“Hadn’t seen you much since the storm,” Van said. “God damn, we got lucky out here. Someone was to fart in a different direction, I wouldn’t have nowhere to live.”

Quinn nodded. He smiled at Uncle Van, the man still wearing his conductor’s hat from his day job. He chewed and chewed and then said, “On the phone, you said you had some questions for me. Go on. Shoot.”

“I tried Uncle Jerry,” Quinn said. “But he’s out on the road, Aunt Dot said somewhere in Texas, and not taking any calls. I needed to learn some things about my dad.”

Van stopped chewing. He put down his burger and wiped his mouth. “You hadn’t ever asked me word one about your old man. Is he in trouble again? What the hell did he do now?”

“Nothing,” Quinn said. “I’m trying to find out what he was doing here back in ’seventy-seven when he started dating my mother.”

“He was still working in Hollywood,” Van said. “He’d come through maybe once a year to see family, check on your grandfather before he kicked the bucket. ’Seventy-seven was the year our momma died and he came back to help get Daddy settled. He wouldn’t have ever come back after that except on account of your mother, trying to make that all work, trying to stay away from those high-flying Hollywood ways and all that shit. Did I tell you he once took me out to the Joshua Tree and we got so screwed-up on mushrooms that I had a four-hour conversation with an iguana?”

“Never heard that one.”

“Strange,” Van said, taking another bite of burger.

“I know he was in Jericho in ’78 and married my mom in ’79,” Quinn said. “I was born the next year.”

“He loved you, Quinn,” Van said. “He’s a failed man. But he loved you.”

Uncle Van removed his conductor’s hat as if suddenly realizing he had it on his head. “Damn kids drive me crazy, asking me to toot my horn. But there’s some nice ladies out at Barnes Crossing. They got this one gal selling panties at Victoria’s Secret. Holy shit.”

“What I need to know is if my father used to ride with a motorcycle gang here,” Quinn said. “The Born Losers.”

Van’s face didn’t show much. He washed down the burger with some beer. He put down the beer, picked it back up and took another swig. “Hmm,” he said. “Define what you mean by ‘ride’?”

“Was he a member?”

“No.”

“But he hung out with them?”

Van shrugged. His house still showed the admiration he had for his older brother, framed and signed movie posters from Stroker Ace and Cannonball Run II. Dom DeLuise signing in big scrawl Don’t play with your meatballs.

“Your old man hung out with lots of folks,” Van said. “You got to understand, he was a famous man when he came back to Jericho. Back in the seventies was prime time. He was making all these damn movies with Burt Reynolds and would show up wearing jackets from the latest films. Those real cool silky jackets. He had this one that Burt had given him, one made special by GM for the Trans Am. It had the big flaming bird on it, and I just thought it was the coolest thing ever. You know what your daddy did when I said I admired it?”

“Gave it to you.”

“Hanging right there in my closet.”

“Around the same time he met my mom, something real bad happened in Jericho,” Quinn said. “You recall a man being lynched?”

Uncle Van stuffed his face in what seemed like an act of keeping his mouth shut. He chewed for a while and then shook his head. “I can’t recall.”

“You can’t recall if my dad was around? Or the lynching?”

“Neither.”

“Everybody else remembers it.”

“Nephew,” Van said, patting Quinn on the arm, “I did a lot of drugs back then. My memory is kind of spotty.”

“Is it possible that my father was riding a lot with the Born Losers?”

“I guess.”

“You need to more than guess.”

“What’s all this about?” Van said, taking the rest of the burger and shoving it into his mouth, licking his fingers. “You don’t want to know this kind of shit about your dad. This was a hell of a long time ago and these were some really bad hombres. These the kind of folks you just didn’t mention. You see them riding your way and, man, you better keep your eyes to the ground.”

“They killed an innocent man.”

“Your daddy wasn’t a part of that.”

“How do you know if you can’t recall?”

“Leave it, Quinn,” Van said. “Shit. Sit down with me and we’ll watch some fights. They got the MMA on tonight. Those sonsabitches are bad news. You ever think about doing any of that stuff? I know you got all that jujitsu training and Ranger stuff. Lots of them fighters are ex-military.”

“I kind of got my hands full.”

Outside a small, insignificant window, the snow was coming down in wet clumps. In the center of Van’s trailer, a small space heater blew hard in front of a forty-inch television. Quinn nodded to Van, leaving most of his beer on the counter.

“I wish I could be of more help.”

Quinn put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder and said, “When you decide to do the right thing, give me a call.”

“My mind ain’t so good these days, Quinn,” Van said. “Don’t be so hard on me. All I’m equipped to do is ride a fake little train in figure eights.”

“You know where he is?”

“Who?”

Quinn didn’t answer.

“No,” Van said. “I guess I’m like you, I wrote Jason Colson off a while back. He started to turn on himself and there was nothing any of us could do.”

“He’s alive.”

Van nodded. “Leave it,” he said. “That man ain’t done nothing but break all our hearts for a long, long time.”

Lillie Virgil had been watching the Rebel Truck Stop since she’d officially gone off work at six. She paid the babysitter to stay late, exchanged her sheriff’s office Jeep with her old Toyota Corolla, and found a decent observation point between the diner and the Booby Trap. Quinn would tell her to get home, spend time with Rose, and that he was moving things ahead. But Quinn could be so goddamn straight-ahead that explaining police work to a Ranger was like trying to teach a pit bull to tap dance. She’d been there about two and a half hours, watching the dinnertime crowd thin out and the stripper crowd start filing in. She’d seen Johnny Stagg twice. Once, he’d gone around the restaurant to glad-hand a bit, and, another time, he was crossing the parking lot, whistling, making his way to the Booby Trap.

Lillie had always heard Stagg kept a secret office at the Trap, away from prying eyes, and she didn’t doubt it.

She’d about decided this wasn’t worth it, at ten dollars an hour for the sitter, when she saw Hank Stillwell get out of that 1970 Plymouth Road Runner, a lovely off-green with a spoiler, and light a cigarette. He leaned against the closed driver’s door awhile as if trying to make a decision. He finally shook his head, disgusted with himself, and walked toward the Booby Trap.

This could be interesting or disgusting. Depended on if this was a meet with Stagg or a late-night chicken choke.

Lillie called home. She’d give it another hour.

She’d wait it out.

•   •   •

“I’d prefer you not just showing up like this,” Stagg said, eyes widening, looking over his desk at Hank Stillwell, before taking a seat in that big old executive chair. “You should’ve called.”

“I called you eight times this evening, Mr. Stagg,” Stillwell said. “Some woman kept on saying you were busy.”

“I was.”

“Because of the news?”