Quinn had smoked down to the cigar band when the big black Suburban drove up and parked beside his truck. The man who walked behind Stagg, Ringold, hopped out from behind the wheel and approached the picnic table. It was a soft, gray day. A light rain had fallen earlier and looked as if it would fall again. Everything was so bright and green, the air charged with gentle warmness that would last a couple months and then turn to an unbearable heat that would bake the streets of Jericho.

“There must’ve been some incredible battles,” Ringold said.

“You know it.”

“Never written,” he said, “never known. Just those old bones and bits of sharpened rock.”

Quinn nodded, tearing the band from the cigar, smoking it down to the nub. Ringold had on a black T-shirt, jeans, and desert boots. The completeness and color of his sleeve tattoos coming right to his wrists, hands clear as per Army regulation.

“You know what I have a hard time with?” Ringold said.

“Being around Stagg?”

“After the service,” he said, “I had a hell of a hard time slowing down.”

“You call what you do slowing down?” Quinn said. “Being a Fed isn’t exactly selling women’s shoes.”

“It ain’t jumping into Kandahar,” Ringold said.

“Nope.”

“You fucking Rangers,” Ringold said, “y’all would rather blow shit up and leave it all in pieces on the ground than try a little finesse.”

Quinn tossed down the cigar, stood, and ground it out with the toe of his cowboy boot. “That what you were doing with those bikers out at Choctaw?”

“You complaining?”

“No, sir.”

Ringold smiled. “I wanted to let you know, all that shit with the local DA has gone away,” he said. “All charges have been dropped. AG has been informed of what you got facing you and some real problems within the highway patrol.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“Stagg called it,” Ringold said. “I heard it straight from the hospital bed.”

Quinn nodded. “Appreciate you letting me know,” he said. “Can’t force this election, but we’ll see if I’m still around to do anything about it.”

“You’ll be around,” Ringold said, nodding. “Stagg thinks you’re in his pocket. He’s adding five grand to your reelection campaign.”

“Which I’ll send back,” Quinn said.

“Keep it,” Ringold said, his jaws clenched. Medium height, compact, and muscled. His bald head and black beard made him look like some kind of wild priest. “You want him to think he’s protected.”

Quinn nodded. They both turned and walked back to their vehicles. A light mist had started to fall. A thin white sun burned hot through some ragged clouds.

“We got a lot of work ahead,” Ringold said. “Stagg’s got some big plans for this county.”

Quinn nodded. He shook Ringold’s hand and the men drove off in opposite directions on the Trace.

•   •   •

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