White was inside when, at precisely ten p.m. on the eighth night of his silent vigil, the door was remotely raised and the sleek black Lamborghini eased into its slot, beside the 1939 Bugatti Type 64 and the fire-engine-red Ferrari F40 that looked like it could take off at any moment. He was standing in the shadows, a length of stout rope wound around his left shoulder, a silenced handgun in his right hand. His plan was to waylay his target, take Jordan Withers out to the oak tree, and string him up.

But he never did. He watched, still as a sentinel, as the great-grandson of his great-grandfather’s oppressor climbed out of the car. For a moment, as Jordan stood, admiring his prize and those parked just beyond, a tableau was formed that White was to remember for the rest of his life. Part of him longed to take action; another part knew that he would not. Frankly, he was afraid of the dark part of himself that longed for revenge, that would contemplate taking a life. It was repugnant, but if it was, how could he even consider it? Did he dare? He knew he had it in him, which was what frightened him the most. In the end, he crept out of the garage, through the hedges, past the trees, and to the edge of what was left of the plantation. He stopped there, panting, though he had not run. Turning back, he unfastened his belt, pulled down his pants, and, squatting, defecated on Jordan Withers’s lawn. Such a poor, paltry act, but it was all he was capable of. Then he left. Like a dog, he thought, with its tail between its legs. The bitter taste of ashes was in his mouth.

On the flight back to D.C., White looked down at the passing landscape and wondered what his great-grandfather would have made of the view. Beyond the old man’s ken, he imagined—as would have been the news story that arrived in his mail three days later, meticulously clipped from a local Georgia paper. It concerned the odd demise of Jordan Withers, choked to death when his unmade tie caught in the steering column of his Ferrari F40 as it sped down the local highway. “It was almost like poor Jordan was hanged,” police captain Art Miller was quoted as saying, at the scene of the accident.

White had read the story three times, each time with a deeper sense of incredulity. An accident? He didn’t think so. What then? He turned over the envelope, read the return address. Looking it up, he discovered it was off a rural road just north of New Orleans. He booked the next flight out.

The evening of the same day he came face to face with Preach—for the second time, it turned out. The shock of white hair and the piercing blue eyes were unmistakable, even backlit by firelight.