Kings and presidents can be brought down with the right weapons. The trick is to find their vulnerabilities. Men like Portman and Marston live for power. They hunger for it even as they wield more than most men will ever know. They act with certainty and dispatch, rarely allowing themselves the luxury of doubt. And so long as they operate from this fortress of psychological security, they are untouchable. Perhaps the way to bring them down is to breach that fortress, to turn their worlds upside down and force them into a reactive mode. The way to do that seems obvious enough. Re-introduce them to an emotion they have not felt in a great while.

Fear.

My first thought when my father comes through the pantry door is that he looks ten years older than he did two days ago. He kisses my mother and Annie, then motions for me to follow him into the library. I shrug at my mother and follow.

He sits in his leather recliner and switches on the television, apparently to mask our conversation.

“Somebody just tried to kill Ray Presley.”

“What?” I exclaim, dropping onto the sofa to his left.

“His girlfriend was giving him the first few cc’s of that Mexican chemotherapy he takes. He started complaining of angina and ripped the catheter out of his wrist. The girl called 911 and gave him CPR until the paramedics got there. He was having a coronary. He just checked himself out of the CCU against my orders.”

“What makes you think it was attempted murder?”

“The girl brought in the IV bag, and one of our lab techs ran a few tests. He thinks there’s some potassium chloride mixed in with the cocktail.”

“Jesus. Did you call the police?”

“Ray told me not to. He was so goddamn mad he wouldn’t let anybody but me close to him. He said he’d handle it himself.”

“I’ll bet he will. How much damage did his heart sustain?”

“I don’t have enough enzyme tests back to tell.” Dad drums his hands on the arms of the chair. “We’ve got another problem.”

“What?”

“You talked to Betty Lou Beckham today?”

“How do you know that?”

“She showed up at my office at four o’clock, half in the bag. Said she had to talk to me.”

I should have expected this. For years my father has acted as a confessor to countless souls, particularly women, who have no outlet for their sorrows and anxieties other than their ministers or local psychologists, as Natchez has attracted only one or two psychiatrists over the past two decades, and none has stayed. In this vacuum, a compassionate M.D. fills the void as no one else can.

“Was she in that parking lot when Del Payton died?”