“Any guards in back?” Wilma asked, accelerating down State Street, which was lined with expensive cars.

“One,” said Alois. “An old nigger. I think he’s a city cop, or used to be. The guy out front looks like an old hippie or something, doesn’t he?”

“He looks pretty tough to me. I think I’ve seen him doing dirt work across the river.”

“Fuck him. We just need a diversion to make sure we can get the bombs to the door.”

“We don’t have a go order yet, do we?”

“We will. I heard it in the colonel’s voice.”

Alois jerked a dirty towel off the box sitting beside him on the backseat. In the box were three sealed wine bottles filled to the neck with a mixture of gasoline, kerosene, tar, and potassium chlorate. Taped to the side of each bottle were two windproof matches.

“Who did you say designed these things?” Wilma asked. “The Russians?”

“The Finns,” Alois said irritably. The kid fancied himself a connoisseur of World War II weaponology. “They used them in the Winter War.”

“Against the Russians?”

“Against the Germans.”

“Okay, okay, BF deal. Somehow they don’t look like real Molotov cocktails without the rag hanging out.”

Alois grunted. “Do you want to look cool while you set yourself on fire, or really hurt the people who wasted your brother?”

Wilma said nothing. This kid had no idea what was really going on. To him Glenn Morehouse had been just a fat old guy who’d lived in her house, not an unstoppable force that could be pointed at a target like a tank.

“How well do you know Forrest?” Wilma asked.

“Well enough to know that when he asks you to do him a favor, you do it. He’s about the baddest son of a bitch I ever met, and I’ve met some.”

Wilma laughed. “I just bet you have, blondie.”

The truck jounced over a speed bump, and the bottles clanked ominously in the box.

“Stuff that fucking towel in there!” Wilma snapped. “Wedge it between the bottles. I don’t plan on burning up in this truck.”

Alois obeyed with surprising delicacy. Then he reached down to the floor and brought up a heavy Sig Sauer pistol.

“You know, if that guy doesn’t go in for a break pretty soon, I’m just going to walk up and blow his shit away.”

“Forrest didn’t say anything about shooting guards,” Wilma said.

“Well, he doesn’t want us waiting on the street all day.”

“Just hold your water. He’ll have to take a leak soon. You got the masks?”

Alois lifted a Walmart bag from the floor. “You get the Harry Potter. I’m taking Spider-Man.”

She shook her head in derision. Kids.

ONLY ONCE IN HER life had Peggy Cage had her faith in her husband tested as it was being tested now, and she wasn’t sure she was up to the challenge. Still, she put the best possible face on things, as she’d been taught to do from birth. Despite her protestations to Penn, having Kirk Boisseau close by had improved her sense of security. Like a lot of Natchez men of his generation, Kirk had been taught English by Peggy at St. Stephen’s Prep back in the early 1970s. He’d grown up to be quite an imposing adult, and today she was glad of it. Tom’s elderly patient James Ervin was guarding the back of the house—unless it was his brother Elvin; Peggy could scarcely tell the difference between the retired cops. With both James and Kirk on guard, it seemed that physical security was not a problem, and yet Peggy felt deeply unsettled.

One reason was Annie. As the mayor’s daughter, Annie Cage had become even more adept than her grandmother at putting on a public face, but the girl couldn’t fool Peggy. Though she’d managed an animated discussion with Kirk, Annie was clearly worried about her father and Caitlin—and terrified for her grandfather. Annie had also suggested to Peggy that Penn and Caitlin were having “relationship trouble.” Though she had only her intuition and Caitlin’s continued absence to support this assertion, Peggy suspected she was right.

Early that morning, Annie had sat down in the den and made a great show of reading Caitlin’s most recent articles aloud from the newspaper Kirk had brought with him. Peggy tried to look interested, but the only stories that held her interest anymore were those dealing with the murder for which Tom had been indicted, and there had been precious little information printed on that case after the initial story.

“Gram!” Annie cried, getting to her feet with her cell phone held aloft. “Caitlin just texted me!”

Peggy clenched her abdomen in preparation for whatever might follow. “What does she say, honey?”

Annie read from the screen: “Hey punk, sorry I haven’t been around much. You can see from the paper I’m working around the clock. Today I’m doing Lara Croft meets Nancy Drew. I may be on CNN tonight, so watch the news. With any luck, I’ll be there to watch it with you. Love, Cait.”

“Who’s Lara Croft?” Peggy asked, relieved and thankful that Caitlin had thought to reassure Annie.

“Just a character from a video game,” Annie said, her face glowing. “I wish Dad and Papa would text us like Caitlin does.”

“Me, too. I’ll be right back, sweetie,” Peggy said, getting to her feet. “I’m going to check on Mr. Kirk.”

“He’s just plain Kirk,” Annie corrected her. “He told me not to call him mister. He was four years ahead of Dad in school, but they played football together.”

Peggy smiled and went into the den, where Kirk Boisseau was leaning against the wall and watching an old western in black and white.

“Are you all right, Kirk? Can I fix you a sandwich or something?”

“No, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “I’m good.”

Unable to think of any small talk—which was rare for her—Peggy looked at the television. On-screen she saw a black-clad cowboy brandishing a bullwhip, and the sight cut her to the quick. The actor was Lash LaRue, a Saturday matinee cowboy from the 1940s and ’50s. Peggy recognized him because she and Tom had once seen an impromptu performance by LaRue at New Orleans’ Dew Drop Inn, a Negro nightclub that Tom sometimes visited to hear certain black musicians. Tom and Peggy were allowed admittance because Tom had treated several employees while working as an extern. As a boy, Tom had worked as a theater usher during the 1940s, and he’d been ecstatic to find a star from his childhood onstage. He watched spellbound as the black-suited LaRue played his guitar with the Negro musicians, then cut paper from the mouth of a waitress with a bullwhip someone had produced from the back of the bar.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Cage?” Kirk asked.

“What?” Peggy asked, wiping a tear from her eyes. “Oh, yes. This has just been hard. I’m not used to doing without Tom.”

Boisseau smiled. “I’m sure it’s all going to work out.”

“Are you?” she said quietly. “Because I’m not.”

“Penn will get it worked out.”

Peggy somehow summoned a smile. “Do you feel like we’re pretty safe here?”

Kirk smiled back, and Peggy thought his eyes looked too gentle to belong to a real soldier. But when he spoke, his voice held the hard edge of steel.

“I won’t let anything happen to you or that girl. You can count on that. I gave Penn my word. You just try to relax.”

“Thank you. We’ll try.”

“I saw that pistol in your purse,” Kirk said. “You know how to use it?”

Peggy nodded. “Tom taught me. A long time ago. But I hope it won’t come to that.”

“What are you guys doing?” Annie asked from the door. “What won’t come to what?”

“Me eating healthy food!” Kirk said easily. “Your grandmother was trying to sell me on a salad. I want a big old skillet-fried grilled cheese sandwich.”

Annie looked suspicious for a second, but then she started laughing.

“I’m going to make another pass around the house,” said Kirk.

“And I’m going to make you that sandwich,” Peggy said. “Come help me, Annie.”

Annie looked longingly after Kirk as he went out the front door.