'But how can he leave the state? What about the trial, his bail?'

'Judge gave him permission. No big deal. I told him it was better to get back on with his life, and he wanted to go on up and finish school. What's so strange about that? The state has to provide us with any new discovery material, and so far they haven't sent over anything. I don't know what they're gonna do, but I'm not expecting big things from them.'

'You think it's just going to slide?'

'Maybe. Go ask the detectives.'

Twill.'

'You got to understand, Mr. Cowart, how little those prosecutors want to get up and have their heads bashed in at trial. Public humiliation ain't high on the list for elected officials, you know. I suspect they'd find it a lot easier just to let a little bit of time flow by, so's people's memories get a bit hazy about the whole thing. Then get up and drop the charges at some cozy, little old conference back in the judge's chambers. Blame the whole failure on him for suppressing that statement. He'll turn right around and say it was the state's fault. And mostly the whole thing will dump on those two cops. Simple as that. End of story. That ain't so surprising now, is it? You've seen things just float on out of the criminal justice system before with nary a whimper?'

'From Death Row to zero?'

'You got it. Happens. Not too frequent, of course, but happens. Nothing here that I haven't seen or heard before.'

'Just pick up life, after a three-year hiatus?'

'Right again. Everything back to nice and quiet normal. Excepting of course one thing.'

'What's that?'

'That little girl is still dead.'

He called Tanny Brown.

'Ferguson's gone back to New Jersey. Did you know that?'

'It wasn't too much of a secret. The local paper did a story on his leaving. Said he wanted to continue his education. Told the paper he didn't think he could get a job here in Pachoula because of the way people looked at him. I don't know about that. I don't know if he even tried. Anyway, he left. I think he just wanted to get out of town before somebody did something to him.'

'Like who?'

'I don't really know. Some people were upset when he was released. Of course, some others weren't. Small town, you know. People divided. Most folks were pretty confused.'

'Who was upset?'

Tanny Brown paused before replying. 'I was upset. That's enough.'

'So, what happens now?'

'What do you expect to happen?'

Cowart didn't have an answer for that.

He did not write the story he intended. Instead, he went back to the editorial board and worked hard on upcoming local elections. He spent hours interviewing candidates, reading position papers, and debating with the other members of the board what the newspaper's positions should be. The atmosphere was heady, collegial. The wonderful perversities of local

South Florida politics, where issues like making English the official county language, or democracy in Cuba, or firearms control, provided infinite distractions. After the elections, he launched another series of editorials on water management throughout the Florida Keys. This required him to occupy his time with budget projections and ecological statements. His desk grew cluttered with sheets of paper, all covered with endless tables and charts. He had an odd thought, a pun: There's safety in numbers.

The first week in December, at a hearing before Judge Trench, the state dropped first-degree-murder charges against Robert Earl Ferguson. They complained to a small gathering of reporters that without the confession, there was little hard evidence to go on. There was a lot of posturing by both prosecutors and the defense team about how important the system was, and how no single case was more important than the rules of law that governed them all.

Tanny Brown and Bruce Wilcox were absent from the hearing.

I don't really want to talk about it right now,' Brown said when Cowart went to see him. Wilcox said, 'Jesus, I barely touched the man. Jesus. If I'd really hit him, you think he'd have no marks? You think he'd still be standing? Hell, I'd a ripped his head off. Damn.'

He drove through a humid evening, past the school, past the willow where Joanie Shriver had stepped out of the world. He stopped at the fork in the road, staring for an instant down the route the killer had taken before turning toward the Shriver house. He pulled in front and spotted George Shriver cutting a hedge with a gas-powered trimmer. The big man's body was wreathed in sweat when Cowart approached. He stopped, shutting down the motor, breathing in harsh gasps of air as the reporter stood by, notepad and pen poised.

'We heard,' he said softly. 'Tanny Brown called us, said it was official now. Of course, it didn't come as no surprise or anything. Yes sir, we knew it was going to happen. Tanny Brown once told us that it was all so fragile. That's the word I can't forget. I guess it just couldn't hold together no more, not after you started to look at it.'

Cowart stood before the red-faced man uncomfortably. 'Do you still think Ferguson killed your daughter? What about Sullivan? What about that letter he sent?'

'I don't know nothing anymore about it. I suspect it's as confused for the missus and me as it is for everyone else. But in my heart, you know, I still think he did it. I can't ever erase the way he looked at his trial, you know. I just can't forget that.'

Mrs. Shriver brought out a glass of ice water for her husband. She looked up at Cowart with a sort of curiosity in her eyes that was ridged with anger.

'What I can't understand,' she said, 'is why we had to go through all this again. First you, then the other television and print folks. It was like she got killed all over again. And again and again. It got so's I couldn't turn on the television for fear that I might see her picture there again and again. It wasn't like people wouldn't let us forget. We didn't want to forget. But it got all caught up in something that I didn't understand. Like what became important was what that man Ferguson said and what that man Sullivan said and what they did and all that. Not that what was really important was that my little girl was stolen. And that was a hurt, you know, Mr. Cowart? That hurt and kept hurting so much.'

The woman was crying as she spoke, but the tears didn't mar the clarity of her voice.

George Shriver took a deep breath and a long pull from his water. 'Of course, we don't blame you, Mr. Cowart.' He paused. 'Well, hell, maybe we do a bit. Can't help but think something wrong has happened somewhere. Not your fault, I guess. Not your fault at all. Fragile, like I said. Fragile, and it all fell apart.'

The big man took his wife's hand and, together, leaving the lawn mower and Matthew Cowart standing in the front yard, they retreated into the darkness of their home.

When he spoke with Ferguson, he was overwhelmed by the elation in the man's voice. It made it seem to the reporter that he was standing close by, not talking over some distance on a telephone.

'I can't thank you enough, Mr. Cowart. It wouldn't of happened without your help.'

'Yes, it would have, sooner or later.'

'No, sir. You were the person who got it all moving. I'd still be on the Row if not for you.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'I have plans, Mr. Cowart. Plans to make something of my life. Finish school. Make a career. Yes sir.' Ferguson paused, then added, 'I feel like I'm free to do anything now.'

Cowart remembered the phrase from somewhere but could not place it. Instead, he asked, 'How're your classes going?'

'I've learned a lot,' Ferguson said. He laughed briefly. 'I feel like I know a whole lot more than I did before. Yes sir. Everything's different now. It's been some education.'

'Are you going to stay up in Newark?'