“You’re damn right,” murmurs a voice from the crowd, and Reverend Baldwin glares at his congregation.

“Some people argue that your community is destroying itself,” Dad goes on. “Your children are killing each other, accomplishing a genocide that the Ku Klux Klan never could. The terrible truth is, all that death is a legacy of the great crime that came before, that shattered families and stained these rich fields red for generations. But nothing is simple. I wish I could tell you that the enemy is all of one tribe, but I’d be a liar if I did. It seems that the young man who killed my daughter was black, a drug user manipulated by white men to do their dirty work for them.”

A few sharp inhalations cause me to start.

“We in the South know just how complex and porous the boundary between black and white truly is. Our communities touch each other in a thousand ways, but not always in the light. We try to bridge the great gulf between us at our peril. In my life, I came to know and love people on your side, but I don’t know whether I helped or hurt them.”

Dad pauses to wipe sweat from his brow. I suppose this is as far as he will go toward acknowledging his relationship with Viola. After gathering himself again, he continues, speaking as intimately as he would to his own family.

“Some of you here today, I delivered into the world. Others watched me hold the hands of your parents or brothers or sisters, or even your children, as they passed out of it. I relieved pain where I could. But in the last analysis, I’ve been nothing but a conductor on the train of life. I took people’s tickets as they boarded, attended to a few needs while they rode, then punched their tickets as they got off. In my own life, I did things I should not have done, and I left undone things that will haunt me to my grave. For the most part, other people paid the price for my sins. Henry Sexton was one of them, and I can’t change that.

“But the lesson of Henry’s life is that you don’t cure the great ills of the world by grand gestures. You start small. Like all great men, Henry began in his own backyard. He saw injustice and tried to remedy it. He knew that murder—especially the murder of those who had no voice, no champion—could not be allowed to stand. So he took up the work that his government had failed to do. He lit the lamp for the rest of us. Henry pointed the way.”

“Amen,” says Reverend Baldwin.

“If we’re to follow Henry’s path, then we must be as brave as he was. We must risk his fate, and Caitlin’s, too. There are always a thousand reasons to do nothing. We tell ourselves the past is better left undisturbed, that stirring up old trouble will hurt everybody, white and black. That only when the oldest among us have died will change be possible. Even the Bible warns of the terrible price of looking behind us. ‘Don’t look back,’ said the angel to Lot’s family, ‘lest you be swept away.’ But Lot’s wife did, and she became a pillar of salt.”

“Sho’ did,” says a woman’s voice.

“Unlike Lot’s family, we live in the modern world. And in this world there is only one path to healing. As a physician, I learned long ago that denial, no matter how fervent, will not cure the afflicted. Nor will prayer, I’m sad to say. If prayer could cure cancer, that scourge would long ago have been wiped from the earth. No . . . if we hope to leave a better world for our children, we must cut deep into living flesh and rip out the tumors we’ve left alone too long.

“That’s hard and bloody work. Practicing medicine over the years, I came to know secrets that might have altered the future of our little postage stamp of America. But I feared what might happen to my family if I exposed the terrible deeds of which I had knowledge. I did small things to ease my conscience along the way. I even wrote to Henry—anonymously—and tried to point him in the right direction on some cases, but that was far too little. Henry lying dead in that casket is the proof, and also my reprimand. Today I am shamed by his example.”

This time no one calls out in support or affirmation.

“But I will be ashamed no longer,” Dad says with an edge of anger in his voice. “I will live in fear no longer. They’ve shot me once already, and if necessary they can shoot me again, because I’ve already lost a daughter. But no matter what they do, the crimes of the men who killed Henry and Caitlin will not stand.”

“Praise Jesus!” calls an older woman.

“Two nights ago I was kidnapped by Colonel Forrest Knox of the state police—not legally arrested, but kidnapped and taken to a secret place to be held hostage. A few hours later, I was kidnapped from Forrest by his uncle, Snake Knox, who meant to murder me.”

The name Knox has silenced the church. Not one breath do I hear, and to the side of the altar, John Kaiser’s face has gone white. But Dad has no intention of stopping. He was always a commanding speaker, but now, despite his obvious physical frailty, his voice is gaining power like a heavy rocket leaving the gravitational pull of the Earth.

“You all know these men. You know their history, and that of their family and fellow travelers. None of that’s a secret anymore—if it ever was—thanks to Henry Sexton and his newspaper. Like Brody Royal, these men not only mock the law, but wear its mantle and twist it to their own selfish purposes. You in those pews know more about that kind of injustice than I ever will.”

I hear bodies shifting, angry whispers, and murmurs of resentment, but Dad pushes on with irresistible force.

“Today, in the shadow of Henry’s coffin, I call you all—not to arms, for this is a house of worship—but to witness, to speak the truths you know, and to demand the justice for which Henry gave his life. Set aside your fear. Refuse to be silent one minute longer. For justice delayed is justice denied. Force those who come in the night to terrorize and kill to flee in terror themselves. Deny them the sanctuary of silence. Deny them all refuge but the bars of a prison cell. Deny them all rest but the grave. And by so doing, let Henry, and all the grieving families for whom he sought justice, rest in peace at last.”

Dad sags forward on the lectern, and half the people in the church lurch forward as though to prop him up. But after a moment, he pushes himself erect again and gazes out over the congregation with empathy and sadness.

“Thank you for hearing me out. And now . . . I go to answer for those things I’ve done and left undone. I go to speak the truth as I know it, and pray there’s still time for redemption. But please . . . remember my charge to you: do not let them die in vain. God bless you all.”

With that, my father turns and shuffles to Henry’s coffin, then lays his hand on it, head bowed.

My mother sobs once beside me, overcome with emotion, and then her quivering hand closes around mine. “That’s your father,” she says, her voice filled with vindication.

“I know that,” I mutter, more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

After his silent communion with Henry, Dad straightens up and walks back through the door whence he came, this time escorted by two FBI agents.

The buzz of voices that rises in his wake sets the walls of the church to vibrating. The energy in this building is palpable, electric, a living force that craves a balancing of the scales. If the surviving members of the Double Eagle group were brought through the doors behind me now, I doubt they would escape this crowd alive.

“Does Kaiser have men out back?” I ask Walt as the pallbearers slowly walk to the bier.

“He’s got everything covered.”

“Are they taking Dad into custody now?”

“Probably. Quentin Avery’s back there, too. Kaiser’s coordinating this with Colonel Mackiever, the Concordia Parish DA, and the big boys in Washington. It’s going to run like clockwork.”