Henry came out of his chair with both fists clenched, but Morehouse only laughed. “I know Albert had more’n a couple outside kids in Ferriday,” he said, still chuckling. “Is that why you’ve spent all these years trying to find out who killed him?” The old Klansman guffawed until his laughter became a desperate coughing jag.

Henry wondered whether Morehouse had any idea how close he’d come to the truth: that Albert had indeed been his father in every sense but the biological one. Henry’s heart pounded like a kettledrum. He hadn’t been in a fight since the third grade, and most people thought he didn’t have a temper. But right now he wanted to jab his pen into Morehouse’s swollen eye socket and drive it through his brain.

“You know what?” he said, closing his notebook and stuffing it into his back pocket. “I figure you need me a lot more than I need you. I’m going to walk out of this room and go back to work. I’m going to solve these cases one way or another, with or without you. And when spring comes, I’ll smell the flowers and hug my lady and know I’m doing the best I can. But you … you’re going to sit in this room and rot until they box you up with your sins and bury you. And from the looks of things, that won’t be very long.”

Henry walked to the door, then turned back and looked at the old man. Morehouse was straining to rise from his chair.

“Wait!” he yelled. “Wait, you son of a bitch!”

Henry felt he was standing on the threshold between life and death. Despite the old man’s fury, he could not lift himself out of the chair. While Morehouse sputtered and cursed, Henry walked out into the cold winter light and shut the door behind him.

CHAPTER 11

FLAT ON HIS back beneath a 1998 Camaro, Sonny Thornfield cursed his cell phone, then slid his creeper from beneath the car and dug the phone out of his pocket. The caller ID read DUKE WILLIAMS. Duke Williams was dead—had been for five years—but his wife wasn’t. Sandra kept her dead husband’s name on the phone listing so that burglars wouldn’t target her. Sonny used to stop by Duke’s house on occasion to comfort his widow, back when the doctor let him take Viagra. Sonny still took the drug on special occasions, but Sandra Williams didn’t rate the risk of death. Her only real utility now was that she lived at the turn that led to Wilma Deen’s house.

“Hey, Sandy,” Sonny said, grimacing at the leaky ceiling of his automotive shop.

“Hey, Son,” she almost cooed. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, girl. Always glad to hear from you.”

“I think I saw something you might be interested in.”

“What’s that?”