Beyond the door, Walt found an office containing an antique desk that might have belonged to Teddy Roosevelt. The room’s appointments also seemed to fit that era, but what dominated the room was a massive feral hog stuffed and mounted on a polished stand against the wall opposite the desk. Walt had hoped to find filing cabinets, or even a safe, but he saw nothing like that. Taking a seat in the black leather chair behind the desk, he quickly went through the drawers. He found little: some ledgers pertaining to Billy Knox’s legitimate business interests, particularly a television program about hunting; a messy drawer filled with pens and office supplies; a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon; a few tins of Skoal; and a box of Cuban cigars. There was also a letter from Jimmy Buffett’s management company, expressing doubt that their artist could perform for a private birthday party in Mississippi, regardless of the fee.
Walt was about to get up and start working his way through the rest of the lodge when he noticed that a rectangular section of the floor beneath him was lighter than the rest. Standing, he looked down, trying to work out why this was so. It appeared that the hardwood around the rectangle had been darkened by sunlight, while the rectangle had escaped this aging, as though a rug had covered it for a long period. As he stared, Walt realized that the rectangle was exactly the size of the base upon which the big razorback had been mounted—which now stood on the opposite side of the office.
Kneeling, Walt found a small hole in one plank that went right through the floor. The hole was smaller than his little finger. He searched the desk again until he found what he hoped for, a metal rod with a hook on one end. Inserting this hook in the hole, he lifted a concealed trapdoor about two by three feet wide. His heart began to pound when he saw what lay beneath: two heavy floor safes with combination locks set in their faces.
He was gauging his chances of breaking into those safes when the rumble of a low-flying airplane sounded over the lodge. After twenty seconds it faded, then returned, though at diminished volume. Walt’s heartbeat had just about returned to normal when he heard the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter approaching. This was a different engine. The rotor-driven craft flew directly over the lodge, then hovered and began to land in the clearing outside. With no time to flee the building, Walt dropped the trapdoor, replaced the hook in the desk, and ran for the staircase in the great room.
THE LAST THING BILLY Knox wanted to do while Concordia Parish was turning into a redneck version of Fallujah was return to Louisiana, especially in the company of his father. But since his cousin had sent the invitation, remaining in Texas wasn’t an option. At Forrest’s command, Snake had flown Billy and Sonny over in the Baron, while three more Double Eagles had set out from Toledo Bend by car and would arrive in five hours or so.
Snake had spent most of the flight offering theories for why his bullet hadn’t killed Henry Sexton at Mercy Hospital, all of which amounted to detailed but pathetic excuses. Only Claude Devereux’s hint that Forrest planned to retaliate for the morning’s drug busts by killing Penn Cage and his girlfriend had brightened Snake’s mood. He was furious that “that newspaper whore” had written a story claiming he’d murdered and mutilated Pooky Wilson in 1964. That Snake was in fact guilty of the crime seemed not to matter to him, but Billy had learned long ago not to demand reason from his father. While Snake went on and on, Billy had simply put on his headphones and listened to Steve Earle for the remainder of the flight.
Forrest’s Redbone enforcer had met them down at the landing strip in an SUV, then ferried them up to the lodge. Now they trooped into the great room like GIs summoned to a pre-mission briefing. Billy had never served in the military, but everybody else had, and there was no mistaking the martial air of this meeting. Snake made quite a thing of laying his rifle case on the coffee table, as though it held some ceremonial weapon about to be consecrated.
Forrest straddled a heavy wooden chair at the center of the room, facing the sofas and club chairs. Ozan played waiter and got everybody their preference in alcohol, but even before it arrived, Snake launched into a monologue on the ways he might remove the human threats to their organization. Forrest let Snake run, but Billy hardly looked at his father. He sensed that Forrest had something very different in mind. Finally, after a couple of shots of bourbon, even Snake began to sense something amiss. When he finally stopped talking, everyone sat in awkward silence, which was unusual at Valhalla, where family members and Double Eagles had always felt completely at home.
