Henry was doing his best to hide his nervousness. He wasn’t physically afraid. Morehouse wasn’t an immediate threat (unless he had a pistol under his comforter), and nobody knew this meeting was taking place. The house belonged to Morehouse’s sister, Wilma Deen, the secretary at a local Baptist church, and Morehouse had sent her out on an errand that should take at least ninety minutes. The house itself sat well back from the nearest pavement, at the end of a washboard gravel road potted with holes, so there were no near neighbors to spy on them. Yet still Henry felt edgy and ill at ease.

In truth, the news of Viola’s death had rattled him badly. And with Shad Johnson focused on Tom Cage as a suspect, Henry felt obliged to plumb Morehouse’s knowledge of Viola’s death as well as the historical Double Eagle crimes. Unless Morehouse mentioned Viola first, however, Henry planned to proceed as though he knew nothing about the nurse’s death. Her name would naturally come up when he raised the subject of her missing brother, and at that time he could read Morehouse’s face and voice for his true knowledge.

The old man coughed as though his lungs might come up. Henry tried to hide his revulsion at the stench of the room. A small fire crackled in a fireplace on the left wall, but even the burning pine knot in it couldn’t mask the stink of salves, urine, vomit, and reheated country cooking—vegetables boiled to a salty mush. In black-owned homes it would have been a sugary mush.

Henry felt unsure how to begin the interview. While he considered the options for his all-important first question, Morehouse said, “Were you ever in the service, Mr. Sexton?”

Henry was tempted to fib, but he never lied if he could help it. He shook his head. “I was One-A during Vietnam, but I got a college deferment. My daddy served, though.”

Morehouse silently gauged Henry’s age. “Pacific or the ETO?”

“North Africa.”

The old man nodded and gave another ragged cough. “Do I have your word not to print anything I tell you until … until I’ve passed?”

“That was the deal.” Henry fought the urge to scoot back from Morehouse’s chair. The man looked like he had an infection in his left eye, which was inflamed and leaking an opaque fluid. “And I plan to abide by it. Is there anything you won’t talk about?”

Morehouse opened and closed the inflamed eye. “There may be a lot I won’t say this first time. I’ll tell you a bit, and we’ll see if you can hold your peace past Thursday’s edition. If you can, then we’ll meet again. And no tape recorders, remember? I want your word on that.”