She sat up ramrod-straight. Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

He shook his head. “No, kid, I didn’t read your mind,” he said, reading her mind. “Rookie cops think every screwup is the end of the world. I guess we’ve all been there. Whatever it is you’ve – ”

“I can help you, Riker.” Was that high pitch in her own voice? “You need me.” Did she sound a little desperate? Shit! She lowered her tone. “The sheriff won’t have to know I’m working with you.”

“Stupid move, kid. If the sheriff can’t trust you, why would I? Why would any cop trust you?”

And now that he had hit her between the eyes with that bat, he leaned in close to complete the kill. “You’re young, Deputy. I guess I can overlook one small indiscretion. We’ll just keep this between the two of us. The sheriff doesn’t have to know you were gonna sell him out. I think we understand each other, don’t we, kid?”

Yes, she did understand.

She had just sold herself to the cop from New York City, and she had gotten nothing in return. But Riker had not done so well either, for he was only getting sloppy seconds from the feds, who had bought her first with promises – all lies, if Mallory could be believed.

He was rising from the table, gathering up his cigarettes and matches. “If you do run into Mallory, ask her where she got the gun. Tell her I’ll make a statement at her arraignment on the jailbreak charge. It’s a standard deal. Any judge will give her points for cooperation.” He pulled a dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the table for a tip. “And if I need anything else from you, I’ll let you know.”

She followed his progress across the bar and through a bright rectangle of daylight. Then the door closed behind him, and despite the crowd, she was alone in this place, dim and dank as a cave, watching clouds of smoke expelled from the lungs of men. She inhaled their secondhand breath with the mingled smells of their bodies and the leavings on their plates. The music from the jukebox died.

Lilith stared at Riker’s half-filled glass and then slid it over to her own side of the table. She sniffed the liquid.

Bourbon.

She tasted it.

Cheap bourbon.

Over a graduation drink in a New Orleans bar, her father had told her that cheap liquor was the mark of an honest cop. And Guy Beaudare had this on the word of his old friend, Tom Jessop, so he knew it must be true.

Lilith downed the glass in one long draught.

It wasn’t the stifling air of the bar or Riker’s bad bourbon that made her sick.

CHAPTER 16

Jimmy Simms passed through a patch of soggy ground, but one of his father’s overlarge shoes had not moved on with him. It was stuck fast in the mud. He dropped a bulky laundry bag in the grass at the side of the road, and then he did a crane dance on one foot as he pulled the shoe out of the muck and slipped it back on. He settled down beside the cloth bag on the grass and tightened the shoelaces, as though that would help much.

And now he eyed the heavy bag, a gift from Darlene Wooley. If there was a God in heaven, there would be a pair of Ira’s castoff shoes in there.

He had helped Darlene change the oil in her car, doing all the messy work at her direction. Then she had taken him into the house and cleaned his hands, as though she thought he could not do this for himself. Or maybe she thought he was as lame as Ira.

And perhaps he was.

No matter. He had relished this warm, mother contact, closed his eyes and made believe that his own mother was doing this small service for him. Darlene had scrutinized the oil spots on his clothes, lamenting that those stains would never come out. She had then sat him down at the kitchen table and made him a cold lunch. She had admonished him to drink all his milk, while she stuffed the bag with laundry-faded clothes, saying Ira wouldn’t wear them anymore. All of Ira’s shirts and socks must be bright red, she told him, and her boy would only wear dark blue jeans.

Darlene had also given him a crisp five-dollar bill. He had used part of it to buy a treat for Good Dog. A fine square of cooked meatloaf from the Levee Market was still warm in his pocket.

Jimmy riffled the bag, hands roaming over T-shirts, jeans and socks. He grasped one white leather running shoe and pulled it out, examining it in amazement. There was not one sign of wear. It was not even scuffed. He quickly found its mate, but there was nothing amiss with that one either. What had Darlene Wooley been thinking of? This pair was just a few months shy of new. He pulled off one of his father’s shoes, and slipped on the new-old shoe of Ira’s.

It fit. It was nearly new and just the right size.

He didn’t want to muddy them, so he put his father’s shoe back on and carefully tucked Ira’s pair into the bag with the rest of his treasure.

Jimmy was unreasonably happy, and he was crying. Not wanting the dog to see him this way, he wiped his eyes as he made his way along the dirt road, limping on the foot with the worst of the blisters.

When he was standing in the yard of Cass Shelley’s house, he found the bowl of food and the pan of water were empty. The dog was nowhere in sight.

“Good Dog,” he called, over and over.

No response.

But the dog never strayed from the house – never. Well, Kathy had broken out of jail. Maybe the animal had gone off with her for a while.

He left his gift in Good Dog’s bowl, regretting that it would be cold when the dog found it, and hoping that the old black Lab would know where the meatloaf had come from.

And now Jimmy wondered about the commotion in the cemetery. The voices were excited. Prayers and hallelujahs carried through the trees and up the winding road.

A few of the remaining people from the tour group were still snapping pictures of the statue. Betty had quit the scene, running past Charles and Henry and not even noticing them.

Henry explained, “She has to be first to tell the story of the miracle. Her reputation for gossip hangs on it.”

Charles stole a quick glance around the corner of a tomb. More people were coming into the cemetery, and some had brought rosary beads. “This is going to upset Malcolm – a miracle with no admission charge.”

Henry handed him a piece of cold meat from a wicker picnic basket Charles bit into the crispy cold skin and he was reborn. “This is wonderful. Is it one of your own chickens?”

Henry nodded.

“Does Augusta know you’re killing birds?”

Henry put down his lunch to talk with his hands, to tell Charles that as a bird lover, Augusta was no purist, not when it came to chickens. “She doesn’t recognize them as true birds. She calls them ‘gumbo ingredients.’ One thing Augusta and I agree on – the only good chicken is a dead one.”

Charles was looking at the roof of Trebec House and seeing it in the new light of Betty’s tour ramble. “I had no idea Augusta’s father disinherited her. But still, I can’t believe she’s allowing that beautiful mansion to decay just for spite. Was Betty right about that, or is there more to it?”

Henry shrugged. “The house is Augusta’s business. She can do what she likes with it.”

“Can you at least explain Augusta’s animosity toward the sheriff?”

“She blames him for the death of an old friend.”

“And who was that?”

“The man Tom Jessop could have been, if only Cass had lived.”

“There was something between them?”

Henry nodded. “Ira’s not the only one who communes with the angel. I’ve seen Tom out here late at night. And I’ve heard him too – sloppy drunk and sorry for all the things he never said to her. But he’s said it all to the angel. In a way, there is more between Tom and Cass now than there was when she was a living breathing woman. But the love of stones is highly unnatural, and from what I have seen of it, I don’t recommend it. I hope nothing happens to Kathy… for your sake.”