Henry had waited all his life for a source like this. But while Mrs. Wilson had freely given him this information, she’d refused to give up the name of the mysterious witness who’d supplied it. She had wept upon learning the reason for her son’s death, and the boy witness—now grown—had hugged her and begged her forgiveness. Then he’d begged her to keep his name secret until he found the courage to tell his story to the FBI. Mrs. Wilson had agreed, and she would not break a sacred promise, especially when she lay on St. Peter’s doorstep. Less than twenty-four hours later, she was dead. Cardiac arrest secondary to renal failure, her doctor said. Henry hadn’t suspected foul play—not then. But the deaths sure seemed to be piling up. And despite spending much of every day since then hunting for the mystery witness he’d dubbed “Huggy Bear,” Henry had so far failed to find him.

He looked down and realized his hands were shaking. If Viola had truly been murdered, then the cases he’d worked alone for so long were about to explode into the spotlight. The FBI agents who always pestered him to share his hard-earned knowledge would seize control of the investigation and subpoena everything he had. No longer would he be the lone crusader for justice, battling federal apathy as well as evil. Of course, he’d always claimed that he wanted help. He’d pounded on a hundred bureaucratic desks and begged for it. But while he appreciated dedicated college interns and priority treatment for his Freedom of Information Act requests, in reality he had no desire to deal with ego-driven DAs and career-driven FBI agents. Not yet, anyway. Truth be told, Henry wanted to break these cases on his own terms. He wanted to piece together the missing facts like a jigsaw puzzle, then lay out the sequence of crimes like God looking at history, and only then turn the final picture over to the FBI and the public. He hadn’t felt that way in the beginning, but the Bureau had treated him shabbily, and their lack of respect had stung him.

He thought again about the missing videotape Shad Johnson had mentioned. What if Viola’s secrets had not gone to the grave with her? As Henry neared the Mississippi River, he wondered whether some frightened old Double Eagle with blood on his hands had dumped that tape into the muddy river sometime before dawn. Henry could readily name a couple of cold bastards who wouldn’t have had any qualms about killing Viola to keep the past buried.

“Please don’t dump that tape,” he whispered. “Keep it as a trophy, you sons of bitches.”

It would be a stupid thing to do, but Henry had known killers to do dumber things.