I give the reporter an inquisitive look, but he turns away to concentrate on the conversation. “What do they think happened? … Okay, do me a favor and call Sherry back. Tell her I’m with a source and I’ll call her as soon as I can … Thanks, Lou Ann … I know … I sure will … You, too. Bye.”

When he turns back to me, Henry looks five years older than he did only a minute ago. “That was about my Eagle source. Paramedics just brought him in to the Mercy Hospital emergency room. He was DOA.”

A blast of neurochemicals blanks my mind. Where before I had anxious thoughts, only fear courses now. “Henry, Viola Turner and your secret source just died within twelve hours of each other. What do you think that says about your future?”

The reporter blinks as though he doesn’t quite comprehend my point.

“Do you have a gun here?” I ask.

“A gun? No. I’ve never carried one.”

“You’re working day and night to send ex–Ku Klux Klansmen to Angola, and you don’t carry a gun? Angola is filled with pissed-off black convicts. Those old white men would kill almost anybody to stay out of there.”

Henry shrugs, looking dazed. “My girlfriend carries a pistol, and my mother keeps a shotgun at her house. The PBS guys making the film about me think I’m nuts for not carrying a gun. Do you carry one?”

“I’m licensed, but I don’t have one on me now. Not in the car, either.”

A stubborn defiance creeps into the reporter’s eyes. “I promised myself when I started that I wasn’t going to change my way of living because of these lowlifes. The fact that I’ve pursued these cases without fear, publishing things as I go, living unafraid … that makes a statement. Even to scum like Snake Knox and Brody Royal. It says that I know what I’m doing is right, and what they did was wrong.”

While Henry preaches, I move to the war room’s metal door and lock it. The Beacon stands on the very edge of town, across the road from an empty cotton field. “We need to get out of here. Does that phone still have a dial tone?”

“The office phone?”

“The landline! Check it.”

Henry lifts the black phone from its hook and puts it to his ear, then nods with relief.

“Dial 911 and ask for Sheriff Dennis.”

The reporter looks uncomfortable. “Walker Dennis isn’t exactly a fan of mine.”

“I’ll do the talking.”

CHAPTER 22

“SLOW DOWN, GODDAMN IT!” Snake ordered. “Ain’t nobody chasing us.”