Jumping bail on a murder charge was probably the most extreme action he had taken in his life. Had he followed the mildly restrictive terms of his bail, he would have been entitled to the presumption of innocence by all men and women of goodwill. But now he was a fugitive, his flight a tacit admission of guilt. Any cop who recognized him could use deadly force to take him into custody, and if he died in the process, no one would ask too many questions. Tom had actually been counting on that. But that didn’t make the reality easier. Walt Garrity was risking his life at this moment. Tom had already let so many people down, Viola and Peggy first among them. Penn, after that. But there were others, and the tragedy was that he might never be able to explain his behavior to them.

“Screw this,” Walt muttered. “I’m going to plant that tracker when we make this next pass. You keep lookout.”

A ripple of fear went through Tom’s chest. “Are you sure?”

“Hell, yeah. Those two are in there digging into a couple of T-bones, not watching the parking lot.”

This time, when they reached the steak house, Walt turned into the big lot and parked two spaces away from Sonny Thornfield’s pickup.

Tom popped a nitro under his tongue, hoping to head off his angina.

“Two minutes,” Walt said, holding the magnetized device in his hand. “I’m gonna wire this baby into his electrical system, just like the other one. We’re not gonna risk having dead batteries when it comes to the action. If you see those assholes coming out of the restaurant, start the engine. I’ll hear it.”

Tom started to warn his friend to be careful, but Walt had already left the van.

CHAPTER 42

PYTHIA NOLAN’S PALATIAL antebellum mansion stands on eighty-eight forested acres in the middle of Natchez. Called “Corinth,” it’s one of the few great houses still in the hands of the family that built it. As a rule, I don’t like Greek Revival mansions—especially the local variety, bland boxes with columned porticos—but Corinth was built on the scale of an authentic Greek temple, and its craftsmanship is beyond replication in our era.

The estate’s wrought-iron gate stands twelve feet tall and is usually closed, but today I find it open, with Darius Stone, Pithy’s driver, waiting for me in a fifteen-year-old Bentley. After I drive through, Darius closes the gate and follows me up the paved private road to the house. The driveway is probably half a mile long, and it winds through acres of oak and elm trees bearded with Spanish moss. Half a dozen Hollywood production companies have begged to use Corinth in their films, but Pithy has never allowed it.