“Uncle Quinn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You never said what to do about them bullies,” he said.

“Your momma would want me to say to tell a teacher.”

“What’d you say?”

“Did they hurt you?”

“No,” Jason said. “They just said I stunk.”

“How’s that?”

“They said black people smell funny.”

“You know their names?”

“No, sir,” Jason said. “But they said the creamies smelled worse than the blacks. I guess I’m a creamy.”

Quinn took a long breath, turning the wheel of the truck. “I’ll tell your momma to talk to the teacher.”

“But what do I do when no one’s looking?”

Quinn nodded and drove, catching up with Highway 9 and heading due south. He’d turned down the radio as they spoke, Drake & Zeke taking a station break, playing one of Chris Knight’s latest tracks about loneliness and heartache in the backwoods.

“When I was a little older than you, I had this kid always wanted to fight me,” Quinn said. “Never knew why. But he rode the bus with me and would get up in my face. I figure he just didn’t like my looks.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “I guess I was more scared of getting in trouble with the principal than the fighting. I used to get in a lot of trouble and there was talk of getting me suspended.”

“What’d you do?”

Quinn looked in the rearview to where Jason was strapped tight in the safety seat. They rode over the busted back highways into town, passing Mr. Varner’s Quick Mart, work crews crawling out of trucks and buying chicken biscuits and bottles of Mountain Dew to start their day. A refueling truck had parked at the Dixie gas station, filling the pumps.

“I told your grandmomma about it,” Quinn said.

“Why didn’t you tell your daddy?”

“Wasn’t around,” Quinn said. “Your grandmomma had to sort of be both to me. I figured when I told her, she’d say for me not to fight or else I’d rip my clothes. She was always getting onto me about tearing up my jeans when I climbed trees or went out to shoot squirrels with Mr. Boom. But she didn’t. She just told me I’d know the right thing.”

“What? What was it?”

“Well, one day that kid got off at my stop and that boy followed me down Ithaca Street to our house,” Quinn said. “He kept on coming and knocked on my door, telling me it was ass-whippin’ time.”

“An ass-whippin’?”

“Yep,” Quinn said. “Don’t repeat that. Your grandmomma just handed me my hat and coat and said to go take care of that son of a bitch. She said don’t ever let someone come into your territory.”

“Some other kids laughed when they said I stunk.”

“Don’t let ’em say that,” Quinn said. “You stand toe-to-toe and smile in their faces. When they’re not looking, punch them in the gut.”

“What if they hit me back?”

“Hit ’em harder,” Quinn said. “You got a Colson head. It’ll hurt even less if you give ’em back twice what they gave you. They count on you being scared, not on you coming full out.”

Quinn lifted his eyes up at the rearview and winked at Jason. Jason grinned. He seemed very pleased with that answer.

“Uncle Quinn?” Jason said. “Momma says you got a mean streak.”

“Your momma might be right,” he said. “About some things.”

Quinn turned onto Cotton Road and headed toward the Square and due east for the school, much of it still covered up in blue tarps and most of the classrooms out in emergency trailers. The playground had taken a beating but remained the same as when Quinn had played there. Teachers waited outside the front of the school, administrative still inside, to walk the drop-off kids to the classrooms or trailers.

After a woman helped Jason from his seat and sent him down the path to his class, Quinn noted a little bounce in the kid’s step.

•   •   •

“You might try some brake cleaner on that,” Lillie Virgil said, getting out of her Jeep, hand over eyes in the harsh morning sun.

Diane Tull had parked at the side of the Farm & Ranch, using a hose and soapy brush to work on that spray paint from last night. She had on an old barn coat over a flannel shirt and jeans and wore a pair of high rubber boots. She hoped she could get this shit off her truck before customers started coming in.

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t set,” Diane said.

“Can you scratch it off with a fingernail?”

Diane picked at some of the lettering. “Some of it. Some has set.”

“Nail polish remover,” Lillie said. “Some kids defaced some county vehicles a few years ago and Mary Alice just reached in her purse and showed how easy it works. That woman sure is proud of her fingernails. Like eagle claws. That was on tractors, but I don’t think you’ll mind damaging that coat a little bit.”

“It’s an old truck.”

“Nice one,” Lillie said. “’Sixty-five?”

“’Sixty-six,” Diane said, putting the brush in the bucket. “The two-tone paint is original and the AM radio still works. My daddy bought it brand-new at a dealership in Columbus.”

“Sorry about what happened,” Lillie said. “Don’t wash too much of it yet. I need to take some pictures.”

“Sheriff Colson took some last night,” Diane said.

“Need a few more, in the daylight,” Lillie said. “I know he already pulled some prints off the door handle.”

“It was locked,” Diane said, warming her hands in her blue barn coat. “And Quinn thought the prints looked to be mine, thumbprint the size of a woman’s.”

Lillie walked back to her truck and pulled out a little point-and-shoot Nikon that she said belonged to the sheriff’s office. She took eight or nine pictures from different perspectives and then slipped the camera in her side pocket. She hadn’t worn a hat that day, her brown hair tied up and pinned in a bun. Lillie Virgil was tall and competent, intimidating to some people. People around town whispered that Lillie didn’t care much for boys, but Diane didn’t believe it. She thought people in Jericho couldn’t handle seeing a woman so tough, she could outshoot, outcuss, and outfight most of the men.

“You got a few minutes?” Lillie said. “Got a few questions.”

“Not much to say,” Diane said. “Didn’t see much and shot at just a blur of him.”

Lillie closed one eye in the harsh light and smiled at Diane. Diane had the bucket in one hand and walked over to the spigot to turn off the hose. The flowing water was ice-cold that morning.

“Not about this.”

“Oh,” Diane said, standing there, last bits of water draining from the uncoiled hose. “I guess I expected Sheriff Colson.”

“You rather talk to him?”

“No,” Diane said. “Guess it doesn’t matter. Just didn’t feel like discussing it last night. I don’t know how much to add, either. I guess it’s no secret what happened. That old story has gotten to be pretty famous.”

“Seems like it was a secret for a lot of folks.”

Diane nodded, turned, and dumped out the dirty water from the bucket. She’d gotten some paint off the side of the truck, now the message reading YORE GD. Lillie said she was pretty sure that nail polish remover trick would work, but it would be a hell of shame to mess up that red-and-white paint job. The old truck being a real work of art. Diane stepped back, looked at her dead stepdaddy’s truck, and agreed. Those rotten bastards for doing this.

“We’ve reopened the case,” Lillie said. “Both of them.”

Diane hung next to her truck, leaning against the tailgate, and nodded. She asked if Lillie wouldn’t mind going inside, “My hands feel like they’ve frozen solid.”

Lillie followed her up the ramp and into the big storage area where they kept the feed and fertilizer and overflow from inside the farm supply. Diane sat on a big stack of dog food and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the wind.

“You want one?”

“Trying like hell to quit,” Lillie said.

A flyer for an upcoming rodeo at the Tibbehah Ag Center fluttered in the cold wind. The event promised the grand spectacles of monkeys riding dogs, and that proceeds would go to disaster relief. Lillie turned her head to read the flyer. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a monkey riding a dog,” Lillie said. “Must be something.”