AS CONCISELY AS POSSIBLE, I summarize what I know about the attack on Henry for Special Agent Kaiser, while Caitlin memorizes every word. Halfway through my account, I notice Caitlin staring at the preliminary autopsy report for Viola Turner, which lies on the back of the sofa. I was stupid to leave it out.

“What’s Henry’s present condition?” Kaiser asks with military succinctness.

“He’s in and out of consciousness. I’ve sent the best doctor I could get to check him out. I called you because I know you’ve been in contact with Henry about the Jericho Hole bones, and tonight’s assault was probably related to the cases he’s been working.”

“Henry told me you put some security on him last night,” Kaiser says.

“Just an ex-cop. The Concordia Parish Sheriff’s Office was watching him today. They were supposed to provide an escort when he finished work, but the wires got crossed. I should have hired somebody to stay with him every second. I guess I didn’t think they’d go for him at the newspaper.”

“I assume the sheriff’s covering Henry at the hospital now?”

“Yes, Sheriff Walker Dennis. He’s hoping to question Henry some more.”

“Do you know Sheriff Dennis personally?”

“Sort of. I played Little League ball with him as a kid.”

“Do you think he could have set Henry up?”

A chill runs along my arms. “My first instinct says no. But I honestly don’t know him well.”

“Well, it’s something to consider. By the way, I’m expediting the DNA analysis on the Jericho Hole bones, and we’ve sent the bullet up to the crime lab in Washington. That was good work going into that lake. Sometimes the shortest route between two points doesn’t involve a search warrant.”

“As long as the guys breaking the rules can be trusted.”

“Amen. Henry told me a little about your father’s case, too.”

“Did he?” I say coolly.

Kaiser is silent for a few seconds. “Would it surprise you to learn that I know quite a bit about you, Mayor?”

“Because of my battle with Director Portman, you mean?”

Kaiser chuckles softly. “No, though I was no fan of that elitist asshole. I’m actually a friend of Dwight Stone.”

This name hurls me back in time. Dwight Stone was one of more than a dozen FBI agents assigned to Natchez during the 1960s. When I was persuaded by distraught family members to look into the murder of civil rights activist Delano Payton, the trail eventually led me to Dwight, who’d retired to the mountains of Colorado. He did more than help me solve the cold case; he ended up saving my life.

“That says a lot for you,” I tell Kaiser. “What are you going to do about Henry? Can you do anything?”