Forrest looked at each man in turn: Billy, Sonny, and finally Snake. Then he began to speak, softly but with absolute authority, as if it were understood that no one would interrupt him. This was no mean feat when Snake and Sonny were a generation older than he. Billy could never have pulled this off without his father butting in, but Forrest was different. He always had been.
“We’re under attack from at least four different directions,” he began, “and probably more. The FBI is after us, both for what the Double Eagles did back in the day and for our current operations. The Masters girl is trying to crucify us with her newspaper. Penn Cage wants us because of the threat to his father. And Walker Dennis wants revenge for the cousin he lost a couple of years back. To that you can add a whole department that wants blood because of the deputies that died from the bomb in the warehouse this morning.”
Forrest looked directly at Snake. “While my instinct when attacked is to counterattack, violently, I’ve decided that we’re not going to dump gasoline on this fire. We can’t afford to.”
Billy saw his father gearing up to argue, but Forrest raised his right hand a few inches to forestall him. “Brody apparently lost his mind last night. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. He did us the favor of taking Henry Sexton off the board, but we don’t know what information he might have passed to others, or what our current exposure is. We don’t know what Morehouse told Henry before you guys took him out, but we have to assume the worst. We also don’t know what Viola Turner may have told Dr. Cage or Henry Sexton before she died. So . . . we’re pretty much in the dark when it comes to the exact nature of the threat. The body count is already unacceptably high. Even if we suspend operations and nobody else gets killed, it’ll be weeks before the FBI pulls out of the parish. And that is what we are going to do. I’ve already given the orders to my people, and you guys will do the same.”
Snake’s face had gone red, but to Billy’s amazement, he didn’t rush to fill the vacuum of Forrest’s first pause.
“The fact that what’s been in the paper has focused on the 1960s is encouraging,” Forrest went on, “because proving any of those crimes in court would be virtually impossible, especially with all the witnesses dead. One of you guys would have to turn state’s evidence for them to get a conviction, and I assume that will not happen.”
“You’re goddamned right it won’t,” Snake vowed.
Forrest acknowledged his fury with a nod. “But that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear. This morning’s busts will allow Dennis to put a lot of pressure on your mules, cookers, et cetera.” Forrest looked at Billy. “What do you think our exposure is from those people?”
“Zero to minimal,” Billy said. He’d been thinking about this all morning. “Hardly any of them can hurt us, and we’re holding wives or kids of the few who could. They won’t talk.”
“Good. Make sure our men in the CPSO reinforce that. If one man tries to cut a deal, mamas and babies start dying. Just the fact that we have people on the inside will scare the hell out of them.”
For the first time, Snake nodded in satisfaction. Probably at the coldness in Forrest’s voice, Billy thought.
“As for the bigger picture,” Forrest continued, “we’re going to play it very cool. There’ll be a lot of moving parts to my response. First, I’ve called up the Black Team. They’ll start arriving here today. If anybody needs to be threatened or hit in the short term, they’ll handle it. The Bureau has no idea who they are, as opposed to you guys. Second, I need time. First, to get Mackiever
out of his job. But there are other reasons, too.” Forrest flexed his fists and looked around the room. “To that end, you guys are going to have to do something you won’t want to do. But we have no choice.”
Snake’s eyes had narrowed in suspicion.
“Sheriff Walker Dennis has asked that you guys and four other Eagles come in to the CPSO tomorrow for voluntary questioning.”
Billy’s stomach flipped over. Snake looked like he was about to bust a gut, but still he waited to hear what was coming. Sonny Thornfield was obviously terrified.
“Why me?” Billy asked hoarsely.
“Not you,” Forrest said. “I misspoke there.”
Billy nearly fell out of his chair with relief.
“At seven tomorrow,” Forrest said, “Snake, Sonny, and the other named Eagles are going to do exactly that. To my knowledge, Dennis has no plans to arrest you. This amounts to harassment, plain and simple. But you’re going to put up with it, because I need the time.”
