"Thanks, but it's business for the sheriff."

Willets didn't let it go. "If you're talkin' crime, it's my business, too." He squinted. "You boys aren't local, are you?"

Pike said, "Does it matter?"

Willets clicked the cop eyes on Pike. "You look familiar. I ever lock you down?"

The receptionist said, "Oh, relax, Tommy," and took the card down a short hall.

Willets stood there with his fists on his hips, staring at us. The receptionist came back with Jo-el Boudreaux and returned to her desk. Boudreaux looked nervous. "I thought you were gone."

"There's something we need to talk about."

Willets said, "They wouldn't talk with me, Jo-el."

Boudreaux said, "I've got it now, Tommy. Thanks."

Willets went back to the coffee machine, but he wasn't happy about it. Boudreaux was holding my business card and bending it back and forth. He looked at Joe. "Who's that?"

"Joe Pike. He works with me."

Boudreaux bent the card some more, then came closer and lowered his voice. "That woman is back and she's been calling my wife. I don't like it."

"Who?"

He mouthed the words. "That woman. Jodi Taylor." He glanced at Willets to make sure he hadn't heard.

"Sheriff, that's just too damn bad. You want to talk out here?"

Willets was still staring at us from the coffee machine. He couldn't hear us, but he didn't like all the talking. He called out, "Hey, Jo-el, you want me to take care of that?"

"I've got it, Tommy. Thanks."

Boudreaux took us to his office. Like him, it was simple and functional. Uncluttered desk. Uncluttered cabinet with a little TV. A nice-looking largemouth bass mounted on the wall. Boudreaux was big and his face was red. A hundred years ago he would have looked like the town blacksmith. Now, he looked awkward in his short-sleeved uniform and Sam Browne. He said, "I want you to know I don't appreciate your coming here like this. I don't like that woman calling my wife. I told you I'd handle my troubles on my own, in my own way, and there's nothing we got to say to each other."

"I want to report a crime. I can report it to you, or to the clown outside."

He rocked back when I said it. He was a large-boned, strong man and he'd probably fronted down his share of oilfield drunks, but now he was scared and wondering what to do. I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to have gone away and stayed away. "What do you mean, 'crime'? What are you talkin' about?"

"I know what Rossier's doing, Sheriff. You're going to have to put a stop to it."

He put his hand on the doorknob like he was going to show us out. "I said I'll take care of this."

"You've been hiding from it for long enough, and now it's gotten larger than you and your wife and your father-in-law."

He said, "No," waving his hand.

"I'm showing you a courtesy here, Boudreaux. Neither your wife nor Jodi Taylor knows about this, though I will tell them. I'm giving it to you first, so that we can do this in private, where you want to keep your fat-ass troubles, or we can do it in front of your duty cops."

Pike said, "Fuckin' A." Pike really knows how to add to a conversation.

Boudreaux stopped the waving.

I said, "At eleven-thirty last night we saw a man named Donaldo Prima shoot an old man in the head at an abandoned pumping station a mile south of Milt Rossier's crawfish farm. They were bringing in illegal immigrants. Rossier's goons were there when it happened."

Jo-el Boudreaux stopped all the twitching and waving as completely as if he had thrown a switch. His eyes narrowed briefly, and then he put his palms flat on his desk and wet his lips again. When he spoke I could barely hear him. "You're reporting a homicide?"

"It's not the first, Jo-el. It's been going on, and it will keep going on until it's stopped."

"Rossier was there?"

"Prima met LeRoy Bennett at Rossier's bar, the Bayou Lounge. Bennett and LaBorde were at the pumping station, but Rossier's the guy who's in business with Prima."

His fingers kneaded the way a cat will knead its paws, only without satisfaction. "Can you prove that?"

"They buried the old man and a little girl. Let's go see them."

He came around the desk and put on his hat. "God help you if you're lyin'."

Tommy Willets was gone when we walked out through the substation and climbed into Jo-el's car.

The sheriff drove. I spoke only to give directions, and a little less than twenty minutes later we turned across the cattle bridge and moved into the marsh and the cane fields. The rain had left the road pocked with puddles, but the ruts from the big trucks were still cut and clear. Everything looked different during the day, brighter and somehow magnified. Egrets with blindingly white feathers took dainty steps near thickets of cattails, and BB-eyed black birds perched atop swaying cane tips.

We parked alongside the pumping station. The sun was cooking off the rain, and, when we left the car, it was like stepping into a cloud of live steam. We moved north along the edge of the waterway for maybe eighty yards until we came to the little grave. The rain had washed away some of the soil, and part of the old man's arm was visible. There was a musty smell like sour milk mixed with fish food, but maybe that was just the swamp.

Jo-el Boudreaux said, "Oh, my Lord."

Boudreaux bent down, but did not touch the earth or what was obscured by it. He stood and turned and looked out across the waterway, shaking his head. "Jesus, ain't this a mess."

I said, "It isn't just you and your wife anymore, Boudreaux. Rossier isn't just selling meth to crackers. He's in business with animals, and people are getting hurt. You can't ignore that."

He wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Oh, holy Jesus. I didn't know about any of this. I never knew what he was doing. That was the deal, see? I just stayed away. That's all there was to it. I just let him go about his business. I never knew what he was doing out here."

"This thing is going to end, now, Jo-el. You're going to shut Rossier down."

He looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I can't walk away and let it go on. If you don't stop it, I'll give you up."

He blinked hard and looked from me to Joe Pike, then back to me. His face was bright pink in the sun, and slicked with sweat. "You think I'd let someone get away with this? You think I'd just turn away?"

I pointed at the grave. "That old man and that little girl are dead because you turned away."

The pink face went red, and in that moment he wasn't the scared blacksmith; he was the leather-tough farmer he'd had to be when he was fronting down Saturday-night drunks waving broken Budweiser bottles. He said, "I've got a wife to protect. I had to look out for her goddamned daddy."

Pike moved to the side, and I stepped into Jo-el Boudreaux's face and said very softly, "It was almost forty years ago. Edith was a child, forty years ago. You went along because you didn't want anyone to know she'd been with a black man. It's the race thing, isn't it?"

Jo-el Boudreaux threw a fist the size of a canned ham at me with everything he had. It floated down through the thick air and I slapped it past, stepping to the outside. He threw the other hand, this time crossing his body and making a big grunt with the effort. I slapped it past the same way and stepped under. He was big and heavy and out of shape. Two punches and he was breathing hard. Pike shook his head and looked away. Boudreaux lunged forward, trying to wrap me up with the big arms, and I stepped to the side and swept his feet out from under him. He rolled sideways in the air, flaying at nothing, and hit the muddy ground. He stayed there, crying, hurting for himself but maybe hurting for the old man and the little girl, too. I thought Jodi Taylor was right. I thought that he was a good man, just stupid and scared, the way good men sometimes are. Somewhere nearby a fish jumped, and tiny gnats swarmed around us in great rolling clouds. Boudreaux got control of himself and climbed to his feet. He said, "I'm sorry about that."