“You can’t fuckin’ do this,” the sergeant growled. “I don’t give a shit who you are. There’s laws in this country.”

“And you’ve broken the most serious of them,” Kaiser said calmly. “Keep your eyes on the screen.”

Once the filmed replay of the murder began, the SWAT sergeant knew exactly what he was about to see. He didn’t wait for the shots to begin defending himself. His first instinct was to use the classic Nazi defense—I was just following orders—only in this case he was clearly the man giving the orders.

Kaiser finally silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“You’re not under arrest,” Kaiser said. “Although I’ll be happy to oblige you right now if you’d prefer it. Second, we are operating well outside the parameters of what you think of as normal procedure. The special provisions of the Patriot Act give me truly frightening power over your ass, so please keep your mouth shut while I finish. You have only two choices: one, you turn state’s evidence and tell us everything you know about Forrest Knox and his illegal activities before, during, and after Hurricane Katrina—”

The SWAT sergeant’s eyes bugged.

“Or two, you become the epicenter of the biggest police scandal in modern American history, after which you spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security prison, praying that no relatives of the black drug dealers you murdered during the storm put out a gang hit on you behind bars.”

The SWAT officer turned to stare out the window at the people walking up and down the street. The world of which they were a part had just shifted forever beyond his reach.

“Forrest Knox will never be head of the state police,” Kaiser said with finality. “Somebody in this video is going to flip. Maybe it’s just me, but I’d rather risk Forrest’s retribution than what will happen to the guys in this video once it hits the Internet, and you’re all identified.”

It took the sergeant less than a minute to make up his mind. He insisted on speaking to a lawyer before signing any plea agreement, but in principle he agreed to give up everything. After all, he had no blood stake in the Knox organization.

“One thing,” Kaiser said, as an agent in the front seat put the Suburban into gear. “Do you know if Forrest is planning any sort of hit today?”

The sergeant shook his head. “Not that I know of. But he ain’t the one I’d worry about. I’d worry about Snake. ’Cause that motherfucker is crazy.”

Duly noted, Kaiser thought.

“Two of my agents will drive you to our New Orleans field office,” he said. “Your attorney can see you there. This is obviously a politically sensitive matter, so we’ll play it by ear as the day progresses.”

Kaiser leaned over the sergeant and opened the door, and two FBI agents unceremoniously pulled the man from the vehicle, then closed the door.

Kaiser tapped the shoulder of his driver. “Let’s get back to Concordia Parish, and fast. We’ve got a funeral to go to.”

CHAPTER 86

WHEN I ENTER the broad door of the AME Church for Henry Sexton’s funeral, less than eighteen hours have passed since I cradled Caitlin in the shadow of the Bone Tree. Were it not for Annie, I probably would not have come here. But after awakening groggily from what I would soon learn was drugged sleep, I found her sitting beside my bed, dressed for church.

“Where are you going?” I asked her.

“We’re going to Mr. Sexton’s funeral,” she said.

I blinked and tried to think of ways to dissuade her, but before I could voice the first objection, Annie said, “That’s where Caitlin would be today, and she’d want us to go in her place.”

There was no arguing this point, and after my mother sided with her, I resigned myself to the fact that sulking in my tent was not a viable option. After a shower and three cups of coffee, I found myself in Mom’s Camry, driving across the river I’d come to curse in the past few days. Annie had appropriated Caitlin’s cell phone from the box of her personal effects, and though my daughter could not break the passcode, she held the phone tightly as a kind of talisman. She also asked whether she might wear Caitlin’s engagement ring around her neck on a chain, but this request I gently refused. I could see that my mother agreed with me, and that made me feel a little better as we left the house. We can’t let Annie slip back into the kind of paralysis she experienced when my wife died.

I assumed that Henry would be buried from a white church in Ferriday, Louisiana, but as we crossed the bridge, Mom informed me that he would be buried from a black church in Clayton, a few miles away. Knowing this, I expected to come upon a white saltbox standing at the edge of an empty soybean field, with maybe fifty cars in the parking lot. Instead I saw a white saltbox that appeared to be floating on a sea of automobiles, with more lining the highway for at least a quarter mile.

Inside that box I found a crowd that probably violated the fire code by a factor of five. Like most black churches in this part of the South, this one was built from cheap pine and stands on wedge-shaped concrete blocks. If set alight, it would burn to the ground in less than twenty minutes; yet it has stood for nearly seventy years.

The demographics of this parish are simple: 70 percent black, 30 percent white, give or take a few percent, with no mixed churches or cemeteries, and the white kids in segregated private schools unless they can’t afford the tuition. Today, however, quite a few white faces salt the pews of the AME Church. They look slightly confused at finding themselves here. Yet here they have come, to honor Henry Sexton. I recognize Jerry Mitchell from the Clarion-Ledger, and one older reporter from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Beyond the smattering of journalistic luminaries, I see John Kaiser and at least half a dozen FBI agents standing near a door behind the altar. This comes as a surprise, since Kaiser must surely have more pressing business than Henry’s funeral.

Spying me as we move up the crowded aisle, Kaiser points to a few empty seats in the front rows that have been reserved. As we take our places, he walks over, leans down to me, and whispers, “How’s your daughter coping?”

At least he didn’t ask me how I’m doing. Rising again, I say, “Better than I am, so far. What are you guys doing here? Has there been a bomb threat or something?”

Kaiser shakes his head. “They found Harold Wallis early this morning, dead.”

“Where?”

“Behind a Baton Rouge crack house.”

I close my eyes, absorbing this news at the gut level. “Doesn’t matter,” I say softly. “He was just the bullet. I want the man who aimed the gun.”

Kaiser’s eyes tell me he remembers telling me the same thing about the Kennedy assassination. “You probably don’t know, but the Double Eagles were released this morning.”

This penetrates the haze of my grief. “What? After killing Sonny Thornfield?”

Kaiser gives me a cagey look. “There’s a method to my madness. I have them all under surveillance. But Snake Knox has temporarily lost his tail. Keep your eyes peeled for him, if you’re out and about.”

“Great. Where’s Forrest Knox now?”

“Holed up with his sidekick at the Valhalla hunting camp.”

“You haven’t gone after him?”

“We’re close. I’m working with the Louisiana State Police now.”

“Forrest is the state police.”

Kaiser shakes his head with confidence. “Not quite. We’re going to get him, Penn. I can’t tell you how, but it’s only a matter of time now. And not much, at that.”

“So what are you doing here?”

The FBI agent smiles and nods at Annie and my mother. “I’ll explain later. Just be cool, no matter what happens.”