“Hey, hey,” Thornfield said, breathing fast while his eyes tracked the blue-white flame. “Wait a minute. Doc … I don’t feel right. Something’s wrong.”

“Was Snake with you that night at Viola’s?” Tom asked.

Sonny nodded, looking nauseated.

“I’m not kidding,” Sonny said, his breaths coming shallow. “Something’s wrong.”

“You bet your ass something’s wrong,” Walt said. “But in about thirty seconds, it ain’t gonna matter. Your whole brain’s gonna feel like it’s on fire.”

“What the hell do you guys want? Jesus, man!”

Walt cut his eyes at Tom and nodded. Tom took one of his Ziploc bags from a nearby drawer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he removed two adrenaline vials and a large syringe like the one that had been used to inject Viola.

“Hey!” Sonny cried. “What’s that? You’re not gonna kill me, are you? Doc!”

“That depends,” Tom said. “On how cooperative you are in the next thirty seconds. Give me your hand, Sonny.”

He reached for Thornfield’s hand, but the old Klansman jerked it back. Walt held the blowtorch near his leg and clucked his tongue. The prospect of actually torturing a man sickened Tom, but if Thornfield refused to cooperate, he might have to let Walt proceed. A gun to the head was no good unless you were prepared to use it, and that would defeat the purpose of the whole exercise.

Tom held out his open hand, and this time Sonny lowered his fingers to within reach. With the deft motions that had sutured thousands of wounds, Tom rolled Sonny’s thumb and finger over the adrenaline vials several times. With the syringe he took care to place Sonny’s prints right where they would have gone had Thornfield injected Viola with adrenaline. As he dropped the vials and syringe back into the Ziploc bag, Sonny stared at him like a puzzled dog.

“Like I told you earlier,” Tom said, “I have a proposition for you. I want to talk to you about turning state’s evidence.”

Sonny’s eyes bugged. “You aren’t cops. You can’t offer me any deal.”

“Nevertheless,” Walt said, “there’s a deal to be had. And it’s the only one you’re going to get. We’ve got enough evidence right now to throw you to the wolves on Viola’s murder.”

“All we’ve got to do,” Walt said, “is put a bullet in your ear, and dump you back at your camp house with that syringe and those vials.”

“Then why don’t you do it? Why’d you even take the trouble to drive out here?”

“There’s a more elegant solution,” Tom said. “One more likely to satisfy all parties concerned.”