Snake Knox, says a voice in my head. Or Forrest . . . or that Ozan.

“Danny?” I say into my headset mike.

“What is it?” Carl asks, his lips not seeming to move beneath his helmet.

“Can you fly over Valhalla on your way back to Natchez?”

“I think the FBI’s pretty active in there right now,” McDavitt says. “And Sheriff Ellis is mad as hell at them for diverting this bird. I’d hate to have to explain what we’re doing in that airspace when we’re supposed to be delivering you elsewhere.”

I guess I expected this answer, or one like it.

“We already passed it anyway,” Danny says. “I didn’t know the tree was on fire, but the swamp to the south of Valhalla was lit up like a firebase under attack.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, visualizing Kaiser and his men standing around the burning Bone Tree like angry Crusaders around a burning altar.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mayor?” Danny asks.

“No. Just take me home.”

“I’ll sure do that.”

After closing my eyes for nearly a minute, I take out my BlackBerry, scroll through my contacts, and find the home number of John Masters. Somewhere in North Carolina, the self-styled southern media baron sits in blissful ignorance of his daughter’s fate. For a few more seconds, he can believe he has been blessed by providence. But after he answers my call, his life will implode as surely as mine has. Where another man might pray, I simply stare across the deck at Carl Sims and give John Masters a little more time to feel alive.

A little mercy.

TOM CAGE STOOD SHIVERING on a street corner in the pouring rain, watching a line of vehicles douse him with gutter spray as they passed. Two blocks from the hospital, he’d stopped a man wearing a business suit and told him he’d just been mugged, then asked if he could use the man’s cell phone to call his son. The businessman had hesitated only a moment; the physician’s coat, white hair, and professional manner—along with Tom’s ragged condition—convinced him that Tom must be telling the truth.

“Punks ought to be hung,” the man said, shaking his head. “This city’s gone to hell since those Katrina refugees flooded in. Am I right?”

“When you’re right, you’re right,” Tom replied, turning away and praying Walt would answer.

To his surprise, Walt had, his normally strict phone discipline overruled by his desperation for news of Tom. More surprising still, Walt had been parked outside state police headquarters only a few miles away, surveilling Forrest Knox and Alphonse Ozan. Thirty seconds after arranging to meet, Tom had tossed the white coat in a Dumpster and set off across Baton Rouge on foot.

Now he cupped his hands over his eyes and peered into oncoming traffic, searching for Drew Elliott’s old pickup. After two freezing minutes, Walt pulled to the curb in front of him, ignoring the honks and curses of the irate drivers behind him. Seeing Tom’s state, Walt jumped out and helped him through the driver’s door. Tom slid carefully across the bench seat and sagged against the passenger door. He felt Walt fasten the seat belt around his waist, then a lurch as Walt put the truck in gear and rejoined the flow of traffic.

“We should never have split up,” Tom said, his feverish face pressed against the cold glass.

“You got that right,” Walt said. “Whose idea was that anyway?”

Tom couldn’t raise a laugh. “Should we turn on the radio? Find out how hard they’re still looking for us?”

“You don’t want to do that.”

Tom looked up then, and he saw pain in Walt’s face. The kind of pain that often filled his own when he passed on terrible news. “What is it? Has something happened to Penn?”

Walt shook his head. “No.”

“Who?” Tom felt a shiver of dread. “Not Peggy or Annie?”

“No, no. It’s the girl. Caitlin.”

Tom’s heart turned to lead. “Tell me.”

“She died on the table. Mackiever just called me.”

Tom stared at Walt, slowly shaking his head, refusing to believe it. Then he put his face in his hands and began to shudder. He had failed at so many things over the past few days—over his lifetime, really—but failing to save Caitlin was beyond bearing. For Tom knew in that moment that he had lost not only Caitlin and the child she was carrying, but also Penn. He had crossed into a country beyond forgiveness.

He had lost his son forever.

CHAPTER 76

PEGGY CAGE HAD watched her son endure tragedies before, but she had never seen him come unhinged. During the past few minutes, Penn had started to do just that. She already regretted not calling Drew Elliott so that he could sedate Penn; but in truth, Drew would have refused to do such a thing unless Penn requested it, and Penn would never request it. Yet sedation was exactly what he needed.

If watching Caitlin die in his arms had not driven Penn beyond the point of endurance, having to tell his daughter about it had. Peggy had done all she could to help, and more than half the battle had been fought before Penn ever arrived. Peggy had never suffered as she had while watching Annie’s face as she absorbed the news that the woman she’d viewed as a second mother would never walk into this house again. Peggy had worried that Annie might not believe the news, but she had—instantly. She had, in fact, been waiting for it. Apparently, Annie’s fears for Penn, for Peggy, and for Caitlin had been so great that she had scarcely slept the past few nights. She had covered it well, but once Peggy confirmed one of her worst fears, Annie had begun a sort of high-speed infantile regression.

Peggy had never forgotten the effects of Annie’s mother’s death. The then three-year-old had developed severe separation anxiety, which was the main reason Penn had moved her to Natchez. Prior to that move, Annie had refused to leave her father’s side, and even insisted on sleeping in his bed, one little hand always in contact with his wrist or arm, an early-warning system of impending loss. After that move, Peggy had taken Penn’s place to some extent—as had Tom—until over time the child had grown secure enough in their love and constant attention that she learned to be independent again.

But Caitlin had played an important role as well. She had entered their lives as soon as Penn and Annie arrived in Natchez, and despite being only twenty-eight and career-oriented, Caitlin had proved amazingly intuitive at earning Annie’s trust. The depth of their bond had been displayed tonight, when Annie shattered before Peggy’s eyes.

After the first tears of shock, Annie had voiced an almost obsessive concern with Caitlin’s body. Where was she now? Was she alone? Why wasn’t Daddy bringing her home with him? The rational answers did nothing to allay her concerns, and once Annie realized that Caitlin’s body was almost sure to be autopsied, she had grown even more distraught. After a very difficult hour, Peggy had given her a couple of teaspoons of Benadryl, with the excuse that it would make her burning eyes feel better. The adrenaline-depleted child had almost instantly collapsed in her lap and gone to sleep.

Annie still lay there now, while Penn steadily vented the emotions boiling in his mind and heart. At first he had spoken softly, but as he revealed more of his feelings, he got louder, and Peggy grew worried that he would awaken Annie. On the advice of their FBI guards, they had moved down to Penn’s basement office. Thankfully, that isolation also prevented the guards from hearing what Penn was saying now, which was a blessing. Peggy didn’t want anyone to know how angry he was at his father, or how irrational he sounded when he spoke about the Knox gang—particularly Forrest Knox. She worried that Penn actually might take it on himself to go after the state police officer with a gun. Part of her was glad to see Penn’s anger diverted from Tom, but she knew his focus on others was probably some sort of transference. His deepest anger was reserved for Tom, and there Peggy was at a loss. She didn’t know how to argue without appearing to be giving her husband the blind support of an ignorant or deluded wife. She was looking down at Annie when the best solution came to her.