This threat didn’t surprise Henry. He’d long known that Brody Royal—the president of Royal Oil and the Royal Cotton Bank, and the owner of massive farm and timber operations—was little better than a gangster. “Let’s say I’m willing to take that risk.”
Morehouse reached out and gripped Henry’s wrist with frightful strength. “If I tell you what happened that night, will you really keep it secret till I’m feedin’ worms? Will you, boy?”
Henry tried to jerk his hand free, but he couldn’t. “I know Brody and Frank visited Albert’s store that afternoon,” he said. “I can prove it.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. Then his hand went limp, and Henry jerked back his own. “How?” asked Morehouse.
“I’ve got a witness.”
Morehouse looked genuinely surprised. “If that’s true, what do you need me for?”
“Because you know everything, and from the inside. You know exactly who did what, and when. And most important, you know why.”
After a long series of wheezing breaths, Morehouse shook his head in apparent surrender. Then he mumbled, “Frank was there, all right. He ran that whole operation.”
Henry’s pulse quickened. “For Brody Royal?”
Morehouse waved this question away. “Leave it, Henry.”
But Henry couldn’t. “You’re never going to be tried for this stuff, Glenn. Royal won’t know you implicated him until you’re … beyond his reach. Please confirm that Royal was there that night. And tell me which others were. Without the names, all this is meaningless.”
“Names, names!” Morehouse mocked in a high voice. “You think it’s easy betraying men I fought with through unshirted hell? You don’t know nothin’ about it! Those men are my brothers, man. The shit we done and seen, the horrors …” He trailed off, breathless again.
Henry wanted to point out that murdering defenseless Americans had nothing to do with war, but instead he said, “Is Brody Royal your brother?”
“Fuck Brody Royal!” the old man bellowed. “Brody’s so far above the likes of you and me, the devil himself will have to deal with him. And I’m fine with that.”
Henry looked down at his watch. Wilma Deen was due back in forty-five minutes. If he overstayed his allotted time, she would see him, and that would quash any chance of further access to Morehouse. Henry owed it to Jimmy Revels to learn what he could about his fate. And after what had happened to Jimmy’s sister this morning, Henry couldn’t in good conscience leave this room without probing Morehouse about that. Yet even a cursory discussion of those cases would eat up the remaining time.
“What’s the matter?” Morehouse asked. “You look like you swallowed a bad oyster.”
“There’s something I don’t understand, Glenn. You called me here, okay? You told me you needed to unburden your soul. Well, here I am. We’re alone. But the only people you’ve implicated are yourself and Frank Knox, who’s been dead for thirty-seven years. I don’t see how you’re going to feel any better after this. In fact … it’s almost like you’re just reminiscing about these crimes. Bragging, like.”
The old man’s face drained of blood, and his chin quivered with anger. “I ain’t braggin’, damn you!”
“No?” Henry felt his own anger rising. “You could end a whole world of misery just by letting me turn on my tape recorder. You could bring peace and closure to a dozen families, justice to this town, and salvation to your soul. Can’t you find the courage for that, Glenn? With death so close?”
Morehouse’s face darkened. “The things I know wouldn’t bring peace to anybody. Take my word for that.” He lifted a bruised hand, scratched his scaly arm, and turned bloodshot eyes on Henry. In that moment Henry felt that he was looking at a man being consumed by malignant secrets.
“You ever see a man skinned alive?” Morehouse croaked. “You ever seen a Polaroid of it, even?”
Struck dumb, Henry shook his head.
“A man can live for hours afterward, believe it or not. I’d rather be burned at the stake than go that way. I hear the Mexican drug cartels are doin’ it now, as a punishment.” The old man’s eyes were wet. “You can’t imagine what some men can do for pleasure, Henry. I promise you that. They make a hobby out of that kind of sickness.”
Henry clung to his notebook as though it were a lifeline attached to the normal world. “Was that what happened to Pooky Wilson?”
Morehouse didn’t answer; he seemed to have slipped into a trance. “I’ve seen a man crucified, too. Nailed to a cross, just like Jesus. I’ve seen men drowned … every kind of killin’ you can imagine. Some during the war, but not all.” He squinted like a sailor trying to make out some distant shore. “How can a man get into heaven after seeing those things?”
“By confessing his sins,” Henry said. “That’s how.”
“To who?” The cloudy eyes found him for a moment. “You? You can’t absolve me of nothing.”
Henry had never seen a man so filled with despair. “To God, Glenn. Why would you let scum like Brody Royal stand between you and salvation? You think he’s above you? Albert Norris was twice the man Royal is. So are you. At least you feel remorse for what you did.”
Morehouse’s smoldering eyes fixed Henry with bone-deep hatred, but the light of animal curiosity burned there also. “Why is Albert’s case so special to you? That’s about the only operation we’ve talked about, and our time’s almost gone. Were you related to that nigger or something? Did Albert blacksnake your mama, Henry? I know he tuned up a lot of white housewives after he finished with their pianos.” The old man’s eyes glinted with wicked delight. “And your daddy spent a whole lot of time on the road, didn’t he?”