When Snake finally blew his top, it was like a storm being unleashed from above. He could cuss more in sixty seconds than any man Billy had ever seen. Forrest simply sat there and took it, like a man waiting for a tornado to pass. Sonny looked like he might collapse from the strain at any moment. But at last, like even the most violent of hurricanes, Snake blew himself out.
Forrest waited a bit, then said calmly, “There’s no risk of arrest, Uncle Snake. Zero.”
“For you,” Snake snapped. “That goddamn Masters girl already accused me of murder in the newspaper!”
Forrest actually chuckled at this. “Yeah, well, you’ve been bragging in bars that you killed Martin Luther King. Did you think that shit was never going to come back on you?”
“This is different!”
“You’re goddamn right it is.” Forrest’s eyes looked like lasers burning into Snake’s face.
Snake looked at the broad plank floor. “What are you gonna be doing while all this is going down?”
“I’m glad you asked, Uncle. I’m going to be cutting a deal to make all this trouble go away.”
“Who with?”
“That you don’t need to know. Not right now. Nobody does.”
“Bullshit we don’t,” Snake said, looking around for support. “If you think I’m gonna walk into the sheriff’s office without knowing—”
“I do think that,” Forrest said with icy calm. “Because it’s your only option. Do anything else and you look guilty. Kill the mayor or the Masters girl or, God forbid, John Kaiser, and we’ll have an army of federal agents in here for a year. They’ll be like that posse in the Butch Cassidy movie. They’ll hound us until we’re dead. So you and your old buddies are going to walk into the CPSO like you have nothing to hide.”
“No goddamn way,” Snake muttered. “That’s suicide.”
When Forrest laughed again, Snake looked apoplectic. “I tell you what,” Forrest said. “I was going to keep this a surprise, but to ease your mind, Uncle, I’ll give you a little heads-up. Ten minutes after you walk into the sheriff’s office tomorrow, Walker Dennis won’t be the sheriff anymore.”
Snake’s mouth fell open. “What do you mean? Is the Black Team gonna kill him?”
“That’s none of your concern. All you need to know is that by the time you walk in there tomorrow, Walker Dennis will have ceased to be a factor in our situation.”
“Who’ll be the sheriff, then?”
Forrest grinned. “A friendly face.”
Billy drank off his whiskey, leaned forward, and waited for his cousin to lay out the plan. He expected a classic Forrest Knox gambit: ballsy as hell, yet as intricately choreographed as a ballet. But Forrest said nothing. He had no intention of telling them anything. Billy expected his father to raise hell, but after staring at Forrest’s face for nearly a minute, Snake settled back in his chair with a malevolent smile. It was as though Forrest had cast a spell over him.
“So,” Forrest concluded. “We’re all clear? Tomorrow you walk in there for questioning?”
Snake laughed. “I reckon so, nephew. I reckon so.”
“Good. Now, I want to discuss a couple of things with Billy. We’re going to take a walk down to check the food plots.”
Billy started to get up, but Snake said, “Hold up one minute. I heard you’ve changed your orders on Tom Cage. No more shoot to kill, they say.”
In an instant the beast that lived behind Forrest’s imperturbable mask revealed itself. “Who told you that?” he asked in a barely audible voice.
But Snake was not intimidated. “Never you mind, nephew. Is it true?”
“It’s true.”
Snake looked at Sonny as if to say, You see? Then he said, “And why would that be?”
“Tom Cage is one of the moving parts in the deal I’m making to save your ass.”
Snake slowly went red again. “You mean to save your real-estate deals down in New Orleans, don’t you? This ain’t about saving us up here at all.”
Forrest looked at the floor as though by so doing he could bleed his fury into the wood. After half a minute he composed himself and looked up again, focusing on each man in turn once more.
