The guns ring dully as they go into the sink: Snake’s first, then Alois’s. Wilma Deen’s hands are floating about head high, and her eyes look like those of a panicked hostage, but she must be carrying something. When Lincoln jerks his gun toward her, she points to her pants pocket, then pulls out a small black automatic—it looks like a .25—and drops it into the sink with a clang.

While Lincoln herds them onto the broken-backed sofa, I reach into my pocket with a shaking left hand and take out the Sony tape recorder I use for memos during the day. I prop it on the back of the sink and face the three on the couch. Snake sits on the left, Wilma Deen in the middle, Alois on the right.

“Go,” Lincoln tells me, obviously frustrated.

A premonitory shiver runs through my body, a feeling that by doing this I might be sentencing Lincoln or myself to death. If we simply killed them now, we could walk away. Every passing second probably brings someone else closer. The owner of the main house . . . one of the living ghosts of Rodney . . . VK gang members . . . We don’t have to kill these three to stay safe, of course. We could call the FBI, and Kaiser would have a tactical team here in less than an hour. Maybe half that, if he has a chopper on call. The proper call would be to Sheriff Byrd, of course, but Byrd already knows Snake is here—

“You had two minutes,” Lincoln says, “and you’re burning the second one right now.”

“The tape recorder’s not on yet,” I tell my captive audience. “When I hit Record, I want somebody to tell me who killed Viola Turner. If you do that, I’ll have some evidence, and you’ll get to live a while longer. If you don’t, I’m going to walk outside and let this man do what he came here to do. Do you understand?”

Snake’s eyes look like those of a professional gambler calculating odds in Las Vegas.

Alois says, “Nothing we say here could be used as evidence in court. It would be under duress.”

“That’s bad news for you, Junior,” Lincoln says. “Real bad.”

“Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” Wilma snaps at Alois, but her eyes are on Snake. She’s looking for a magic escape card from her fearless leader.

“You ready, Snake?” I ask, reaching for the record button.

“That nigger’s gonna kill us no matter what,” Snake says. “I see it in his face.”

“You got good eyes for an old man,” Lincoln says, and I hear a wild edge in his voice.

“Not if you tell the truth,” I say evenly.

Snake laughs. “Bullshit. I can see it, even if you can’t.”