“At least that punk spilled gas on himself, too,” Tom said. “He had enough third-degree burns to see his life pass before his eyes before he went to prison.”

“So how did you get Viola out of town?”

“I didn’t. After Ray saved her, it was all I could do to keep her from going to the police. I knew those boys were dead. Viola was so upset, she didn’t care if she went to jail for murdering Frank Knox. She just wanted her brother found. The Eagles were still looking high and low for her, but she didn’t care. I’d give her elephant doses of Valium, and they’d hardly put a dent in her. Just as she was about to snap, Martin Luther King was assassinated. The whole town went crazy then. The FBI turned all its attention to that case, and the Double Eagles went to ground. I got Reverend Walter Nightingale, a black patient of mine, to go by and talk to Viola. Somehow, he got her to see reason. The next day, she left Natchez and went to Chicago, just like thousands of Mississippi blacks before her.” Nearly overcome with guilt, Tom reached out for the whiskey bottle and took a slug that burned all the way down. “And until the other night, I didn’t even know whether she rode the bus or the train.”

Walt shook his head with empathy. “Which was it?”

“Bus.” Tom took another slug of bourbon. “You know why so many blacks from Mississippi ended up in Chicago?”

“Why?”

“It was the cheapest bus or rail ticket they could get to a major northern city.”

“I’ll be dogged. It’s simple, when you think about it.”

“Most things are, once you understand them.”

Walt took back the bottle and let it hang from his weathered hand. “When did you next talk to her after she left?”

“Six weeks ago.” Tom lowered his head and wiped tears from his eyes. “I loved that woman, Walt. And I didn’t see or talk to her for thirty-seven years.”

“Goddamn, son. That’s rough.”

“I know you know it.”

Walt took a deep breath, then gave a long sigh. Tom knew he was thinking about a Japanese girl he’d fallen in love with during an R&R in Japan. She had haunted Walt for the rest of his life.

“I’ve got no right to say I loved her,” Tom said, filled with anguish. “How can you say you loved a woman you didn’t try to talk to for thirty-seven years?”

“Easy,” Walt said angrily. “Did you ever go a day without thinking about her? One goddamn day?”

Tom thought about it. “Not for the first ten years or so. But after that … yes, I did. I don’t think I could have survived otherwise. Not sober, anyway.”

Walt grunted with empathy. “How did it go for Viola in Chicago?”

“Not good.”