This photo showed a blurry image of Henry himself, shot with a telephoto lens as he walked out of the Ferriday Walmart. A rifle scope reticle had been perfectly superimposed over his face, with a bull’s-eye on his forehead. He’d received this photo in the mail, and he’d duly turned it over to the FBI, but the Bureau had been unable to trace it. All they could verify was that it had been mailed from Omaha, Nebraska, which Henry could see from the postmark. What Henry didn’t tell the FBI was that he’d spent the week prior to receiving this threatening photo in New Orleans, investigating the real estate dealings between Brody Royal and Carlos Marcello. The old Mafia boss had died in 1993, long after Alzheimer’s claimed his mind, but the MarYal Corporation still had extensive holdings in New Orleans and South Florida. Throughout his investigations of the Double Eagles, Henry had ignored all threats. But investigating Brody Royal and his ties to the Mafia was apparently different, and something had told him he ought to back off, at least for the time being.

“Baby?” Sherry said softly from behind him.

Henry started at the sound of her voice, but it was too late to hide the picture. Sherry already knew about it, anyway. He jerked when she laid her hand on his shoulder. A working nurse, Sherry had an amazingly gentle touch, but tonight Henry was as jumpy as he’d ever been in his life.

“Did you show Penn Cage that picture?”

He shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I got it months ago, and nothing’s happened since.”

“Nothing quite as bad, you mean.”

He turned in his chair and squeezed her hand. “Look, Mama won’t have to be here more than a couple of days, if that.”

“Oh, I’m fine with her,” Sherry said with sincerity. “She’s your mother, and she’s welcome. I only hope she doesn’t try to make it as hard on Jamie as she does on me.”

Jamie was Sherry’s fifteen-year-old son.

“She likes Jamie,” Henry assured her, hoping he was right.

“Mmm.” Sherry poured herself a cup of coffee and sat at the table, her gaze as penetrating as any he’d ever faced. “If this situation is so dangerous, why haven’t you called the sheriff’s department?”

“Because I’m not sure we can trust them.”

Fresh concern furrowed her brow. “What about the FBI, then?”

“I am going to call them tonight. But I don’t expect they’ll send anyone to protect us.”

“They might, if you told them everything you know.”

Henry stared at her, then slowly shook his head. “I can’t do that, babe.”

“Why not? Because you want an exclusive story?”