Ferguson leaned back, as if relaxing, but Shaeffer could see the muscles beneath his sweatshirt twitch. She didn't reply but started to move about the apartment again. The floor seemed to sway slightly beneath her feet.

'He talked to you about death?'

Ferguson leaned forward. 'On Death Row, it's a frequent subject.'

'And what did you learn?'

'I learned that it's about the most common thing around, ain't it, Detective? Why, it's just everywhere you turn. People think dying is something special, but it isn't, is it?'

'Some deaths are special.'

'Those must be the ones you're interested in.'

'That's right.'

She saw him lean forward slightly, as if anticipating her next question.

'You like sneakers?' she asked abruptly. For an instant, she thought it was someone else speaking in the small room.

He looked slightly surprised. 'Sure. Wear them all the time. Everybody here does.'

'How about that pair. What sort are they?'

'These are Nikes.'

'They look new.'

'Just last week.'

'Got another pair in the closet?'

'Sure.'

She strode across in front of him, heading toward the back bedroom. 'Just sit still,' she said. She could sense his eyes tracking her, burning into her back.

In the closet there was a pair of hightop basketball shoes. She picked them up. Damn! she thought abruptly. They were Converse and old and worn enough to have ripped near the toe. Still, she turned them over and inspected the soles. Near the ball of the foot the rubber had been rubbed smooth. She shook her head. That would have shown up. And the sole tread configuration was different from the Reeboks that the killer had worn when he visited number thirteen Tarpon Drive. She replaced the shoes and returned to face Ferguson.

He looked at her. 'So, you've got a shoeprint from the murder scene, right?'

She remained silent.

'… And you just all of a sudden thought you'd better check my closet.' He stared at her. 'What else have you got?' After a moment, he answered his own question. 'Not much, right? But what brings you here?'

1 told you. Matthew Cowart. Blair Sullivan. And you.'

He didn't respond at first. She could see his mind working rapidly. Finally he spoke in a flat, angry voice. 'So, this is how it's gonna be? From now on? Is that right? Some tired-ass Florida cop needs to make somebody on a killing and I'm going to be the convenient one, right? Convicted once, so I'm a likely candidate for just about anything you can't make right away.'

'I didn't say you were a suspect.'

'But you wanted to see my sneakers.'

'Routine, Mr. Ferguson. I'm checking everyone's sneakers. Even Mr. Cowart's.'

Ferguson snorted a half laugh. 'Sure you are. What sort does Cowart wear?'

She continued the lie rapidly. 'Reeboks.'

'Sure. They must be new, too, because last time I saw him he was wearing Converse just like my old ones.'

She didn't reply.

'So, you're checking everyone's sneakers. But I'm the easy one, right? Wouldn't it be something to connect me to that killing, huh, Detective? That'd get you some headlines. Maybe get you a promotion, too. Ain't nobody going to question your motives.'

She turned it back on him. 'Are you? Why are you so easy?'

'Always have been, always will be. If not me, then someone like me: young and black. Makes me automatically a suspect.'

She shook her head.

He half-rose from his seat in sudden anger. 'No? When they needed someone fast in Pachoula who'd they come to see? And you? You figure that just because I knew Blair Sullivan, that made me someone you'd better talk to fast. But I didn't, damn you! That man almost cost me my life. I spent three years on Death Row for something I didn't do because of cops like you. I thought I was a dead man just because I was convenient for the system. So, screw you, Detective. I ain't gonna be convenient for nobody no more. I may be black, but I'm no killer. And just because I am black, doesn't make me one.'

Ferguson slid back into his seat. 'You wanted to know why I chose to live here? Because here people understand what it is like to be black and always be a suspect or a victim. That's what everyone here is. One or the other. And I've been both, so that's why I fit. That's why I like it, even though I don't have to be here. You understand that, Detective? I doubt it. Because you're white, and you'll never know.'

He rose again, and stared out the window. 'You'll never understand how someone can think this is home.' He turned to her. 'Got any more questions, Detective?'

The wealth of his fury had overcome her. She shook her head.

'Good,' he said quietly. 'Then get the hell out.'

He pointed toward the door. She stepped toward it.

'I may have more questions,' she said.

He shook his head. 'No, I don't think so, Detective. Not again. Last time I was polite to a couple of detectives it cost me three years of my life and nearly killed me. So, you've had your chance. And now it's finished.'

She was in the doorway. She hesitated, as if reluctant to leave but feeling at the same instant an immense relief at getting out of the small space. She turned toward him, but he was already closing the door on her. She had a quick glimpse of his eyes, narrowed in anger, before the door slammed shut. The clicking sound of the locks being thrown echoed in the hallway.

19. Plumbing

For most of the ride, the three men were silent.

Finally, as they turned off the highway, the police cruiser bumping against the hard-packed dirt of the secondary road, Bruce Wilcox said, 'She's not gonna tell us a thing. She'll grab that old shotgun of hers and kick us off her place fast as a hungry mosquito can bite your naked ass. We're wasting our time.'

He was driving. Next to him in the front seat, Tanny Brown stared through the windshield without replying. When a shaft of light slipped through the canopy of trees and struck him, it made his dark skin glisten, almost as if wet. At Wilcox's words, he raised a hand and made a small dismissive gesture, then dropped back into thought.

Wilcox humphed and drove on for a moment or two. 'I still think we're wasting our time.'

'We aren't,' Brown growled as the car skidded and swayed on the rough road.

'Well, why not?' the detective asked. 'And I wish you two'd fill me in on all this.'

He twitched his head toward Cowart, sitting in the center of the rear seat, feeling more or less like one of the prisoners who generally occupied that location.

Brown spoke slowly. 'Before Sullivan went to the chair, he implied to Cowart that there was evidence that we missed out at the Ferguson homestead. That it's still there. That's what we're doing now.'

Wilcox shook his head. 'Tanny, you ain't telling me the half of it. You know, he was just jerking your chain.' He spoke as if Cowart wasn't in the car. 'I supervised that search myself. We took the place apart. Tapped every wall for a hollow spot. Pulled up the floorboards. Sifted through all the coals in that old stove to see if he'd burned anything. Crawled under the damn house with a metal detector. Hell, I even brought that damn tracking dog in, scented him, and led him through the place myself. If the creep had hid something, I'da found it.'

'Sullivan said you missed something,' Cowart insisted.

'Sullivan told the pencil pusher back there a lot of things, Wilcox said to his partner. 'Why are we paying any damn attention to it?'

'Hey,' Cowart said. 'Give it a rest, will ya?'

'Where'd he tell you to look?'

'He didn't. Just said you missed something. Made an obscene joke about having eyes in my backside.'

Wilcox shook his head. 'And anyway, it won't do no good to find something.' He glanced over at Brown. "You know that, boss, well as I. Ferguson's history. Gotta move on.'