After a grim salute, he climbs into his cruiser and pulls away, following the invisible tracks of Lincoln Turner. The memory of that white truck sends a rush of anxiety through me. Where did the man who believes himself my half brother run to? Where is my father at this moment? How long have the two of them known about each other? Have they spoken before? Have they embraced? If so, who brought them together? Who could have, other than Viola Turner? With an exhausted sigh, I turn and walk toward my front steps, praying I can get my mother and daughter to safety without being seen.

CHAPTER 53

TOM HAD BEEN watching the fluorescent glow of the Sidney A. Murray Jr. Hydroelectric Station from a great distance as the Roadtrek hummed over the empty croplands of the Louisiana Delta. Over Walt’s protests, he’d deposited Sonny Thornfield in the ambulance bay of Mercy Hospital, and once Walt had got them safely out of town, Tom had come forward and sat in the passenger seat. There was zero risk of a cop pulling them over. They were following the levee road that paralleled the river southward, and it felt like they were driving on the dark side of the moon. No streetlamps, no service stations, not even billboards broke the black monotony that enveloped them. Only the occasional glimmer of moonlight on the borrow pits at the foot of the levee reassured Tom that they were still on Earth.

Walt was so angry that he’d hardly spoken since they left the dead trooper behind. Tom understood, and didn’t try to force conversation. He knew his decision might have doomed them both. He also knew he had no right to put Walt into further jeopardy. Yet he didn’t regret what he’d done. No matter what Walt believed, another murder wasn’t going to save them.

Tom’s shoulder still throbbed relentlessly, but he’d endured worse in Korea, and with adequate treatment the bullet wound wouldn’t kill him. His angina, however, still lingered high between his shoulder blades like a harbinger of death. He didn’t want to take any more nitro until more time had passed, but as soon as they found a safe phone, he would call Drew Elliott and arrange for some clandestine trauma treatment.

Tom had hopes for the hydroelectric station, which was a major installation. Sited at the Old River Control Structure, it harnessed the power of the Mississippi by diverting part of the river through a dammed offshoot channel and converting that inexorable momentum into electricity. The station had a public reception area, and that seemed as good a place as any to find a pay phone.

“We can’t risk the power station,” Walt said, as though reading Tom’s mind.

Tom’s shoulder throbbed in reply. “Why not? We haven’t heard a thing on your police radio.”