“I hear you. How long would it take you to set up the busts?”

“Twenty-four hours to set it up right—by which I mean keep it quiet.”

Though my mind is still on Brody Royal (and my father, always on my father), I give the drug plan ten seconds of hard analysis. “All right, do it.”

“Okay. I’m sorry about the phone taps. I know you had your heart set on that.”

“Can’t be helped. I’ll try to think of another way.”

“Hey, I went by Henry Sexton’s hospital room this morning. He’s a little more coherent. He’s been asking for your girlfriend, but he also asked me about you. He wants to talk to you.”

“I’d like to talk to him. Any leads yet on who attacked him?”

“Nothing. But I’ll tell you one thing: the FBI moved into the parish this morning like the damned Third Army. They’re out at the Jericho Hole with all kinds of equipment. If you go see Henry, you ought to drive out there and take a look. You won’t believe it.”

“Thanks, Walker. Stay in touch today.”

After he hangs up, I call Caitlin, who sounds breathless when she answers.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “You sound like you’re running.”

“No. I’m on my way to Ferriday. Henry’s been asking for me.”

“How far have you gotten? Walker Dennis says Henry wants to see me, too.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Caitlin? Are you there?”

“Yeah,” she says awkwardly. “I’m already over the bridge. Why don’t you meet me there? I’m sure we’re going to be on very different paths today.”

Her voice sounds unnaturally cold, but I know I won’t get an explanation from her on the phone. Getting to my feet, I head for the bathroom. I want to be present when she sees Henry. I don’t want her badgering him if it turns out he’s decided not to work for her after all.

“All right,” I say, trying not to show my irritation. “I’ll see you there.”

She hangs up without a word.

CHAPTER 61

FORREST KNOX WAS eating brunch in a temporary shelter erected on the front lawn of the recently destroyed Southern Yacht Club when his secure cell phone buzzed in his pocket. With the lieutenant governor sitting at the end of his table, he figured he’d better ignore it for as long as he could.

Situated on the southern shore of Lake Pontchartrain, the Southern Yacht Club was the second oldest in the United States—older than even Newport—the kind of place to which Forrest’s father would only have been admitted to repair something. Tall cotton for a country boy. Forrest had been invited by three men who stood to make millions of dollars out of the reconstruction of the Crescent City.