“Not just pumps,” Kaiser says, still looking after the girls. “Monster pumps. Each one moves twenty-eight thousand cubic feet per minute. This hole has fifty million gallons of water in it, give or take, and they’ll drain it dry in fifteen hours. They’ve already been running for nearly three.”

Looking closer, I see a ring of damp earth several feet wide already surrounding the Jericho Hole, and the small hollows of bream beds in the mud.

“Where’s the water going? The river?”

He nods and points to four big-bore hoses running off to the east, away from the levee.

“How did you get this equipment up here so fast?”

“Politics. Which I detest. I’ve cleared this through the U.S. attorney’s office, all the way up to Washington.”

“All this effort for a couple of musicians who went missing nearly forty years ago?”

Kaiser raises one eyebrow. “Those musicians were kidnapped and murdered by a domestic terror organization, Mayor Cage. A terror cell that murdered FBI informants and probably executed one of its own members only two days ago. Which means that it’s still active.”

I detect a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but he sounds deadly serious about his motive.

“Are you saying—”

“I’m saying that the Patriot Act, flawed as it may be, has its uses.”

“That’s how you got Morehouse’s body. Right?”

He gives me a conspiratorial smile.

“Agent Kaiser, I have a feeling you’re not the standard-issue Quantico robot.”

“True, I’m afraid. I usually like to do things quietly, but when those bastards tried to kill Henry Sexton, I decided to take the gloves off.”

“Kirk said you’ve already gotten most of the bones up.”

“On their way to the crime lab in Washington, as we speak.”

“I’m betting they belong to Luther Davis.”

Kaiser nods. “But that’s not for your girlfriend.”

“I know. You already ID’d the car, right?”

Kaiser smiles again. “Nineteen fifty-nine Pontiac Strato Chief. Two-door, full-size convertible. Split grille, twin tailfins, the only year they made them. This one has a 389-cubic-inch Trophy V-8, three-two barrel carburetors, and Wide Track Tiger wheels. Three hundred forty-five horsepower. If the Double Eagles hadn’t had Concordia Parish deputies radioing ahead to help them, they’d have never caught Davis and Revels the night they beat them up for going to that all-white drive-in.”

“You got all that while it’s still under the water?”

“I knew what I was looking for. That’s the same car Luther Davis bought used in 1961, right after he was discharged from the army.”

A twinge of excitement ripples through my chest. “You’re positive?”