“Keep your eyes peeled to the northeast,” he said. “There’s a little town over that way. Ethel, it’s called. I’m thinking that’s where it went down.”
“How do you know it went down at all?” Billy asked, shielding his eyes from the sun glaring through the scratched Plexiglas.
“Because I knocked it down.”
Billy blew out a rush of air and lowered his face into his hands. “I haven’t heard anything on the radio about it.”
“You will, any second.”
“Wait,” Billy said, the moment he looked up. “I see something! Can you drop a little lower out of these clouds?”
“Sure, if you want to go to prison for the rest of your life. What do you see?”
“Fire. Fire in the trees.”
Excitement ran through his son’s voice like an electric current. Snake banked so that he could make a pass with the fire on his side of the plane. Just as he was coming into position, the Baton Rouge air-traffic controller said, “This is Metro Center. All aircraft, be advised, we have reports of a downed aircraft in the vicinity of Ethel, Louisiana. Aircraft is U.S. government Cessna Citation. Please report any visual evidence of debris in the vicinity of Metropolitan Airport.”
Snake felt the primal pleasure he’d always experienced after making a kill shot as a sniper, or even hunting game—only magnified by a thousand.
“How can you be sure all the FBI’s evidence will be destroyed?” Billy asked.
“I couldn’t be, if all I did was bring the plane down. That’s why I used two devices.”
“Two bombs?”
“Bingo. The first one brings down the plane, the second sets the fuel on fire. If I’d blown the thing to pieces in the air, the fuel would have been wasted, and most of the evidence would eventually be recovered. But by bringing down the plane relatively intact and then setting the fuel on fire, abracadabra—nothing left. No bones, no guns, no nothing.”
“Are you sure, Pop?”
“You’re damned right I’m sure,” Snake said irritably. “Jet fuel’s what melted the steel in the Twin Towers.”
Snake could see the crash site now, thirty feet of white-hot flames climbing out of a charred section of scrub pine. At least two vehicles were moving on the ground nearby. Time to bug out.
He climbed fifty feet higher into the clouds and started his last turn.
“Where are we going now?” Billy asked. “I feel like we ought to head for fucking Mexico.”
Snake laughed. “To hell with that. We’re going back to your place on Toledo Bend, just like I told you. We’re gonna sit this thing out in style.”
Billy’s eyes filled with disbelief. “Is that even possible now?”
“Sure it is. The Bureau will hang everything that’s happened around Forrest’s neck, just the way he was gonna hang it around mine. And I’m gonna give ’em a little help, too.”
Billy rubbed his head with his hands as though trying to hold himself together. “I still can’t believe Forrest is dead.”
Snake shrugged. “He pushed somebody too hard, just like I told you he would someday. And he paid the price.”
Snake checked the GPS and smiled with satisfaction. There was nothing like flying VFR on a pretty day in the good old USA.
“So what about Penn Cage?” Billy asked. “And his father? You just going to let them go?”
Snake could hardly believe it, but his son sounded almost hopeful.
“Christ,” he muttered. “You gotta know me better than that, boy.”
Snake craned his neck around and took one last look at the burning wreckage on the ground. Then he opened the throttle to maximum and headed for Texas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost to Stanley Nelson, the heroic reporter who cracked the Silver Dollar Group cases. Watch for his upcoming nonfiction book on those cases, Devil’s a-Walkin’.
To David Highfill, Liate Stehlik, Tavia Kowalchuk, Danielle Bartlett, and Eric Svenson (and all the reps who worked so hard), my heartfelt thanks. And to Laura Cherkas, a special thank-you.
To Charlie Redmayne, Julia Wisdom, Louise Swannell, Stuart Bache, and all the rest of the crew at HarperCollins UK. Great times and great work!
To Ed Stackler, my copilot.
To Dan Conaway and Simon Lipskar of Writers House, and Kassie Evashevski of UTA, for enthusiastic support and sage advice.
To Betty Iles, Madeline Iles, Mark Iles, Joe Iles, Larry Iles, Geoff Iles, and Betsy Iles, for constant support.
To my team of Southern Philosophers: Courtney Aldridge, James Schuchs, Jim Easterling, Rod Givens, and Billy Ray Farmer.
For brilliant life insights and an infinite number of dissonant chords: Scott Turow, Stephen King, Dave Barry, Michelle Kaufman, Sam Barry, Erasmo Paolo, James McBride, Roy Blount Jr., Mitch Albom, Amy Tan, Lou DeMattei, Ridley Pearson, Ted Habte-Gabr, and Lisa Napoli (and Josh and Gary!).
Medical research: Dr. Michael Bourland, Dr. D. P. Lyle, Dr. Kellen Jex, Dr. Roderick Givens, Dr. John White, and Dr. Brad LeMay.
For other valuable research assistance: Judge George Ward, John Ward, Joseph Finder, Sheriff Chuck Mayfield, Mimi Miller, Keith Benoist, Darryll Grennell, Joe Mitchell, Tom Borum, Gary Abrams, Rusty Fortenberry, and Alan Kaufman.
For unstinting physical support: Rick Psonak, Richard Boleware, and Blake Carr at UMMC Prosthetics. Also thanks to Sarah Greer for friendly diagnosis while partying on the bluff.
Finally, to new friends (and wonderful writers) Tom Franklin and Beth Ann Fennelly, who made London a blast. To Regina and Doug Charbonneau, for the rehearsal dinner! Thanks always to Lyn Roberts and the gang at Square Books, and to John Evans and the gang at Lemuria.
All mistakes are mine.