'Got it.'

'That fair? You understand?'

'It's fine.' Cowart nodded his head. Separate but the same. One man knocks on the door with a gun, the other with a question. Both seeking the same answers.

'Are you going to arrest him?' Shaeffer asked. 'On what charge?'

'Well, first I'm going to suggest he come in for questioning. See if he'll come along voluntarily. But he's coming in. If I have to, I'll re-arrest him for Joanie Shriver's death. What'd I say yesterday? Obstruction of justice and lying under oath. But he's coming with us, one way or the other. Once he's in custody, then we're going to sort out what's happened.'

'You're going to ask him…?'

'I'm going to be polite,' Brown said. A small, sad smile worked the corners of his mouth for a moment. 'With my gun drawn, cocked, finger on the trigger, and pointed right at the bastard's head.'

She nodded.

'He doesn't walk away,' Brown said quietly. 'He killed Bruce. He killed Joanie. I don't know how many others. But there are others. It stops here.'

The statement filled the air with quiet.

Cowart looked away from the two detectives. He thought, There comes a point where the proofs required in a court of law don't seem to make much difference. A few strands of light had surreptitiously passed through the branches of the trees, just enough to give shape to the road before them.

'What about you?' the police lieutenant asked Cowart suddenly. His voice cracked the silence. 'Have you got all this straight?'

'Straight enough.'

Brown put his hand on the door handle, jerked it hard, and thrust the car door open. 'Sure,' he said, unable to keep a small mockery from his voice. 'Then let's go.'

And he was out of the car, striding up the narrow black dirt roadway, his broad back hunched forward slightly, as if he was heading into the strong winds of a storm. For an instant, Cowart watched the policeman's sturdy progress, and he thought to himself, How could I have ever presumed to understand what is truly inside him?

Or Robert Earl Ferguson? In that moment, both men seemed equally mysterious. Then he shed the thought as rapidly as possible and quickly fell in pace with him. Shaeffer took up position on the other side, so the three marched in unison, their footsteps muffled by the morning fog that coiled like gray smoke snakes around their feet.

Cowart spotted the shack first, wedged back in a clearing where the road ended. The damp swamp mists had gathered around the front, giving it a spectral, eerie appearance. There was no light inside; his first glance saw no movement at all, though he expected they had arrived just on the near side of waking. The old woman probably rises to beat the cock's crow, he thought, and then complains to the old bird that it's not doing its job. Cowart slowed his pace along with the others, lurking on the edge of the shadows, inspecting the house.

'He's here,' Brown said quietly.

Cowart turned to him. 'How can you tell?'

The police lieutenant pointed toward the far side of the shack. Cowart followed the trail with his eyes and saw the rear end of the car protruding past the edge of the porch. He looked carefully and could just make out the dirty blue-and-yellow colors of the license plate: New Jersey.

'That's his kinda car, too,' Brown said softly, gesturing. 'A couple of years old. American make. I'll bet it doesn't have anything special to it at all. Nondescript. A blend-right-in kinda car. Just like he used to have.'

He turned toward Shaeffer. He put his hand on her shoulder, gripping it firmly. Cowart thought it was the first familiar gesture he'd seen the big detective make toward the young woman.

'There's only the two doors,' he said, continuing to keep his voice low, almost inaudible, but not the same way that a whisper disappears, hissing. His voice had a firmness to it. 'One in front, that's where I'll be. And the one in back, where you're going to be. Now, best as I can recollect, there's windows on the left side, there…' He pointed, sweeping his hand in the direction of the side of the house that butted up close to the surrounding woods. 'That's where the bedrooms are. Any windows on the right I'll be able to cover, either from inside, in the front living room, or the porch. So watch that back door, but keep in mind he might try to go out the window. Just be ready. Stay on your toes. Okay?'

'Okay,' she replied. She thought the word wavered coming out of her mouth.

'I want you to stay there, in position, until I call you. Okay? Call you by name. Keep quiet. Keep down. You're the safety valve.'

'Okay,' she said again.

'Ever done anything like this before?' Tanny Brown asked abruptly. Then he smiled. I suppose I should have asked that question some time earlier…'

She shook her head. 'Lots of arrests. Drunk drivers and two-bit burglars. And a rapist or two. Nobody like Ferguson.'

'There aren't many like Ferguson to practice on,' Cowart said under his breath.

'Don't worry,' Brown said, continuing to smile. 'He's a coward. Plenty brave with little girls and scared teenagers, but he ain't got it in him to handle folks like you and me…' Brown spoke this softly, reassuringly. Cowart wanted to blurt out Bruce Wilcox's name, but stopped himself. '… Keep that in mind. There ain't gonna be anything to this…'

He let his voice roll with its Southern inflection, giving a contradictory ease to what he was saying. '… Now, let's move before it gets lighter out and folks start waking up.'

Shaeffer nodded, took a step forward, and stopped. 'Dog?' she whispered hurriedly, nervously.

'None.' Brown paused. 'As soon as you get to the corner, there, then I'm heading toward the front. You keep working your way around the back. You'll know when I get to the door, 'cause I ain't gonna be quiet when I get there.'

Shaeffer closed her eyes for one second, took a deep breath, and forced bravado into her heart. She told herself, No mistakes this time. She looked at the small house and thought it a small place, with no room for errors. 'Let's do it,' she said. She stepped across the open space quickly, slightly crouched over, a half-jog that cut through the mist and wet air.

Cowart saw that she had her pistol in her hands and was holding it down but ready, as she maneuvered toward the corner of the house.

'You paying attention, Cowart?' Brown asked. His voice seemed to fill some hollow spot within the reporter. 'You getting all this?'

'I'm getting it,' he replied, clenching his teeth.

'Where's your notebook?'

Cowart held up his hand. He clutched a thin reporter's notebook and waved it about. Brown grinned. 'Glad to see you're armed and dangerous,' he said.

Cowart stared at him.

'It's a joke, Cowart. Relax.'

Cowart nodded. He watched the policeman as his eyes fixed on Shaeffer, who'd paused at the corner of the shack. Brown was smiling, but only barely. He straightened up and shook his shoulders once, like some large animal shaking sleep from its body. Cowart realized then that Brown was like some sort of warrior whose fears and apprehensions about the upcoming battle dropped away when the enemy hove into view. The policeman was not precisely happy, but he was at ease with whatever danger or uncertainty rested inside the shack, beyond the fragile morning light and curling gray mists. The reporter looked down at his own hands, as if they were a window to his own feelings. They looked pale but steady-He thought, Made it this far. See it through. 'Actually, he replied, 'that's not a bad joke at all. Given the circumstances.'

Both men smiled, but not at any real humor.

'All right,' said Tanny Brown. 'Wake-up call.'

He turned toward the shack and remembered the first time he'd driven up to the house searching for Ferguson. He hadn't understood the storm of prejudice and hatred he was unleashing with his arrival. All the feelings that Pachoula wanted to forget had come out when Robert Earl Ferguson had been taken downtown for questioning in the murder of little Joanie Shriver. He was determined not to live through that again.