'Things didn't seem to have changed much where Ferguson's grandmother lives.'

'No, that's right. Old South. Dirt poor. Hot in the summer. Cold in the winter. Wood stove and outdoor plumbing and bare feet kicking at the dust. Not everything has changed, and that's the sort of place that exists to remind us how much more changing we've got to do.'

'Gas stations are one thing,' Cowart said, 'what about attitudes?'

Brown laughed. 'Those change more slowly, don't they? Everybody cheers when that teacher's boy throws the ball and that mechanic's boy catches it for a touchdown. But either of those kids wanted to date the other's sister, well, I think the cheering would stop damn fast. But then, you must know all about that in your business, don't you?'

The reporter nodded, unsure whether he was being teased, insulted, or complimented. They swept past some tract housing being built on a wide field. A yellow bulldozer was uprooting a swath through a green field, turning over a scar of reddish dirt. It made a grinding and digging noise, momentarily filling the car with the sound of machinery working hard. Nearby, a work crew in hard hats and sweat-drenched shirts was stacking lumber and cinder block. In the car, the two men were silent until they cruised past the construction site. Then Cowart asked, 'So, where's Wilcox today?'

'Bruce? Oh, we had a couple of traffic fatalities late last night. I sent him down to officially witness the autopsies. It teaches you a new respect for seat belts and driving around drunk and what happens when you've got construction workers like the ones we just passed getting paid on Thursdays.'

'He needs lessons like that?'

'We all do. Part of growing into the job.'

'Like his temper?'

That's something he will learn to control. Despite his manner, he is a very cautious observer, and astute. You'd be surprised how good he is with evidence and with people. It's not often his temper boils over like that.'

'He should have controlled it with Ferguson.'

'I think you do not yet understand how strung out we all were over what happened to that little girl.'

That's beside the point and you know it.'

'No, that is precisely the point. You just don't want to hear it.'

Cowart was quieted by the detective's admonition. After a moment, however, he started in again. 'You know what will happen when I write that he struck Ferguson?'

'I know what you think will happen.'

'He'll get a new trial.'

'Maybe. I guess, probably.'

'You sound like someone who knows something, who's not talking.'

'No, Mr. Cowart, I sound like someone who understands the system.'

'Well, the system says you can't beat a confession out of a defendant.'

'Is that what we did? I think I told you only that Wilcox slapped Ferguson once or twice. Slapped. Open hand. Hardly more than an attention-getting device. You think getting a confession from a murderer is a tea party, all nice and proper every time? Christ. And anyway, it was almost twenty-four hours later before he confessed. Where's the cause and effect?'

'That's not what Ferguson says.'

'I suppose he says we tortured him all that time.'

'Yes.'

'No food. No drink. No sleep. Constant physical abuse coupled with deprivation and fear. Old tactics, remarkably successful. Been around since the Stone Age. That's what he says?'

'Pretty much. Do you deny it?'

Tanny Brown smiled and nodded. 'Of course. It didn't happen that way. If it had, we'd have damn well gotten a better confession out of that close-mouthed son of a bitch. We'd have found out how he sweet-talked Joanie into that car and where he stashed his clothes and that piece of rug and all the rest of the shit he wouldn't tell us.'

Cowart felt a surge of indecision again. What the policeman said was true.

Brown paused, thinking. Then he added, 'There you go, that'll help your story, won't it? An official denial.'

'Yes.'

'But it won't stop your story?'

'No.'

'Ah, well, I suppose it's much more convenient for you to believe him.'

'I didn't say that.'

'No? What makes his version more plausible than what I told you?'

'I'm not making that judgment.'

'The hell you aren't.' Brown pivoted in his seat and glared at Cowart. 'That's the standard reporter's excuse, isn't it? The "Hey, I just put all the versions out there and let the readers decide whom to believe" speech, right?'

Cowart, unsettled, nodded.

The detective nodded back and returned his gaze out the window.

Cowart fell into a hole of quiet as he steered the car slowly down the roadway. He saw that he was driving past the intersection described by Blair Sullivan. He peered down the roadway, looking for the stand of willow trees.

'What are you looking for?' Brown asked.

'Willow trees and a culvert that runs beneath the road.'

The detective frowned and took a second before replying. 'Right down the road. Slow down, I'll show you.'

He pointed ahead and Matthew Cowart saw the trees and a small dirt space where he could pull over. He parked the car and got out.

'Okay,' said the detective, 'we found the willows. Now what are we looking for?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Mr. Cowart, perhaps if you were a bit more forthcoming…'

'Under the culvert. I was told to look under the culvert.'

'Who told you to look under the culvert, for what?'

The reporter shook his head. 'Not yet. Let's just take a look first.'

The detective snorted, but followed after him.

Matthew Cowart walked to the side of the road and stared down at the edge of the slate-gray, rusted pipe that protruded into a tangle of scrub brush, rock, and moss. It was surrounded by the inevitable array of litter: beer cans, plastic soda bottles, unrecognizable paper wrappings, an old dirty white hightop sneaker, and a rank, half-eaten bucket of fried chicken. A trickle of black dirty water dripped from the end of the metal cylinder. He hesitated, then scrambled down into the damp, thorny undergrowth. The bushes tugged at his clothing and he could feel ooze beneath his feet. The detective followed him without hesitation, instantly ripping and muddying his suit. He paid it no mind.

'Tell me,' the reporter asked, 'is this thing always like this, or…'

'No. When it rains hard, this whole area will fill up, all muck swamp and mud. Takes a day or so to dry out again. Over and over.'

Cowart slid on the gloves. 'Hold the flashlight,' he said.

Gingerly, he got down on his knees and, with the detective balancing next to him, flashing the light beneath the edge of the culvert, the reporter started scraping away built-up dirt and rock.

'Mr. Cowart, do you know what you're doing?'

He didn't answer but continued pulling the debris away, pitching it behind him.

'Perhaps if you told me

He caught a glimpse of something in the light beam. He started to dig harder. The detective saw that he'd seen something and tried to peer down, under the lip, at what it was. Matthew Cowart scratched away some wet leaves and mud. He saw a handle and grasped it. He pulled hard. For an instant there was resistance, as if the earth would not give it up without a struggle, then it came free. He stood up abruptly, turning toward the detective, holding out his hand.

A wild, self-satisfied excitement filled him. 'One knife,' he said slowly.

The detective stared at it.

'One murder weapon, I suspect.'

The four-inch blade and handle of the knife were crusted with rust and dirt. It was black with age and the elements, and for an instant Cowart feared the weapon would disintegrate in his hand.

Tanny Brown looked hard at Matthew Cowart, pulled a clean cloth from a pocket and took the knife by the tip, wrapping it gently. 'I'll take that,' he said firmly.

The detective placed the knife in his suit pocket. 'Not much left of it,' he said slowly, with disappointment. 'We'll run it through the lab, but I wouldn't count on much.' He stared down at the culvert, then up into the sky. 'Step back,' he continued softly. 'Don't touch anything else. There may be something of forensic value, and I don't want it further disturbed.' He fixed Cowart with a long, hard stare. 'If this location relates to a crime, then I want it properly preserved.'