminal building, watching the businessman’s eyes for signs of irritation at his unexpected visit. Royal might be one of the two or three richest men in the state, but thirty-seven years ago, Snake had killed four people at his command, and at this very airport. To Snake’s way of thinking, that gave him special access. He saw only frank curiosity in Royal’s eyes as the man stepped under the metal awning.
“Surprised to see you out here this time of year,” Royal commented, not offering his hand. “What’s going on?”
“I thought we might have a word, sir. A quiet word.”
“Of course. Well?”
“You may have heard that Glenn Morehouse is dying?”
Royal nodded once.
“Glenn’s living out at his sister’s place. I’ve been by there a few times, just to visit, and … well, I got a funny feeling. Glenn’s all the time reading Henry Sexton’s newspaper stories about the Double Eagles and talking about the old times—and not in a good way, either. He’s done got religion. Born again.”
Royal’s eyes had clouded at the mention of Henry Sexton. “Born again, you say? That’s never good.”
“No, sir. And his sister, Wilma—she’s a good girl, old school—Wilma says Glenn made some suspicious phone calls last week when she was out of the room.”
Royal watched an airport attendant chock the Avanti’s wheels. “You think your old comrade in arms is thinking about clearing his conscience before he meets his maker?”
“I’d hate to think so, sir. But if you ask me straight out … that’s what I’m thinking.”
“Morehouse was one of the original Eagles, wasn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Hard to believe he’d turn traitor.”
“The fear of death does funny things to people, I find.”
“Religion does, too. Have you spoken to Billy or Forrest about this?”
“Yessir. But they don’t seem too concerned about it. At least not enough to do anything ahead of time.”
Deeper consternation creased Royal’s face. “I see. And you thought …?”
“I just figured you ought to be made aware of the possibility. Considering …” Considering our shared history, Snake finished silently. “If you wait till the levee breaks, the whole damn Corps of Engineers can’t hold back the flood.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Royal clapped Snake on the shoulder. “You did the right thing coming to me. I’ll think about it. Now, I need to get to my bank. There’s a lot going on in New Orleans just now.”
Snake shook his head in admiration. When Brody Royal said “my bank,” he meant it in the literal sense. He owned the motherfucker. The Royal Cotton Bank.
“Things are moving fast in the wake of the storm,” Royal said. “It’s a hell of a mess down there, but there’s also a lot of opportunity. The nigras have finally scrambled out of there like rats from a flooded basement, and the old-money boys were caught flat-footed. It’s like 1927 in reverse.”
Snake wondered how old Brody Royal could have been during the 1927 flood. Just a baby, surely. “I know if anybody can turn a profit out of that bitch Katrina, it’ll be you.”
Royal looked offended by the coarse language, but then he grinned and slapped Snake on the back. “You’re a good man, Knox, like your brother was. Frank was hard. Nobody to cross.”
“That’s a fact, sir.”
“Let’s keep this visit to ourselves. If anyone questions you, you asked whether I knew of any crop-dusting work over in the western parishes. Meanwhile, keep me apprised of any developments regarding Morehouse, and also what Forrest is thinking. Do you have any problem with that?”
“No, sir. That’s why I’m here.”
“Good man.” Royal glanced down the flight line, toward the ragged crop dusters of Knox’s Flying Service. “I noticed the other day that your Pawnee sounds past due for an overhaul.”
“She is getting a little loose in the joints, all right.”
“Have the mechanic put her on his schedule. On my tab.”
“I appreciate it, sir.”
“An ounce of prevention’s worth a pound of cure.”
“You said it.”
Royal signaled to the men with the rifles, then made his way toward a blue Range Rover parked in the general aviation lot.
CHAPTER 8
HENRY SEXTON DROVE toward the twin bridges that crossed the Mississippi River at Natchez, a sense of dread perched like a crow on his shoulder. For so many years he’d been investigating on his own, a solitary fisherman dropping his lines into backwaters long abandoned by others. But all the while, time and mortality had been working like rust at the bottom of his boat, eating away at the craft that supported his quest for justice. Witnesses died or fell victim to Alzheimer’s disease; hidden evidence sank deeper into the mud below the dark water. Viola Turner was only the latest to die without revealing what she knew.