There was a long silence, punctuated by wet breaths. “I ain’t sayin’. But I know what happened. Both women were crying, white as death, makeup running down their faces. One put down her pistol, then picked it up again. Pretty soon they’re pointing the guns at each other, but real nervous like. The secretary begs Brody to stop the game, to think about their kids. The accountant says the guns probably only have blanks in them. But deep down, they know. They’ve betrayed the Royal family, and somebody’s gonna die for it. Brody says if one or the other don’t fire in the next sixty seconds, Snake’ll shoot ’em both with the shotgun.”

“And Royal was filming this?”

“Yessir. But strictly for pleasure, not leverage. Anyway, as the clock ticked down, the secretary put down her pistol and said she couldn’t do it. Or wouldn’t. She told the other girl, the accountant, that they were going to be killed anyway, and they shouldn’t give the bastards the satisfaction. The accountant started shaking like she was trying to pass a kidney stone. But after a few seconds, she shot the secretary right in the face. Hollow-point bullet. Half her head was on the wall, the other half on her blouse, and the rest of her just slumped in the chair. The accountant jumped up with the chair still tied to her and tried to run out of the room.”

“Christ, Glenn. Where’s this woman now? Don’t tell me she still works for Royal Insurance?”

“Nope. Randall took her in the other room and did just what he’d said he would. Then he told Snake to kill her and dump ’em both in the swamp. And that’s what Snake did. After Brody and Randall left, Snake cut up the bodies with a chain saw, bagged the parts, flew ’em to a dark hole in the Atchafalaya, and sunk ’em. They were gar crap by the next day.”

For a several moments, Henry couldn’t find his voice. Obviously Snake had not performed the cleanup duties on his own. But what was the point in pushing Morehouse on this question? Finally, Henry cleared his throat and asked, “What about Commissioner Schott? Why didn’t he talk rather than go to prison?”

Morehouse laughed hoarsely. “Is that a joke? Ed Schott knew exactly what Brody was capable of. Seven years in a minimum-security federal prison is a cakewalk compared to what you get for ratting on Brody Royal.”

Henry grunted as if in agreement, but inside, his nausea had begun to recede. Filling its place was a familiar emotion, the same one he’d felt for decades at any mention of Brody Royal—an anger almost impossible to contain. “Why did you tell me that story, Glenn?”