Snake grunted behind Billy. Billy and Sonny shared a worried look. From the moment Sonny called Billy about the three boys, Billy had figured the only choice was to liquidate them (and then decide how to handle Brody Royal going rogue). But to Billy’s surprise, Forrest had wanted to hear out the boys first. He thought it might be possible to let two of them live. Billy saw no sense in taking this risk, but he’d humored Forrest by giving the boys a chance to tell their side of the story. He wondered what Forrest was thinking now.

Casey Whelan gave out a long, guttural moan. Billy looked over and saw a froth of blood on the duct tape covering the boy’s mouth. He shook his head with distaste. Raiford Prison in Florida, where he’d served a stretch for dealing coke in the early eighties, had been filled with hapless would-be criminals like these.

“I know we messed up, Mr. Billy,” Charley admitted. “But we’ll make it right. Let me run over to the hospital. I’ll finish the job right now. That son of a bitch won’t ever write another line in that newspaper.”

Billy toyed with the Walther on his desk, then glanced over his shoulder. “What do you think, Daddy?”

Snake replied in a dry voice, like palm fronds rattling in the wind. “You send boys to do a man’s job, you get what we got now. A clusterfuck.”

“That hospital’s crawling with cops now,” Billy thought aloud. “Sheriff Dennis is over there, and maybe even the FBI by now. If they caught you, you’d spill everything you know before an hour passed.”

“No, sir!” Charley practically yelped. “I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Yeah. What about you, Jake? You’re mighty quiet.”

The burly young roughneck standing behind Charley shook his head like a confused little boy. Fear had rendered him physically unable to speak. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Casey Whelan, who appeared to be dying on the bench.

“Well, Pop?” Billy said, mostly for the sake of his father’s pride. The real decision belonged to Forrest.

“They look like talkers to me,” Snake rasped.

Charley looked like he was straining not to pee down his leg.

“Ya’ll stay here,” Billy said. “I’ll be back in a second with somebody who knows about gunshot wounds. Don’t say a word while he’s in here. You understand?”

Jake and Charley nodded anxiously.

Billy pushed open the door behind his desk and went out. Forrest was already walking down the hall to the master bedroom, where a Steve McQueen movie was playing on the flat-screen.

“Did you hear all that?”

Forrest nodded. He’d changed out of his state police uniform, into jeans and a Who Dat? New Orleans Saints sweatshirt.

“What do you think about their story?”

“I think Brody must be getting Alzheimer’s.”