Henry saw a flicker of emotion in the man’s eyes.

“Klan informants worked for money,” Morehouse growled. “They made up whatever their FBI handlers wanted to hear, whatever kept the cash coming. You can’t trust a story like that.”

“I’ve heard two reliable stories about Pooky’s death,” Henry went on. “One says he was flayed alive. The other says he was crucified.”

“Oh, bullshit. There were a dozen rumors about that kid. I’ve heard he was driven out in a field and shot thirty times with a rifle.”

Something in the old man’s gaze belied his tone of voice. Henry was certain Morehouse knew something about Pooky Wilson’s death. As he stared into the rheumy eyes, a blast of intuition told him that Morehouse had seen Pooky die. Henry cleared his throat. “I have an FBI report that details a meeting with a different Klan informant. When this man was blind drunk, he told an FBI agent that Pooky Wilson had been crucified at a big cypress tree out in the Lusahatcha Swamp, called the Bone Tree.”

The old man’s eyes flashed, then went dull again.

“This informant mentioned the names of two men who were there,” Henry went on, “but the names were redacted in my copy—blacked out with a Magic Marker. Were you at the Bone Tree that night, Mr. Morehouse?”

Morehouse laughed with derision. “Bone Tree? If you believe that old nigger tale, they ought to put you in a rubber room down in Mandeville.”

To mask his anger and disappointment Henry looked down at his notebook. “Albert Norris took four days to die from his burns.” Four days of unrelenting agony, you son of a bitch. “Leland Robb, the doctor who treated him, told the FBI that Norris stated more than once that he’d known his attackers, but he refused to reveal their identities. Even his best friend couldn’t get the names out of him.”

“Albert wasn’t no fool,” Morehouse said softly. “Did you talk to Dr. Robb?”

“Dr. Robb died in a midair collision in 1969, when I was in college, along with three other people.”

Morehouse smiled strangely, almost coyly again. “Kinda convenient, huh? Doc Robb dying like that? You know who was flying the plane that hit him, don’t you?”

“Yes. Snake Knox.” Henry had long harbored suspicions about this air crash, but he wasn’t going to waste this interview on them. “Let’s stick with the burning of the store for now. Albert told Dr. Robb that there were four men involved: three inside and one out, beyond the porch. My understanding is that when Frank Knox formed the Double Eagles, there were four charter members: Frank himself, his brother Snake, Sonny Thornfield, and you. And this was less than a month after the attack on Norris’s store. Was it you four who burned Albert out?”