Big Daddy himself followed the man in. Cole wasn’t restrained in any way, and he was bigger than Cronin. Although they were about five years apart in age, Cole also seemed much younger than Big Daddy. Cole was muscle everywhere, muscles stacked on top of muscles, with hardly an ounce of fat on his body. Big Daddy was not.

“Have a seat,” Big Daddy said.

Cole sat in the chair at the table. On his left pectoral muscle, near his heart, was a tattoo of a Confederate flag. Well faded now, it looked like it had been bright full color at one time. Luke had also caught a glimpse of a black prison tattoo swastika on the guy’s right shoulder.

Luke glanced at Newsam, but Newsam made no sign he’d seen any of it.

“State your name,” Big Daddy said.

“Davis Michael Cole,” the man said automatically in a deep voice. “First Marines Expeditionary—”

Big Daddy slapped him hard across the back of his bald head. Cole flinched at the slap.

“Shut up,” Big Daddy said. “You’re not in the Marines.”

Cole’s mouth closed with a snap.

Big Daddy pointed at the Confederate flag tattoo. Then he turned Cole’s arm toward the window to show the swastika tattoo. “You guys seeing this?”

He shook his head. He looked down at Cole and took a deep breath.

“You know something, Cole? You know what I’m going to tell you, right? I hate tattoos like that. I hate things like that. I HATE IT. It makes me hate you. No, that’s not true. I don’t hate you. I have a very strong urge to help you. To correct your thinking, even if that means I have to kill you to do it.”

Big Daddy took a deep, slow breath. “Let me ask you a question. What country’s military were you supposedly in?”

“The American military,” Cole said, his voice flat and automatic.

“And the Confederates were what to the United States of America?”

Cole didn’t answer.

Suddenly Big Daddy punched him in the back of the head.

“You better say it.”

He punched Cole again.

Cole gritted his teeth.

Then Big Daddy had a gun in his hand—it appeared there as though he was a magician and making a gun appear was one of his easier tricks. It was a smallish .38 caliber revolver, like police officers carried once upon a time. He opened the gun and slid a single bullet into a chamber.

Then he closed it and gave the wheel a spin.

Trudy moved as if to stand up from her seat, but Luke put a hand on her shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

Big Daddy put the gun to Cole’s head.