“No?” Henry couldn’t bring himself to leave the house when there was so much to be learned. Yet his neural circuits felt overloaded. He’d forgotten to ask anything about Joe Louis Lewis, the missing busboy. Yet of all the unanswered questions sparking in his mind, the most fantastic found its way to his vocal cords. “Answer me one question. I know of at least three people that Snake Knox told he shot Martin Luther King. I always assumed that was bullshit. Just a drunk redneck talking. But the FBI won’t comment one way or the other. And photographic evidence from the scene suggests that the shooter fired from the mechanical penthouse above the elevator shaft of the Fred P. Gattis Building, not the bathroom of the rooming house across the street, where James Earl Ray was. Before I go, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me Snake Knox is full of shit.”

Morehouse’s eyes had grown round and white. “I’m only going to tell you one thing about Snake, Henry. The motherfucker is crazy, but crazy like a fox. What he’s done or ain’t done, nobody knows but Snake and the devil himself. And in case you didn’t know, he served as a sniper in Korea.”

A chill ran along Henry’s arms.

“You watch your ass after you leave here,” Morehouse said, in the tone of a fellow soldier. “Don’t stray far from cover.”

Henry glanced anxiously at his watch. “Please give me the bodies, Glenn. Without the bodies, Jimmy and Luther stay a kidnapping on the books.”

The old man shook his head. “Not today. You ain’t proved I can trust you yet. And I don’t want to read all this in the Beacon on Thursday. You prove I can trust you, I’ll tell you some things that’ll scorch your eardrums.”

Henry’s frustration finally boiled over. “I won’t print a damned thing you’ve told me! I swear it.”

Morehouse glanced at the wall clock. “Wilma’s gonna come up the driveway any minute. If she does, we’re both dead.”

Henry stood up and looked down at the old man. “No, you’re dead. Where did you dump those boys? I’ve heard the Jericho Hole, by Lake St. John, and I’ve heard the Bone Tree. Which was it? Or was it someplace else?”

“I don’t know where they are, Henry. I never did. The Bone Tree ain’t even a real thing. Don’t do this, man. Wilma would sell me out to Snake in a minute.” Every passing second was pushing Morehouse deeper into panic. “I’m beggin’ you,” he pleaded. “Get out now.”