“Forrest Knox? The state policeman?”
“Forrest ain’t just a trooper, Henry. He’s the director of the goddamn Criminal Investigations Bureau. And every man who works for the Knoxes knows the law, same as we knew with Frank. You threaten the group, you die. Law of the jungle.”
Henry checked his watch. “When can we speak again, Glenn? Face-to-face?”
“That depends on Wilma. And on how long I live.”
“How long do the doctors give you?”
An awkward silence stretched into black emptiness. Then Morehouse spoke in a cracked voice. “A month, maybe, my oncologist said.”
Henry wrote “30 days?” on the pad beside his computer. Looking down at the note, it struck him for the first time how devastating was Morehouse’s plight. The empty silence between them—which a moment ago had seemed like the vast reaches of space—contracted until Henry felt like a boy holding a tin can on the end of a wire stretched between two tree houses. And the boy holding the other can was on the verge of losing whatever grip he still had on himself.
“Are you there?” Henry asked tentatively. “Are you okay, Glenn?”
A single wracking sob came through the phone.
“What’s the matter, man?”
“They made me do those things, Henry,” said a childlike voice.
“What things?”
“They made me hurt Jimmy. And Viola. I hated it.”
“Who made you do that?”
“Snake, mostly. But they all pushed me. To scare people, and hurt ’em. Ever since we was kids. Just because I’m big. But Snake knew I couldn’t stand up to him. Nobody could.”
Henry swallowed hard. “What did Snake make you do, Glenn?”
“I can’t say it.”
“Yes, you can. Let it go, brother.”
Another sob. Then the old man croaked, “Unnatural things. Sins against God. Like in Leviticus.”
Henry shuddered at the images this conjured, but also at the raw pain in the man’s voice. “Did you kill Jimmy Revels, Glenn?”
“No. I couldn’t of done that. That boy was different. Whenever Snake hit or cut Luther, Jimmy acted like it hurt him worse than it did Luther. Which was crazy, cause Revels was a skinny little thing, and Luther was a damn gorilla. And—when we had our way with Viola … Jesus.”
The stunned numbness of the earlier interview had returned. “Wait a second. Are you saying Jimmy and Luther saw Viola raped? How could that be?”
“Don’t you know anything, Henry? Snake went crazy after Frank died. He sent some boys to grab Viola again. He claimed it was to make them boys talk, and then to shut her up, but he just wanted her again. And them boys didn’t know nothing, Henry. Nothing Snake wanted to hear, no ways.”
Henry was “gobsmacked,” as an English reporter he knew would say. “If Viola witnessed so much, why on earth did Snake let her live?”
“I already told you that.”
“Ray Presley and Dr. Cage?”
“Yeah. Jesus … I took too many pills. I ain’t used to this pain patch they got me on.”
Henry sensed that he was going to have to wait until the next interview to get to the bottom of this story. They’d already passed the time limit Morehouse had set on their conversation. But he had to make one more stab at the case that meant the most to him— “Wilma?” Morehouse said sharply.
Henry’s breath caught in his throat. The silence lasted so long that Henry thought Morehouse had hung up. But after some indeterminate delay, Glenn whispered, “Did you hear that?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You didn’t hear a click?”
“No. I think we’re fine. But we’d better go. Her show must be over.”
“Wait … I still hear her TV. Listen to me, Henry. You’re a good ole boy. I know you mean well. But you need to start paying attention. They know where you live, and where your mama lives, too.”
Henry’s face and palms went cold. “My mother?”
“How you think they operate, son? They hit you where you’re soft.”
“Who exactly are you talking about? Snake?”
“All of ’em. Snake, Sonny, Billy, Forrest … even Brody and his son-in-law. Don’t kid yourself. You were right about that flamethrower, too. They’ve still got it. You hear me? It still works. And that’s a shitty way to die. I wouldn’t wish it on a Jap.”
“Glenn—”
“There’s one more thing. Something I need to clear up. I lied to you about something today. Something big.”
Henry’s heart thumped. “What’s that?”
“About Jimmy and Luther. I told you Frank picked them because they was black Muslims, running guns.”
“I knew that wasn’t true. I always knew Jimmy was the real target, because of his civil rights work.”
Morehouse wheezed into the phone. “If you think that, you’re just as dumb as I am.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jimmy Revels wasn’t the real target.”
Henry felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Then who was? Luther Davis?”
“Hell, no.”
“Glenn … what the hell are you tryin’ to say?”
“The real target was Bobby Kennedy.”
Henry gulped. “What?”
“Senator Robert Francis Kennedy.”
“Glenn, that’s crazy. You must be drunk. That’s nuts.”
“You think so? You ever hear of the Ben Chester White case?”
“You know I have.”
“Well, this was like that.”
Henry’s mind raced over the White case, which involved the brutal murder of a sixty-seven-year-old black handyman just outside Natchez. In June 1966, some Klansmen had offered White two dollars and an orange soda pop to “help them find their lost dog.” Then they drove him out into the woods and shot him close to twenty times. Out of a hundred details of that crime, one lit up like fireworks behind Henry’s eyes: Ben Chester White was murdered to lure Martin Luther King to Natchez, so that he could be assassinated.