Henry came out of his chair with both fists clenched, but Morehouse only laughed. “I know Albert had more’n a couple outside kids in Ferriday,” he said, still chuckling. “Is that why you’ve spent all these years trying to find out who killed him?” The old Klansman guffawed until his laughter became a desperate coughing jag.
Henry wondered whether Morehouse had any idea how close he’d come to the truth: that Albert had indeed been his father in every sense but the biological one. Henry’s heart pounded like a kettledrum. He hadn’t been in a fight since the third grade, and most people thought he didn’t have a temper. But right now he wanted to jab his pen into Morehouse’s swollen eye socket and drive it through his brain.
“You know what?” he said, closing his notebook and stuffing it into his back pocket. “I figure you need me a lot more than I need you. I’m going to walk out of this room and go back to work. I’m going to solve these cases one way or another, with or without you. And when spring comes, I’ll smell the flowers and hug my lady and know I’m doing the best I can. But you … you’re going to sit in this room and rot until they box you up with your sins and bury you. And from the looks of things, that won’t be very long.”
Henry walked to the door, then turned back and looked at the old man. Morehouse was straining to rise from his chair.
“Wait!” he yelled. “Wait, you son of a bitch!”
Henry felt he was standing on the threshold between life and death. Despite the old man’s fury, he could not lift himself out of the chair. While Morehouse sputtered and cursed, Henry walked out into the cold winter light and shut the door behind him.
CHAPTER 11
FLAT ON HIS back beneath a 1998 Camaro, Sonny Thornfield cursed his cell phone, then slid his creeper from beneath the car and dug the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID read DUKE WILLIAMS. Duke Williams was dead—had been for five years—but his wife wasn’t. Sandra kept her dead husband’s name on the phone listing so that burglars wouldn’t target her. Sonny used to stop by Duke’s house on occasion to comfort his widow, back when the doctor let him take Viagra. Sonny still took the drug on special occasions, but Sandra Williams didn’t rate the risk of death. Her only real utility now was that she lived at the turn that led to Wilma Deen’s house.
“Hey, Sandy,” Sonny said, grimacing at the leaky ceiling of his automotive shop.
“Hey, Son,” she almost cooed. “I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No problem, girl. Always glad to hear from you.”
“I think I saw something you might be interested in.”
“What’s that?”
“About an hour ago, Wilma left her house. I was out mulching my zinnia beds, and she spoke to me as she passed. Said she was headed to Tallulah on some errand for Glenn. After she left, as I was going back into my house, another vehicle came up the road—headed in, not out. I figured it was probably a sitter coming to stay with Glenn. But when it got closer, I recognized it. The owner goes to the same church I do.”
“Who was it, Sandy?”
“That reporter for the Beacon—Henry Sexton.”
Sonny rolled off the creeper and sat up with a grunt. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I shielded my eyes as he passed, and I saw his mustache and goatee. It was Henry, all right.”
Sonny’s chest had gone tight. “Is he still down there?”
“Mm-hm. I walked out to my mailbox, and I could just see the tail end of his Explorer sticking out from behind Wilma’s house. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but Snake told me to keep an eye out for anything funny down there. I tried to call Snake, but he didn’t answer, so I figured I’d best call you.”
“You did right, hon.” Sonny steeled himself against the pain in his arthritic knees, then struggled to his feet. “We won’t forget you.”
He could almost hear Sandra blush. “Aw, ya’ll don’t need to do anything for me. I’m glad to help. I know Glenn’s getting pretty close to the end, and he might not be quite right in his mind, you know?”
“That I do. You call me back when Sexton leaves, and double-check to be sure it was him. Okay?”
“Will do, Sonny. I got nothing else to occupy me.”
Sonny ignored the hint. “Thanks, Sandy.” He clicked END, then speed-dialed Snake. After five rings, he expected to get voice mail, but then Snake picked up.
“What’s up?” he asked in a sleepy croak.
“Did Sandra Williams just call you?”
“Hell, yeah. I’m still half asleep. I didn’t have the patience to listen to her bitch about the pickaninnies from that apartment complex walking across her property to get to the Walmart.”
“That wasn’t why she called. I think we got trouble, pard. Sandy says Henry Sexton is down at Wilma’s talking to Glenn, and Wilma’s not there.”
“Shit. Right now?”
“Yep. What you got on tap?”
“I’m supposed to fly down to Baton Rouge and make a pickup.”
Snake was referring to a bulk load of ether in transit from Mexico, something Sonny didn’t like moving in his cars. “I’m in the middle of work myself. Just had two cars delivered from auction.”
Snake grunted to acknowledge that he understood Sonny’s actual meaning.
“But I think we’d better go see Billy Knox,” Sonny added. “Don’t you?”
Snake didn’t answer. Sonny knew his old comrade hated taking problems to his son, but that was the procedure, and Sonny hoped Snake wouldn’t buck it. Glenn Morehouse knew enough to blow a lot more than Double Eagles out of the water. “Snake?” he said hesitantly.
“I’m thinking.”
Sonny looked over at the Camaro. When Sandra called, he’d been trying to open a hidden compartment that concealed two pounds of ephedrine. He’d already retrieved two pounds from behind the coolant reservoir, but the jerry-rigged compartment welded above the exhaust pipe was proving troublesome. He’d ripped his right thumbnail down to the quick, and it hurt like hell. He put it in his mouth and sucked it. “Come on, Snake. We gotta do it.”
“Is Sexton still at Wilma’s house?”