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the tables. One’s KIA, the other tied up in the backseat.”
    “Jesus. How the hell did you manage that, the shape you’re in?”
    “A little luck and a lot of drugs. What the hell do we do now?”
    Walt only paused for a few seconds. “You need to go to ground somewhere while I talk to the colonel. And don’t try to cover any distance—you’ll hit a roadblock. Can you think of anywhere close that’s safe?”
    “Actually, yes. But your part’s done. You need to get back to Texas. You’ve got Carmelita to think about. Just get clear, buddy.”
    “That’s enough of that. Look, we’ve been on the phone too long already. Let me ask you one more question.”
    Walt’s voice sounded strange.
    “What is it?”
    “What do you plan to do with the survivor in the back?”
    “I’m not sure. I figured I’d ditch him somewhere. Cotton field, probably.”
    “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Where, then?”
    “Nowhere.” After a pause, Walt said. “He’s KIA. Just like the first one.”
    It took a moment to absorb Walt’s meaning. “I can’t do that. Toomuch has . . .” Tom trailed off. “Too many people are dead already.”
    “Listen to me,” Walt said in a voice that came all the way from their days in Korea. “Mercy is a virtue you can’t afford. We already made that mistake once this week.”
    Tom thought of Sonny Thornfield and wondered if saving the old Klansman had really been a mistake, or whether he might yet play some positive role before events resolved themselves.
    In the backseat, Grimsby stirred. Tom looked back but could see little in the darkness.
    “Hey,” Walt said. “Did I lose you?”
    “Now that I think about it,” Tom said, in case Grimsby had awakened, “going to Mobile was about the smartest thing you could have done.”
    “What?” Walt said. “Oh. I get it.”
    “I wish to God I was there with you,” Tom added, meaning it. He waited about ten seconds, then said, “Well, I don’t like it, but I guess it’s my best chance. Mobile it is.”
    “That’s enough dinner theater,” Walt said in a quieter voice. “Listen to me now. Get yourself a new burn phone at a Walmart. Better yet, send someone you trust to get you a half dozen. Then call this number. I want you to use a code to tell me where you are—a basic code. Three steps. Number the letters in the alphabet from one to twenty-six. Then spell out your message, convert it to numbers, and multiply each letter-number by the number of men who died in the ambulance at Chosin. We clear on that number?”
    Just the mention of that ambulance made Tom grimace. “Yeah.”
    “Call and give me a string of numbers, nothing else. Like thirty-six, break, two-seventy-five, break, one-fifty, break. You got it?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Remember, if you don’t hear from me, Penn and Caitlin are fine.”
    Tom nodded wearily in the dashboard light. “It’s good to hear your voice, Walt.”
    “Same here, buddy. Time to go, though. Just remember, you’ve got one tough thing to do before you do anything else. Finish that son of a bitch. This is war, Corporal.”
    “Walt—”
    “He meant to kill you in cold blood, didn’t he?”
    “I’ll see you soon.”
    Tom broke the connection and put down the phone.
    The revelation that Walt was alive had buoyed him in a way that nothing else could. With Walt still working to get the APB revoked, the most immediate threat to their lives might actually be removed. The news about the killings at Lake Concordia, on the other hand, had deeply unsettled Tom. He knew he bore some of the blame for those deaths, as he did for the earlier ones. Worse, Penn and Caitlin could only have turned up at Royal’s house because of their efforts to help him. But it was Henry Sexton’s death that most haunted him. To think that Henry Sexton had survived two earlier attacks only to die at Brody Royal’s house . . . it seemed almost incomprehensible.
    Tom squinted down the twin headlight beams