Unlike Tom, who had spent most of his life trying to distance himself from the 1960s, Henry Sexton had tried to resurrect them, and he’d paid for his efforts tonight—possibly with his life, if he succumbed to his injuries. As the Roadtrek jounced out of the KOA park and onto Highway 61 South, and Quentin Avery’s mellifluous voice filled his ear, Tom said a silent prayer for the reporter. It was an atheist’s prayer, a foxhole prayer, but that was the only kind Tom had been able to manage for fifty years or more.

He put his thumb over the mike on his cell phone and turned toward Walt. “Have you still got them on your scope?”

The old Ranger nodded, his eyes glued to the screen mounted on the dashboard. “Still coming north. You still think Sonny Thornfield is the one to hit?”

When Walt turned, and Tom met his old friend’s eyes, no words were necessary.

“Turn that damned phone off when you’re finished with your lawyer,” Walt grumbled. “I don’t fancy spending the rest of my days in Parchman.”

“I will. You watch the damned road.”

CHAPTER 48

BRODY ROYAL POINTED through the windshield of his son-in-law’s pickup toward a small building at the end of the street.

“Dark as a damn speakeasy,” he said. “I doubt they even have crime scene tape up.”

Randall Regan braked, then tensed as the squeal of rotors echoed down the street. “I don’t see a soul. I figured after what happened to Henry, the sheriff would have posted a man outside.”

“Amateurs,” said Brody. “Just like your nephew and his crew. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They couldn’t drag one fifty-year-old man into a truck?”

“They didn’t figure on a secretary packing a pistol.”

Brody grunted and peered down the dark street. “This town’s dying. There’s nobody on this side, this time of night. Not during the winter, anyway. It was different back in sixty-four. That night we burned Norris’s store, the signal was the end of the last shift at the King Hotel. That meant Ferriday was shutting down for the night.”

“When did the King close down?”

“Oh, hell, thirty years back.”

“There’s not even a crack dealer back here,” said Regan, chuckling as he rolled toward the Concordia Beacon building. “They’re all over on the main drag. They sell their shit right on Wallace Boulevard.”

Brody shook his head with disgust. “We’d have strung them up from the lampposts in my day. One on every block. Slow down, Randall. Just ease right up to the door.”

Regan craned his head over the steering wheel.

“Nose your fender up there and just push the door open.”