In the third verse her timbre changes, morphing into a more angelic tone, one reminiscent of a boys’ choir. Then I realize that Swan is no longer singing; she’s watching her grandson carry on what she started. As James Revels sings of being denied help from his brother, his voice seems to float above the crowd, into the high spaces of the church. But just as it seems in danger of drifting away, Swan’s rich, earthy alto fills the building from the floorboards to the apex of the ceiling.

It’s been a long, a long time coming,

But I know a change is gonna come.

Oh, yes it will.

When the last resonant echoes of the piano fade into silence, awe fills the church. For the natives of this area, a prodigal has returned—two, in this case—one a daughter, and the other the descendant of a man they believed martyred long ago, and without children. All I can think of is how profoundly moved Caitlin would have been to know that Jimmy Revels left a child in the world, and by Swan Norris. Then a piercing question comes to me: Did Henry ever know?

As Swan returns to her seat, the elder Reverend Baldwin rises once more, presumably to dismiss the mourners. But when he reaches the podium, he looks out and says, “Brothers and sisters, our final guest today was asked to speak by Henry’s mother. Almost all of you know him, and I ask that you remain seated and give him the courtesy of silence.”

In the front pew, John Kaiser gets to his feet. Several FBI agents do the same. When the door behind the altar opens, I half expect a black celebrity to walk to the podium, but to my surprise the man who appears is white—with white hair, a clean-shaven face, and piercing eyes.

“My God,” whispers my mother, clutching my arm so hard it hurts.

“Brothers and sisters,” says Reverend Baldwin, “Dr. Thomas Cage.”

I start to get to my feet, but a strong pair of hands presses me back down. When I turn, I find Walt Garrity’s face only inches from my own, his eyes filled with empathy.

“Just sit tight,” he says softly. “Hear him out. Then decide what you want to do.”

CHAPTER 87

AS MY FATHER walks to the lectern, obviously bent with pain, Walt keeps one hand on my shoulder. The whispers in the church rise like a wind before a storm, but Dad looks unfazed. My mother is blinking in openmouthed shock, but Annie is smiling broadly, Caitlin’s cell phone still held tight in her hand.

“What the hell is he doing, Walt?” I whisper.

“You’ll see. Just wait.”

I quickly scan the pews behind me. “A hundred people are using their cell phones. Forrest Knox will have men here in ten minutes, and we’ll have a war on our hands.”

“No, he won’t. Check your phone.”

I slip my mobile from my inside coat pocket. The LCD reads NO SERVICE.

“Jammed,” Walt says with satisfaction. “Courtesy of the FBI. Your father’s turning himself in, Penn. But he’s doing it in his own way.”

“To who? Kaiser?”

“That’s right.”

“Jesus. Does the FBI know you’re here?”

“Officially? No. In reality, yes.”

A flood of confused emotions is surging through me. Dad stands silently at the lectern, a gray pinstripe suit with high, wide lapels hanging off his frame. He looks as though he barely has the strength to hold himself upright.

“I don’t believe this.”

“Penn—”

“What the hell is he wearing?”

“A suit that belonged to Pithy Nolan’s husband,” Walt hisses. “It was made in 1940.”

Pithy Nolan, I think, stunned by my stupidity. Of course! Where else would they be hiding?

“He’s lost his mind, Walt. This is insane.”

“Just listen, for God’s sake.”

Dad looks down at the lectern, but he has no notes. He seems to be considering what he wants to say. When at last he begins speaking, his usually strong voice sounds weak, but his words are clearly audible.

“I know some of you are surprised to see me here,” he says. “I haven’t come to disturb this service. I’ve come to pay my respects to Henry, and to the cause for which he worked so hard.”

Dad looks out over the crowd, and recognition is the dominant expression on his face. His eyes pause as they take in Annie and my mother, but they slip right over me and move on. He can’t bear to look at me, I realize. When he speaks again, his voice seems to have gained strength.

“This morning, I told Henry’s mother that he had given the last full measure of devotion to his cause, which was justice. I was quoting Abraham Lincoln describing the fallen at Gettysburg. But Henry’s bravery wasn’t the kind I saw demonstrated by my fellow soldiers in Korea, charging into bullets and dying in a foreign land. Henry proved his courage alone, in the face of apathy, resentment, and open hostility. Having experienced battle myself, I wonder whether Henry’s bravery isn’t a higher form of courage. There’s nothing harder than fighting alone, with no one to keep you company in your foxhole. There ought to be a special medal for that. But like most soldiers I knew during my service, Henry wasn’t looking for medals.”

“Amen,” says a soft voice behind me.

In the pew reserved for family, I see an old woman who must be Henry’s mother nod and wipe her eyes.

“It says in the Good Book,” Dad goes on, “‘No greater love hath any man than he who lays down his life for his friends.’”

“That’s right,” says a bass voice from the rear of the church.

Dad bows his head as though paying homage to this principle. “Henry laid down his life to save my future daughter-in-law, Caitlin Masters, who I’ve thought of as a daughter for years now. As Reverend Baldwin told you, Caitlin was murdered yesterday, despite Henry’s sacrifice. She died following a trail that Henry blazed, and her greatest hope was to complete his work. If she hadn’t managed to discover that Bone Tree, I wouldn’t be standing before you now, but lying on a cold slab somewhere. Instead, that brave young girl is the one awaiting burial.”

Dad pauses to catch his breath, and I can tell this speech is costing him dearly in physical terms. Then I see his chin quivering with emotion, and a knife of pain goes through me.

“To paraphrase what President Lincoln said in 1863: We here cannot consecrate or hallow the ground in which those honored dead will lie, for their actions stand far above our power to add or detract. The world will not remember what we say here today. But it will remember the battles that Henry and Caitlin fought. What remains for us is to rededicate ourselves to the task for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. We must resolve that they shall not have died in vain.”

All the whispered conversations have ended. Everyone in the church sits with rapt attention. Something is coming, and the congregation senses it like a flood swelling one bend up the river.

Dad looks around the church, taking in each face in its turn. “How can we do that, you ask?”

“Tell us, Doc.”

My father raises his right hand, his finger pointed skyward, and the spirit of the crowd rises with it. As angry as I am at him, he somehow radiates the conviction of a prophet when he continues.

“Hear me now,” he rumbles. “For the hour of justice has come.”

Excitement sweeps through the church like a strong wind.

“That I, a white man, stand here and speak to you, the descendants of slaves, about justice is almost absurd. Yet speak I will. Because someone must. The wound that slavery dealt this country has never healed. Speaking as a physician, the efforts to heal it have been pathetic. Four months ago, a hurricane swept through New Orleans and revealed just how broken this country is, how deep the divide between black and white. The scenes we saw play out after that storm would not—could not—have happened in a white city in the North.”