Henry looks like a man being asked to lend out his life savings.
“I wouldn’t ask if I had another option. But Dad nearly died from that last heart attack. I’m not sure he can survive an arrest, much less jail.”
To his credit, Henry hesitates only a moment. “Do whatever you have to, Penn. I don’t want Doc to suffer for something he didn’t do.”
“Thank you.” I edge up to the glass door. A white Ford Crown Vic with a bubblegum light waits in the dark parking lot to my left, gray smoke puffing from its tailpipe. “Okay. We’re going to walk out there like we own the town. Right?”
“If you say so.”
“I’ll go first.”
“Won’t argue with that.”
Turning my back to the door, I take hold of his arms. “Before we go, is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Henry’s eyes widen. “Are you saying you think I’m about to get shot?”
“I hope not. But you never know.”
Henry seems to waver. Then he says, “There’s a witness who can take down Brody Royal. I haven’t found him yet, because I don’t know his name. He was a childhood friend of Pooky Wilson’s. I call him ‘Huggy Bear.’ He went to Pooky’s mother a week ago, just before she died. He wanted forgiveness, after forty years of silence. He saw Brody leave Albert’s store that night, just as the fire started, and get into a car with his future son-in-law, Randall Regan. I think Mr. Huggy Bear left Ferriday a long time ago. He’s the only eyewitness who wasn’t one of Albert’s killers. Find him, and we’ll nail Brody.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
He nods once. “If I don’t make it, you find him. And talk to your father. I hate to say it, but I think Doc has known about Brody Royal from the beginning.”
With that, the reporter turns away and, forgetting our plan, walks through the glass door like a man striding onto the red carpet at a world premiere.
CHAPTER 24
LIEUTENANT COLONEL FORREST Knox was lying on his sofa watching the Baltimore Ravens demolish Brett Favre and the Packers on Monday Night Football when the text message came in. Forrest had always loved Favre. Number 4 was a tough Mississippi boy from the old school, the last of the gunslingers. But lately Favre had been tanking, and tonight the coach had replaced him with some punk named Rodgers late in the third quarter. When Forrest’s secure cell phone pinged, he actually welcomed the interruption.
The text was from Al Ozan, a captain who served in his Criminal Investigations Bureau. Forrest had been expecting Ozan to update him on a load of precursor chemicals from Mexico later on, but not yet. The body of the message brought Forrest bolt upright on the couch.
G. Morehouse DOA at Mercy Hospital. Please advise.
A faint thrumming began in Forrest’s chest, a gift of intuition that told him when action was imminent—a gift that had carried him through Vietnam and countless lethal confrontations in civilian life. He took a plug of Red Man from the bag on the coffee table, stuffed it into his cheek, and waited for the shock to wear off.
His wife had gone to bed at the end of the first quarter, and he’d been thinking about getting Ozan to call him out on a fake emergency so he could run over and pop the wife of a young moron in Patrol. Cherie Delaune had sent Forrest the all-clear signal an hour ago—meaning her husband was on patrol and her daughter was spending the night out—but Forrest hadn’t been able to summon the energy for the trip. If he could have snapped his fingers and been in Cherie’s bed, he’d have done it. But ever since Katrina hit, work had been steadily grinding him down. Tonight was only the second time since the storm that he’d gotten home before 9 P.M.
“Good ol’ Glenn,” he said, ruminating about his father. “Poor bastard. Rest in peace, Mountain.”
Forrest reached down to the floor for his black leather boots, pulled them on with a groan, then stood and buckled on his gun belt. Walking into the kitchen, he spat tobacco juice into the sink, then unscrewed the top off a prescription bottle and dry-swallowed four Adderall, which had been given to him by a detective-sergeant in the narcotics division. The Adderall helped him focus. Then he opened a second bottle and swallowed a 50 mg Viagra. Even with the Morehouse development, he had time for a quick stop by Cherie’s house. He needed to hit it fast, or he’d risk her husband going off shift. Forrest didn’t need a confrontation with a fellow state cop, even if he was just in Patrol. He called Ozan on his secure cell. The captain answered on the first ring.
“What you think, boss?” Ozan asked by way of greeting.
“Was it the cancer, Alphonse?”
“Don’t know yet. I just called Billy, but he didn’t answer. I know Snake has been nervous as a cat since that Viola Turner got back to Natchez, and I think he may have got Brody Royal stirred up.”
“Brody? What makes you say that?”