Henry had heard rumors that some former Eagles were involved in the local meth trade, which had been exploding over the past few years. “Really?” he said, feigning ignorance. “I thought Snake had his crop-dusting service, and Sonny has a used car lot.”

Morehouse barked a drunken laugh. “That’s rich, boy. Their real business is dope. You didn’t know that?”

“I’ve heard some rumors. I didn’t put much credence in them.”

“Snake’s son Billy is the biggest goddamn meth dealer in the state.”

“Snake and Sonny work for Billy Knox?”

“Yep. They’re in the transport end of things. Airplanes and a car lot. Don’t take a brain surgeon to figure that out, does it?”

“So Snake and Sonny would have the knowledge to try to fake a suicide with drugs?”

Another inebriated laugh. “I’d be surprised if they ain’t done that a bunch of times in their line of work.”

“Where does Billy live?”

“Billy’s got houses all over, man. Land, too. And he ain’t never even been arrested in this state. Which there’s a reason for, you know. Those guys are protected. You gotta be, to stay in that business. Just like whores.”

“Who protects them, Glenn? Brody Royal?”

“No. Billy’s cousin. Forrest shields their operation and thins out their competition every few months.”

“Forrest Knox? The state policeman?”

“Forrest ain’t just a trooper, Henry. He’s the director of the goddamn Criminal Investigations Bureau. And every man who works for the Knoxes knows the law, same as we knew with Frank. You threaten the group, you die. Law of the jungle.”

Henry checked his watch. “When can we speak again, Glenn? Face-to-face?”

“That depends on Wilma. And on how long I live.”

“How long do the doctors give you?”

An awkward silence stretched into black emptiness. Then Morehouse spoke in a cracked voice. “A month, maybe, my oncologist said.”

Henry wrote “30 days?” on the pad beside his computer. Looking down at the note, it struck him for the first time how devastating was Morehouse’s plight. The empty silence between them—which a moment ago had seemed like the vast reaches of space—contracted until Henry felt like a boy holding a tin can on the end of a wire stretched between two tree houses. And the boy holding the other can was on the verge of losing whatever grip he still had on himself.

“Are you there?” Henry asked tentatively. “Are you okay, Glenn?”

A single wracking sob came through the phone.

“What’s the matter, man?”

“They made me do those things, Henry,” said a childlike voice.

“What things?”

“They made me hurt Jimmy. And Viola. I hated it.”

“Who made you do that?”

“Snake, mostly. But they all pushed me. To scare people, and hurt ’em. Ever since we was kids. Just because I’m big. But Snake knew I couldn’t stand up to him. Nobody could.”