Maybe it’s the gin in my system, but his argument seems persuasive. “How many people does Snake have with him?”

“Two, to the best of my knowledge. But if we keep talking, he could be gone. Or we could have a dozen of those skinhead motorcycle freaks burning a cross for kicks.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Two guys on Harleys showed up while I was there. Not right at his place, but not far from it. I didn’t get the feeling they’re on the best of terms.”

“What kind of place is he hiding in?”

“A dump. Little two-room shack behind a house. Sitting in some poplar trees.”

I think about this for a while. “So maybe we let the VK guys take him out.”

“Can’t rely on that. They haven’t killed him so far. And it might go the other way. We can’t take a chance on him disappearing again.”

“Why are you so sure Snake’s about to rabbit?”

“FBI’s turned up the heat. Big time.”

“Then it might make more sense for him to sit tight where he is.”

“No. Snake’s fixing to blow this country.”

I walk to my desk, where my pistol lies at the moment, and mull over Lincoln’s suggestion. “I think Snake had some fantasy that he was going to be able to stay here. But not now. Kaiser’s got a witness who can finger him for a murder back in the sixties. A woman.”

“Then I’m right. We gotta move.”

“What’s your plan, Lincoln? You sound like you just want to execute the guy.”

“Sure I do. Did you not hear what he did to my mother? They tied her to a table in a machine shop and took turns raping her. They sodomized her with a goddamn Coke bottle. They tortured my uncle and his best friend, and then they killed them. And they would have killed Mama if that Presley guy hadn’t busted her out.”

“That’s a hell of an irony, you know? Because Ray Presley was a very bad guy. Take my word for that.”

Lincoln shrugs. “I got no problem with that. Most guys I grew up with were bad by any technical definition. Bad guys do good things sometimes. But you’re missing the point, man. I want to kill Snake, but you’ve got no choice. You have to kill him.”

Something in his voice chills me. “Why’s that?”

“Because once your father—and mine, as strange as that sounds—passes through the gates of Parchman, he’s a dead man walkin’. I doubt he’ll live a week. Snake will reach out to whatever Nazi gang is on top in there, and Tom Cage will die. And take my word for it—he’ll die rough. Is that what you want?”