“I remember a picture from somewhere. It showed Marston and J. Edgar Hoover together. Both of them glaring into the camera like junior G-men. Marston always claimed to be a personal friend of Hoover’s. That’s not fashionable now, of course. But thirty years ago it was quite a coup.”

I had thought I might be able to keep my father on the periphery of this case, but that’s simply not practical. The fact is, I need his help. “Dad, the guy who sent me that list of FBI agents is Bureau himself. He told me a couple of disturbing things.”

“Like?”

“This morning Austin Mackey requested the FBI file on Del Payton, and he was turned down. The Payton file was sealed by J. Edgar Hoover in 1968 on grounds of national security.”

His eyes narrow in disbelief. “What?”

“Now you tell me Marston was a personal friend of Hoover’s. I’ve already determined that Presley probably lied about the bomb that blew up Payton’s car. The FBI had to know that. I don’t know how it all adds up, but as district attorney, Marston had to be right in the middle of all this.”

He looks toward the shore, as though trying to spot his truck against the darkness of the trees. When he answers, his voice is so soft it seems to drift out of the lap of water against the bow.

“Leo Marston put our family through hell for a year and a half. The stress damn near killed me, and it changed your mother forever.”

I say nothing, wondering if he’s talking to me or himself.

“The things he’s done to other people . . . compromised them, bullied them. You don’t know half of what he’s done. I’m not a vindictive man. But to make that bastard pay for some of that . . . God, that would be justice.”

He is taking himself where I wanted to take him all along.

“We’d have to find a way to protect Annie and Peggy,” he says. “Around the clock.”

“We can do that.”

He looks back at me. “You’re not in Houston anymore. You have no authority here. You can’t investigate secretly. Half the town already knows what you’re doing.”

“The more people who know, the safer we’ll be.”

“Marston can apply pressure from angles you never dreamed of. But physical safety is the first priority. I know a couple of good men. Cops. Patients of mine.”

“Do you really think you can trust them? Cops, I mean. Ray Presley was a cop.”

Dad chuckles softly in the shadows. “They’re both black. What do you think?”

CHAPTER 18

Caitlin Masters has the corner booth in Biscuits & Blues. She smiles and waves when she sees me walking through the tables. I speak to a couple of people I know, but there’s no applause tonight. The restaurant is packed with diners absorbed in their own affairs.