The reporter grew silent, then he leaned forward. 'Tell you what, Detective. You want to know. I want to know. Let's make a trade.'

The detective set his glass down slowly. 'Trade what?'

The confession. It starts there, right?' That's right.'

'Then you tell me the truth about that confession, and

I'll tell you the truth about Ferguson.'

Brown held his back straight, as if memory thrust rigidity into his body and his words.

Mr. Cowart,' he replied slowly. 'Do you know what happens when you grow up and live your life in one little place? You get so's you can sense what's right and wrong in the breeze, maybe in the smell of the day, the way the heat builds up around noon and starts to slip away at dusk. It's like knowing the notes of a piece of music so that when the band plays them in your head, you've already heard them. I'm not saying everything's always small-town perfect and there ain't terrible things happening. Pachoula isn't big like Miami, but it doesn't mean we don't have husbands who beat their wives, kids that do drugs, whores, loan sharks, extortion, killings. All the same. Just not quite so obvious.'

'And Bobby Earl?'

'Wrong from the start. I knew he was waiting to kill somebody. Maybe from the way he walked or talked or that little laugh he would make when I would pull his car over. He came from mean stock, Mr. Cowart, no different from a dog that's been bred for fighting. And it got all tarnished and banged-up worse living in the city. He was filled with hate. Hated me. Hated you. Hated everything. Walking around, waiting for that hate to take over completely. All that time, he knew I was watching him. Knew I was waiting. Knew I knew he was waiting, too.'

Cowart looked over at the narrow eyes of the detective and thought, Ferguson wasn't the only one filled with hate. 'Give me details.'

'None to give. A girl complains he followed her home. Another tells us he tried to talk her into his car. Offered her a ride, he said. Just trying to be friendly. But then a neighborhood crime watch patrol spots him cruising their streets at midnight with his headlights off. Somebody's committing rapes and assaults in the next couple of counties, but forensics can't match him up. A patrol car rousts him from outside the junior high one week before the abduction and murder, right before the end of school, and he's got no explanation for why he's there. Hell, I even ran his name through the national computer and I called the Jersey state police, see if they had anything up there in Newark. No instant winners, though.'

'Except Joanie Shriver turns up dead one day.'

Brown sighed. The liquor slopped over some of his anger. 'That's correct. One day Joanie Shriver turns up dead.'

Cowart stared at the police lieutenant. 'You're not telling me something.'

Brown nodded. 'She was my daughter's best friend. My friend, too.'

The reporter nodded. 'And?'

Brown spoke quietly. 'Her father. Owned those hardware stores. Got 'em from his father. Gave me a job after hours in high school sweeping out the place.

He was just one of those people who put color way down on his list, especially at a time when everybody else had it at the top of theirs. You remember what it was like in Florida in the early sixties? There were marches and sit-ins and cross burnings. And in the midst of all that, he gave me a job. Helped me when I went away to college. And when I came back from

Vietnam, he pointed me to the police force. Made some calls. Pulled some strings. Called in a favor or two. You think those little things don't amount to much? And his son was my friend. He worked in the store next to me. We shared jokes, troubles, futures. That sort of thing didn't happen a lot back then, though you probably didn't know that. That means something, too, Mr. Co wart, in this equation. And our children played together. And if you had any idea what that meant, well, you'd understand why I don't sleep much now at night. So I had a couple of debts. Still do.'

'Go on.'

Do you have any idea how much you can hate yourself for letting something happen that you could no more have prevented than you can prevent the sun from rising, or the tide from flowing in?' Cowart looked hard, straight ahead. 'Perhaps.' Do you know what it's like to know, to know absolutely, positively, with complete certainty, that something wrong is going to happen and yet be powerless to stop it? And then, when it does happen, it steals someone you love right from beneath your arms? Crushes the heart of a real friend? And I couldn't do a thing. Not a damn thing!'

The force of Brown's words had driven him to his feet. He clenched a fist in the air between them, as if grasping all the fury that echoed within him. 'So, get it now, Mr. Cowart? You beginning to see?' 'I think so.'

So there the bastard was. Smirking away in a chair.

Taunting me. He knew, you see. He thought he couldn't be touched. Bruce looked at me, and I nodded. I left the room, and he let the bastard have it. You think we beat that confession out of Robert Earl Ferguson? Well, you're absolutely right. We did.'

Brown slapped one hand sharply against the other, making a sound like a shot. 'Wham! Used the phone book, just like the bastard said.'

The detective's eyes pierced Cowart. 'Choked him, hit him, you name it. But the bastard hung in there. Just spat at us and kept laughing. He's tough, did you know that? And he's a lot stronger than he appears.' Brown took a deep breath. 'I only wished we'd killed him, right there and then, instead.'

The detective clenched his fist and thrust it at the reporter. 'So, if physical violence won't work, what's next? A little bit of psychological twisting will do the trick. You see, I realized he wasn't afraid of us. No matter how hard we hit him. But what was he afraid of?'

Brown rose. He pulled up his pants leg. 'There's the damn gun. Just like he said. Ankle holster.'

'And that's what finally made him confess?'

'No,' Brown said with cool ferocity. 'Fear made him confess.'

The detective reached down abruptly and with a single, sudden movement, freed the weapon. It leapt into his hand and he thrust it forward, pointing straight at Cowart's forehead. He thumbed back the hammer, which made a small, evil click. 'Like this,' he said.

Cowart felt sudden heat flood his face.

'Fear, Mr. Cowart. Fear and uncertainty about just how crazy anger can make a man.'

The small pistol was dwarfed by the hulking figure of the detective, rigid with emotion. He leaned forward, pushing the gun directly against Cowart's skull, where it remained for a few seconds, like an icicle.

'I want to know' the detective said. 'I do not want to wait.' He pulled the gun back so that the weapon hovered a few inches from Cowart's face.

The reporter remained frozen in his seat. He had to struggle to force his eyes away from the black barrel hole and up at the policeman. 'You gonna shoot me?'

Should I, Mr. Cowart? Don't you think I hate you enough to shoot you for coming up to Pachoula with all your damn questions?'

If it hadn't been me, it would have been somebody else.' Cowart's voice cracked with tension. 'I would have hated anyone enough to kill them.'

The reporter felt a wild panic within him. His eyes locked on the detective's finger, tightening on the trigger. He thought he could see it move.

Ohmigod, Cowart thought. He's going to do it. For an instant, he thought he would pass out.

Tell me,' Brown said icily. 'Tell me what I want to know.'

Cowart could feel the blood draining from his face. His hands twitched on his lap. All control raced away.

I'll you. Just put the gun away.' The detective stared at him. 'You were right, you were right all along! Isn't that what you want to hear?'

Brown nodded. 'You see,' he said softly, evenly, 'it's not hard to get someone to talk.'