“The crystal meth business is for suckers,” he said. “You found out why this morning. Every man they brought in is facing a mandatory minimum sentence. You may be right that none of them will turn on you—this time. But sooner or later, somebody will give you up. If we stay in that business, we’re going to end up in Angola one day. You guys may be willing to take that chance, but I’m not. The deals Brody has got me into will make the money we’ve earned in the past look like a joke. I’d be better off paying you to stay out of business than to risk you staying in. You understand? And I’m willing to do that, for a reasonable amount of time. What I won’t do is stand by while you go rogue and try some crazy shit like Brody did, and bring more heat down on our heads. Because the day you become a liability to me . . .”
Forrest didn’t finish this sentence. He didn’t need to.
Snake was shaking his head, but when he finally spoke, he only seemed to have one thing on his mind. “I want Tom Cage dead,” he growled. “The rest of it I can live with, but not that. I think the doc knows enough to put us all in Angola, and he’ll do it, too.”
“Why?” Forrest asked, sounding genuinely interested. “Why would he do that?”
“Because of what we done to that nurse of his back in ’68.” Snake looked hard at Forrest. “You know what I’m talking about. You were there.”
Forrest acknowledged this with a nod.
Billy was pretty sure they were talking about a gang rape, but he had no desire to know more.
“Dr. Cage might feel some bitterness about that,” Forrest conceded. “But he cares about his family a lot more than he does revenge. You leave him to me.”
“To him that nurse was family,” Snake said. “He loved that nigger, and he had a natural child by her. Why else would he have gone so high up to keep us from killing her?”
Billy had no idea what Snake was talking about.
“He probably did love her,” Forrest said. “I don’t give a shit about that. I care about security. Dr. Cage wants to watch that granddaughter of his grow up for as long as he can. He’ll do a lot for that privilege.”
Snake held out a shaking hand and pointed at Forrest. “Mark my words, boy. You try to cut a deal with Tom Cage, and he’ll fuck you in the end.”
Forrest looked more intrigued than angry. “Why is that, Uncle?”
Snake sat so still he looked carved from stone. “I’ve never trusted that motherfucker. Not since your daddy died in his office.”
For the first time Forrest looked rattled. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just a feeling I always had. I don’t like that that nigger woman was in there when Frank died, especially so soon after what we done to her.”
Forrest sneered and shook his head. “You’re nuts, Unc. Daddy was doomed the second those batteries fell on h
im. The pathologist told Mama that.”
“Yeah, well . . . fuck him, too.”
Forrest’s voice hardened. “You’re the one who took Daddy to Dr. Cage’s office. You should have taken him to the hospital. That’s something else the pathologist told Mama, if you want to know.”
“Fuck the pathologist!” Snake roared. “I know what I know. And I want Dr. Cage dead. The rest you can have your way on, but I want that SOB in the swamp!”
Forrest stood, then walked over to Snake and spoke in a voice so soft and sibilant that Billy was reminded of the warning hiss of the moccasins for which his father had been nicknamed.
“Listen to me, Uncle. I say who lives and dies in this outfit. Not you, and not anybody you might call in the dark of the night. Me. Anybody crosses me on that, he’ll be chewing over old times with Leo Spivey. Am I understood?”
Billy wasn’t breathing. Forrest had just threatened his father with death. To Billy’s surprise, Snake didn’t jump up screaming, but instead merely mumbled a reply. Billy couldn’t make it out, but apparently this response satisfied Forrest, because he turned and walked over to his chair to get his coat.
Billy got up to go for the “walk” Forrest had proposed, but Snake suddenly stood, grabbed his rifle case off the coffee table, and said, “Don’t get up, Billy. I wouldn’t want you youngsters to get a chill. Sonny and I will check the food plots. I might see a buck on the way down. At least that way I won’t have brought my gun for nothing.”
As the obviously shaken Sonny followed Snake to the door, Forrest called after them, “I will give you this, Uncle. If I can’t get this deal done, and quick, there will be some killing to do. Mayor Cage, the Masters girl . . . even Kaiser. So keep your gun warmed up, because you never know.”
Snake stopped and looked back at his nephew. “Agent Kaiser? You serious?”