'I'm not sure about that. This place is colder even than I remember it, Mr. Cowart. I think I should head back south.'

'Pachoula?'

Ferguson hesitated before replying. 'Well, I doubt it. That place didn't make me feel altogether welcome after I got off the Row. People'd stare. I could hear talk behind my back. Lot of pointing. Couldn't go to the local convenience store without finding a patrol car waiting for me when I came out. It was like they were watching me, knowing I'd do something. Took my granny to services on Sunday, folks' heads would turn when we walked through the door. Went down looking for a job, but every place I went it seemed like the job had just been filled a couple minutes before I got there, made no difference if the boss was black or white. They all just looked at me like I was some sort of evil thing walking about in their midst that they couldn't do nothing about. That was wrong, sir. Real wrong. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. But Florida's a big place, Mr. Cowart. Why, just the other day a church in Ocala asked me to come give a talk on my experiences. And they weren't the first. So there's plenty of places that don't think I'm some sort of mad dog. Just Pachoula, maybe. And that won't change as long as that Tanny Brown's there.'

'Will you stay in touch?'

'Why, of course,' Ferguson replied.

In late January, almost a year after he'd received the letter from Robert Earl Ferguson, Matthew Cowart won a Florida Press Association award for his stories. This prize was swiftly followed by awards from the Penny-Missouri School of Journalism and an Ernie Pyle Award from Scripps-Howard.

At the same time, the Florida Supreme Court affirmed the conviction and sentence of Blair Sullivan. He got another collect phone call.

'Cowart? You there?'

'I'm here, Mr. Sullivan.'

'You hear about that court decision?'

'Yes. What are you going to do? All you got to do is talk to one attorney. Why not call Roy Black, huh?'

'Mr. Cowart, d'you think I'm a man with no convictions?' he laughed. 'That's a pun. A man of no conscience? That's another joke. What makes you think I ain't going to stick to what I said?'

I don't know. Maybe I think life is worth living.'

'You ain't had my life.'

'That's true.'

'And you ain't got my future. You probably think I ain't got much future. But you're gonna be surprised.'

'I'm waiting.'

'You want to know something, Mr. Cowart? The really funny thing is, I'm having a good time.'

'I'm glad to hear it.'

'You know another thing, Mr. Cowart? We're gonna talk again. When it gets close.'

'Have you been told anything about when?'

'No. Can't imagine what's taking the governor so long.'

'Do you really want to die, Mr. Sullivan?'

'I got plans, Mr. Cowart. Big plans. Death is just a little part of them. I'll call you again.'

He hung up and Matthew Cowart stifled a shiver. He thought it was like speaking with a corpse.

On the first of April, Matthew Cowart was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for distinguished local news reporting.

In the old days of wire machines that clattered and clanged out news stories in an endless flow of words, there was a sort of ritual gathering on the day the awards were to be announced, waiting for the winners' names to move on the wires. The Associated Press and United Press International usually competed to see which organization could process the awards announcement quickest and move the story fastest. The old wire machines were equipped with bells that would sound when a big story came over the wires, so there was an almost religious pealing when the winners' names were produced. There was a sort of romanticism involved in watching the Teletype crunch out the names as the assembled editors and reporters groaned or cheered. All that had been replaced by instantaneous transmission over computer lines. Now the names appeared on the ubiquitous green screens that dotted the modern newsroom. The cheers and groans were the same, however.

He had been out at a water-management conference that afternoon. When he walked into the newsroom, the entire staff rose up applauding.

A photographer snapped his picture as he was handed a glass of champagne and was pushed toward a computer screen to read the words himself. There were high fives from the managing editor and the city editor, and Will Martin said, I knew it all along.'

He was swamped with congratulatory calls. Roy Black telephoned, as did Robert Earl Ferguson, who spoke for only a few moments. Tanny Brown called and said cryptically, 'Well, I'm glad to see somebody got something out of all this.'

His ex-wife called, crying. I knew you could do it,' she said. He could hear a baby bawling in the background. His daughter squealed with pleasure when she spoke with him, not fully understanding what had happened but delighted nonetheless. He was interviewed on three local television stations and got a call from a literary agent, wondering whether he was interested in writing a book. The producer who'd purchased the rights to Robert Earl Ferguson's life story called, intimating that he should make a deal as well. The man was insistent, talking his way past the telephone receptionist screening the incoming calls, finally getting Matthew Cowart on the line.

'Mr. Cowart? Jeffrey Maynard here. I'm with Instacom Productions. We're very anxious to do a movie based on all the work you've done.'

The producer had a breathless, agitated voice, as if each passing second was filled with lost opportunity and wasted money.

Cowart replied slowly, 'I'm sorry, Mr. Maynard, but…'

'Don't turn me down, Mr. Cowart. How about I fly out to Miami and talk with you? Better yet, you fly here, our nickel, of course.'

'I don't think so…'

'Let me say this, Mr. Cowart. We've spoken to almost all the principals here, and we're real interested in obtaining rights and releases from everyone. We're talking some substantial money here, and maybe the opportunity for you to get out of newspaper work.'

'I don't want to get out of newspaper work.'

'I thought all reporters wanted to do something else.'

'You're mistaken.'

'Still, I'd like to meet. We've met with the others, and we've got all sorts of cooperation on this, and…'

I'll think about it, Mr. Maynard.'

'Will you get back to me?'

'Sure.'

Cowart hung up the telephone with absolutely no intention of doing this. He returned to the excitement that flooded the newsroom, guzzling champagne from a plastic cup, basking in the attention, all confusions and questions crushed under the weight of backslap-ping and congratulations.

But when he went home that night, he was still alone.

He walked into his apartment and thought of Vernon Hawkins living out solitary days with his memories and his cough. The dead detective seemed everywhere in his imagination. He kept trying to force the vision of his friend into some congratulatory pose, insisting to himself that Hawkins would have been the first to call, the first to crack an expensive bottle of champagne. But the image wouldn't stick. He could only remember the old detective lying in bed in his hospital room, muttering through the fog of drugs and oxygen, 'What's the Tenth Rule of the streets, Matty?'

And his reply, 'Christ, Vernon, I don't know. Get some rest.'

'The Tenth Rule is: Things are never what they seem.'

'Vernon, what the hell does that mean?'

'It means I'm losing my head. Get the fucking nurse, not the old one, the young one with the knockers. Tell her I need a shot. Any old shot, doesn't make any difference, as long as she rubs my rear end with an alcohol swab for a couple of minutes before shooting me up.'

He remembered summoning the nurse and watching the old man get a shot, grin wildly, and slip off into a mist of sleep.