Tom slid carefully off the bar stool, then picked up his mug and carried it into the den. Caitlin followed and watched him set the mug on a coffee table that had been pulled close to a comfortable sofa covered with quilts and pillows. With a groan he sat heavily on the upholstered sofa.
“Was that your idea of a strategic retreat?” she asked, sitting in the club chair nearest the sofa.
“The geography’s pretty limited.”
She sipped her tea, giving Tom time to process all she’d told him. Her eyes played over the prescription bottles that stood like little soldiers around a laptop computer. At length she said, “Since Griffith Mackiever is unlikely to be able to help you, what option do you have other than arranging a safe surrender?”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck for a while before answering. Then he turned to her with his startlingly clear eyes and said, “You want the truth, Cait? If Colonel Mackiever can’t help us, then there’s only one person who can.”
Caitlin tried to guess who he was talking about. When it came to her, an electric chill raced over her skin. “Not Forrest Knox.”
Tom nodded gravely.
“Why in God’s name would Forrest help you? He’s trying to kill you.”
“The same reason anybody makes a deal. I’d have to offer him something in exchange for his help.”
“Good Lord. You don’t understand. I just went through this with Penn. He tried the same thing with Brody Royal, and that’s what nearly got us killed. It did kill Henry and the others. You’re talking about the very same idea—offering to bury information in exchange for protection.”
This time Tom said nothing, but she saw the truth of it in his face.
“A promise like that is worthless unless you can guarantee that I won’t do anything to hurt Forrest. That I’ll stop the newspaper’s investigation.”
Still Tom remained silent, and the longer he did, the more horrified she became. “I won’t do it!” she cried.
Tom’s gaze was like a hot lamp, making her ever more uncomfortable.
She shifted in her chair. “Like father, like son, huh? Unbelievable.”
“How much evidence do you really have against Forrest?” Tom asked. “Not the Double Eagles. Just Forrest Knox?”
“Some. Not as much as I’m going to have. Because I’m going to get it all. And if I can prove that Forrest—and by extension Trooper Dunn—are crooked, then Quentin can get you and Walt acquitted for shooting Dunn.”
Tom seemed to be exercising great forbearance. “Do you really believe Forrest Knox will let you do that? And even if you survived to see your story printed, do you think you’d bring Forrest down before his men killed Walt and me?”
A wave of heat flashed over her neck and face. “If you’d let us arrange a safe surrender, yes!”
“I see. And where would this safe surrender take place?”
“If you’d call Penn, I think he can get the FBI to set it up for you.”
“Not after the death of that state trooper.”
“You don’t understand. There’s an agent named John Kaiser who could set it up for you. Penn is with him right now. And not only Kaiser, but Dwight Stone. Do you remember him?”
Tom’s mouth had fallen open. “Dwight Stone? But you—you said Penn was with Peggy and Annie.”
“I lied. He’s meeting with Kaiser and Stone right now, trying to arrange a safe surrender for you. And to be honest, I don’t think they give a damn about Viola Turner or that state trooper. They’re obsessed with the Kennedy assassination.”
Tom had gone pale. “The Kennedy assassination!”
She nodded. “Yes, and Carlos Marcello and the Knox family. Kaiser and Stone seem to think all that is tied together.”
Tom was shaking his head. “Jesus Christ . . . after all these years?”
Caitlin heard something strange in Tom’s voice. “What do you mean? Do you know something about all that? Because Penn said they might well offer you protective custody in exchange for information about the assassination.”
“Caitlin . . . you have no idea what you’re dealing with. Neither do Kaiser and Stone. If they get too close to the Knoxes, Forrest or Snake will kill them, too.”
“You think Forrest Knox would murder FBI agents?”
“Without hesitation.”
She was starting to think Tom had entered the realm of paranoid delusion. “I’m sorry, I just don’t believe that. You kill an FBI agent, you’re asking for a life on the run.”
“Not if you can blame someone else for the crime. And the Knoxes are very good at that sort of thing.”
“Are you saying that’s what happened to you?”
Tom lifted one of the quilts and pulled it over his lap, as if he’d gotten cold. Then he murmured, “The Knoxes have been killers for generations.”
At last they had come to the heart of things. In his desire to persuade her to break faith with herself, Tom had unwittingly taken their conversation into the territory he’d been avoiding for years.
“How long have you known that?” she asked softly.
“Longer than I’d care to admit. Even to myself.”
“Tom . . . Henry Sexton told me that he tried to interview you several times, and you always refused to see him.”
“I couldn’t,” he said simply. “I had enormous admiration for what Henry was doing. He was the bravest reporter ever to come out of this area. But look what happened in the end. He met the same fate you’re courting now. I blame myself, of course. Partly, anyway. But that doesn’t alter the equation as it pertains to you. If you go after Forrest Knox, you’ll die.”
Tom leaned forward, opened two prescription bottles, and swallowed two pills with his tea—one green and yellow, the other large, oblong, and white.
“Are you having chest pain?”
He smiled sadly. “Fact of life, my dear. But that was a pain pill and an antibiotic.”
“Tom, you can’t go on like this.”
“You’re right. And I don’t plan to.”