Tom reached into his weekend bag and brought out his .357 Magnum. “I’m not supposed to be handling firearms, either. But I’m making an exception tonight.”

Thornfield’s demeanor hardly changed. He didn’t seem to believe he was in lethal danger, even after they’d driven so far from town. The low chatter of the police scanner seemed to puzzle him, but he hadn’t asked about it yet.

“You did kidnap Viola Turner in 1968,” Tom said. “You helped gang-rape her, and then you helped torture her. I know, because I’m the one who sent Ray Presley to take her back.”

For the first time, fear flickered in Thornfield’s eyes. Even dead, Ray Presley scared most people more than a live man could.

“I ain’t sayin’ shit to you,” Sonny said. “Either one of you. You might as well take me back home.”

Walt punched him in the gut, driving the wind from his lungs. Drool rolled down the old man’s chin as he straightened up.

“Are ya’ll taping this or something?” he asked, coughing violently. “The statue of limitations has run out on rape, you know. A long time ago. It’s like it never happened, far as the law’s concerned.”

Tom spoke patiently, as though he had all day to make his points. “You also murdered Viola’s brother, and a man named Luther Davis. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, Sonny.”

“You can’t prove that. The FBI doesn’t even think those two were murdered.”

“We’re not concerned with what the FBI thinks. Do you remember the night you got shot in the leg? The night Frank and Glenn brought you to my office? February 1968?”

Thornfield glanced down at his left leg. “What about it?”

“Viola was there that night. Her brother and Luther Davis, too. You’d gotten into a brawl with them, and I was patching them up when you got there. I know you were looking to get revenge on them. But they hid out in Freewoods, so you raped Viola to smoke them out.”

A little more of Thornfield’s defiance evaporated.

Walt squatted before him with surprising flexibility. “If you think we snatched you and drove you down here because we give a flying fuck about the law, you’re dumber than I figured.”

This time Sonny held his silence. Like Ray Presley, Walt gave off an aura of impending violence, and Sonny recognized it.

“We know you tortured them boys,” Walt said. “Presley told Tom all about it. You sliced off their service tattoos, which I take personally, you no-’count son of a bitch.”

Sonny swallowed and drew back a couple of inches.