Morehouse stared into the flames as though hypnotized. The news of Viola’s death had pushed him into some kind of fugue state. But Henry could no longer restrain himself. He stood over the recliner and glared down without a shred of mercy in his heart. “You were there when they died, weren’t you? Weren’t you?”

The old man’s cheek twitched, but he held his stony silence.

“What did you do to them, Glenn? Is that who you saw crucified?”

“Damn your eyes!” Morehouse shouted, jabbing a fist up at Henry. “You don’t know a goddamn thing. Get out of my house!”

“Why were they killed, Glenn? Why Jimmy and Luther?”

“They were goddamn Muslims, that’s why! They was fomentin’ a Muslim rebellion. Snake knew all about it. They was running guns and all kinds of other shit. Hand grenades, dope, you name it!”

Henry would have laughed, were the old man not so enraged. If the Knoxes had given credence to this kind of delusion, they were not only paranoid but stupid. “Jimmy Revels was no Muslim,” he said with quiet conviction. “He was Roman Catholic. He sang in local churches. And he sure never ran any guns. He was a pacifist, for God’s sake. That’s verified in his navy record.”

“If he was a pacifist, what was he doin’ with a badass nigger like Luther Davis? Davis was a dope dealer and a gunrunner.”

“Luther Davis served in Vietnam. Didn’t that count for anything with you guys?”

Morehouse looked back at the fire. “I’ll tell what it counted for with Snake. Both them boys had tattoos on their arms. Luther’s said ‘Army,’ with an eagle under it. Jimmy’s said ‘USN,’ with the anchor. Neither of them boys was wearing their tattoos when they died,” Morehouse murmured. “Get the picture?”

Henry shuddered. He remembered the indigo anchor on Jimmy’s arm. He’d seen it when the young vet had taught him R&B guitar riffs in the back of Albert’s store. Henry hadn’t realized that black skin would show tattoos until he saw Jimmy Revels’s arm. “Are you saying Jimmy and Luther were skinned alive? Is that who you saw flayed?”

Morehouse shook his head. “Not like you’re thinking. Just the tattoos. Snake said niggers wearing service tattoos was an abomination.”

Henry felt like he might vomit. But more than this, he wanted to send Brody Royal to death row at Angola Prison. “Tell me how all this is connected. Tell me about Ray Presley and Dr. Cage. How could they save Viola?”

“It don’t matter now,” Morehouse whispered. “Not if she’s dead. But if you want to prove who killed them two boys, you find those tattoos.”

Henry recalled some of the grisly trophies taken by serial killers whose cases he’d followed while working as a reporter. “Are you saying those tattoos still exist? Is that even possible?”