Ensconced behind his heavy desk, Brody continued to display a forbearance that Claude had never known he possessed. But with each passing second, Devereux became more certain that this was like the quiet before a hurricane. Brody always kept at least one pistol in his desk drawer, and Claude worried that his old friend might simply shoot Knox out of hand, without even deigning to argue with him. Royal had been raised in a world where that kind of thing was still possible. The Redbone behind Forrest looked like he expected something of the sort; he reminded Claude of a guard dog waiting for an attack command.

“Your real problem,” Forrest went on, “is that you’re acting out of fear. That’s a reflex, Brody, and a stupid one.”

Royal’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time he spoke in answer. “You’re not your daddy, boy,” he said with venom. “Be careful.”

Forrest drew himself to his full height, then gave himself a few seconds before replying. “You’re right, I’m not. You and Pop were lions in your day. Everybody knows it. But we’re not living in the jungle anymore. You got scared of payback for something you did forty years ago, and you decided the best response was to kill somebody. Worse, you gave the job to this guy”—Forrest pointed at Randall Regan, who instantly went red—“and he fucked it up beyond belief.”

“Nobody knew that fat secretary had a gun,” Regan snapped. “And I want to know where those boys are now. One of ’em was my nephew.”

Forrest gave him a contemptuous look. “Then you shouldn’t have told him to make his own way when he called you for help.”

Before Regan could respond, Forrest stabbed a forefinger at Royal. “Do you sell all your stock when the market starts crashing? No. You buy. This is the same situation. The FBI has had forty years to prove these murders, and they couldn’t do it. They won’t prove ’em this year, either. So, what are you scared of?”

“Guilt,” said Brody, his gray eyes steady in the hawklike face. “Some born-again fool’s conscience. I wanted Sexton questioned properly, not killed in the street. I wanted to know the identity of every Eagle he’s talked to, everything he told Penn Cage last night, and whatever Viola Turner told him before she died. Then I wanted him to disappear. I still do.”

“Guilty consciences are a legitimate worry with old men,” Forrest conceded. “But let me worry about that from now on. You don’t see me trying to run a bank or an agribusiness, do you? Well, shutting people up is one of my specialties. When it has to be done, nobody does it better.”

Ozan chuckled ominously behind his master.

“That doesn’t reassure me,” Brody said. “You’ve let Henry Sexton write whatever he pleased for years now.”