And her mother’s smile grew even larger when Diane sat the Sonic sack on the table and opened up the burrito and tater tots. She might have forgotten her own daughter, her own name, and the last twenty years of her life, but she sure knew the burrito and was still exact about the eggs, sausage, and cheese. Tots on the side, and black coffee. And here was her feast.

Her mother, whose name was Alma, shared the room with another woman with Alzheimer’s, this woman just recently moving in and not being able to talk, only putter about and hum. She’d sing spirituals and clap and ask you to join in whenever the mood struck her. Luckily, she was off for some therapy and Diane could sit with her mother, wheeling her over to the table and unwrapping the burrito.

“How you been, Mom?”

“Have you seen your father? He’s run off again.”

Diane’s father had been dead now twenty-two years.

“No, ma’am,” she said. “Haven’t seen him.”

“He’s like that,” she said. “Can’t be trusted.”

That much being true, the tight-ass Holy Roller preacher eventually running off with the Mary Kay saleswoman in town and starting a new family in Tupelo, working for a right-wing Christian radio station. That was her biological father, not old Mr. Shed Castle, her stepfather, also dead.

“Do you remember when I got hurt?” Diane said. “When I was in the hospital?”

“You had a fine boy,” her mother said. “Big, too.”

“When that man hurt me, Mom,” Diane said. “When I got shot?”

“Who shot you?” her mother said, tilting her head. “You look fine to me.”

“A long time back,” she said. “I was with Lori Stillwell.”

“A sweet girl,” her mother said. “A lovely girl. Hair down to her butt. Shiny like a shampoo commercial.”

“Yes,” Diane said. “Lori was beautiful. Do you remember when that man came for us? That man who hurt us?”

There was a darkness, a passing of light, in the dim blue eyes of her mother. She had a mouthful of the burrito and kept on eating, but there were wheels turning, a shifting and searching somewhere in the mind, trying to place what was being asked. She chewed and chewed. Diane just sat there, a bright sun coming up over the little parking lot facing Cotton Road. “Lori died.”

Diane turned to her mother. “Yes, Mom,” she said. “Do you recall?”

“Poor girl died,” she said. “You almost died. God. Are you all right? Where is your father? Where did he go? I told him he’d get hurt. Those people would hurt him.”

“Who, Mom?” Diane said. “Who would hurt him?”

Her mother chewed some more, thinking on things. “These tater tots are crispy. They are just so tasty.”

“Where did Dad go?” Diane said. The morning sun seemed to leach all the color from the hoods and roofs of the cars, everything in a dull gray light, cars zipping past on Cotton Road. A sad concrete birdbath outside the window, dirty water frozen in the bowl.

“Lori’s father,” her mother said. “He wanted your father to come with him. He knew what to do. He was a very bad man. All of those men were bad.”

“Who?”

“He had very strange eyes, that one,” she said. “He looked like a wolf, with long black hair. Gray eyes. He wanted your father to come. He wanted your father to see what they had done. They were all very proud. I told him no. Where is he? Did he go with them?”

“Where?” Diane said. “Where, Mom? Who are you talking about?”

“Out to that tree,” her mother said. “There was a gift hanging from the tree. The man had something for us. He was very happy.”

“Who?”

Her mother took another bite, body and head crooked as if the world was spinning a little strange for her, trying to find her balance. Light passed in and out of her eyes. She swallowed. Her hands shook as she lifted the coffee and took a sip, some spilling on the table. Diane wiped it up. Her mother looked up at her, smiling. “Hello,” her mother said. “You are somebody? Aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Diane said, patting her mother’s hand. “Just a friend.”

•   •   •

Lillie Virgil ran roll call at the morning meeting with deputies Dave Cullison, Art Watts, Ike McCaslin, and Kenny. Kenny hadn’t missed a patrol since the tornado ripped through his family home, killing both his parents. He’d driven his father, mortally wounded, on an ATV out to the field where his dead mother was found, sucked from their house and tossed a quarter mile away. He buried them, tended to their legal affairs, and set about clearing the destruction on his family land. Lillie had tried to speak to him about it many times, but instead Kenny would rather talk about his dog, a black Lab he’d rescued a year earlier who’d become his best friend.

Kenny arrived first, husky and beaming, looking forward to the day’s patrol.

The night had yielded a little action: attempted robbery at the Dixie gas station (“attempt” perhaps too strong a word, as the robber fled immediately when the cashier, Miss Peaches, pulled Luther Varner’s .357 from under the counter), a thirteen-year-old girl had run away from home for two hours before being found eating raisin toast at the Rebel, a domestic between a common-law couple, fighting over the purchase of a fifty-inch television, and eight traffic accidents, on account of the iced roads. Most of the ice had started to thaw at first light, but another cold front was expected to pound them tonight and Lillie ran through which wreckers would be on call.

“What’d Miss Peaches say to the robber?” Ike McCaslin asked, rubbing his eyes and giving that slow, easy smile of his. He was a tall, reedy black man who’d been with the SO longer than anyone.

“She knew him,” Lillie said. “It was the youngest Richardson boy who lives with his sister up on Perfect Circle Road. He just walked in and said, ‘Give it up,’ and Miss Peaches aimed the weapon at his crotch and told him to go get his narrow ass back home or she’d shoot his pecker clean off.”

“Miss Peaches,” Ike said. “She don’t take no shit.”

“No, sir,” Lillie said. “Kenny, you got anything needs a follow today?”

“Need to check up on those mowers getting stolen out on 351,” Kenny said. “Mary Alice had a call about another theft last night, but it was on toward the Ditch. Mr. Davis had a zero-turn Toro that he used for work. Someone hooked up the mower to the trailer and just rode off.”

“Art? Dave?”

“Same old shit,” Dave Cullison said. Dave was still wearing a heavy parka and gloves from running traffic detail at the high school.

“Where’s Quinn?” Art said.

“Had a meeting,” she said.

“Are those bastards in Oxford going to leave both y’all alone?” Art said. “I’m about getting sick of everyone asking me about it. It’s as if people in this county can’t recall old cross-eyed Leonard Chappell being an A-1 shitbird since we were kids.”

“Don’t know,” Lillie said, hopping off the desk. “Don’t care. Let’s hit the road.”

Lillie snatched up her cold-weather coat and Tibbehah ball cap as Mary Alice poked her head into the SO meeting room and said that Lillie had some company. “I went ahead and sent him to your office,” Mary Alice said. “Hope that’s all right. E. J. Royce.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lillie said, and then muttered “Shit” to herself, following the hallway to her door. The door was old and heavy, with the top half pebbled glass reading LILLIE VIRGIL CHIEF DEPUTY, along with the official shield of Tibbehah County law enforcement.

She opened the door to find Royce standing by her desk, puttering about, looking through some of her personal effects and smiling up at her as if there was nothing to it. “Morning, Miss Virgil,” Royce said. “You asked that I stop by if I wanted to follow up on that old case. So here I am.”

It looked and smelled as if Royce hadn’t bathed in a few days. He still had that ever-present dirty white stubble on his face. He wore the same threadbare flannel shirt and wash-worn Liberty overalls. He’d removed his trucker hat, the meager white hair that remained on his head stuck up high like a rooster’s comb.