Forrest dropped the letter opener on the green felt, then laid both hands on the desk and leaned so far over it that Royal must have felt his breath. “That nigger still fucked your daughter, Brody. What you did afterwards don’t mean nothing. You hear me? You weren’t paying attention when it mattered. Sitting behind a desk for forty years opening letters with a dickskin isn’t the proper training for dealing with me. I may not be quite as mean as my daddy was, but I’m smarter. That can be good or bad for you. Take your pick. But if you cross me again—if I have to come back here like this again—it’ll be the last time.”

The old man’s head quivered with rage, but it was his son-in-law who stepped forward, reaching for the desk drawer that held Brody’s pistol.

“And you,” Forrest said, pointing at Regan, who stopped cold. “If you don’t leave the operations side to the professionals, I’ll have Alphonse come back and make a trophy out of your dick—if there’s enough down there to work with.”

Randall Regan’s face went scarlet, then white. He lunged for the gun drawer, but Forrest only turned on his heel and walked past his Redbone bodyguard, who had already drawn a pistol from his ankle holster.

“Open casket or closed?” Ozan said, a smug grin on his lips. “You got a preference?”

CHAPTER 58

LESS THAN FIVE miles from Brody Royal’s lake house, Caitlin Masters stood outside the smoking ruin of the Concordia Beacon and watched a fire inspector work his way through the building with a high-powered flashlight. Jamie Lewis was sitting in his car, talking on the phone to one of their reporters back at the Examiner. She and Jamie had already interviewed every cop and fireman on the scene, and everyone agreed it was arson. Several firemen had reported the smell of tar, which none recalled having encountered in a long time, except at buildings with tarred roofs, which the Beacon had not had.

While waiting for the fire crew to leave (so that she could search the building), Caitlin had been discreetly searching the area outside, particularly the ground near where Henry had been attacked. Now that Jamie was occupied in the car, she bent over the soot-covered parking lot and switched on her Palm Treo, using it as a flashlight. The glow of the screen was dim, but she didn’t want to risk using the penlight in her purse.