“Yes, sir?” Stagg said, walking into the office, finding the man from Jackson sitting and waiting. Ringold nodded and closed the door behind him.

“Heard you been in Memphis,” the man said. “So I waited.”

Stagg didn’t answer.

“I don’t know how you do it,” said the man, looking strange out of his stiff blue uniform for the Mississippi Highway Patrol. “Them people are animals up there. How you trust them blacks, Johnny? Good God Almighty.”

“I don’t see how my business is any concern of yours,” Stagg said, not caring one goddamn bit for the man just showing up unannounced and taking a seat in Johnny’s office. Stagg would have the ass of whoever opened his door up for the man and led him back. The man should’ve sat out in the titty bar like any professional, enjoying the jiggle, while Johnny finished up his pecan pie à la mode.

The Trooper smiled, black eyes flicking over Johnny’s face, waiting, just knowing that Johnny was curious as hell why he’d come.

“He’s getting out in a few weeks,” he said. “That’s official from the parole board.”

Stagg leaned forward over his desk. “You sure?”

“It’s a goddamn done deal,” the Trooper said. “Figured you’d want to know straight off. But if you don’t give a shit, hell, I won’t bother you again.”

The Trooper stood.

Stagg made a motion with his hand for him to sit his ass back down. Stagg looked up to Ringold, who raised his eyebrows and leaned against the wall. Ringold smiling a bit because he knew the possibility of this piece of shit getting out of prison had been one of the reasons he’d been hired.

When Ringold removed his jacket, you could see the man’s brightly colored tattoos running the length of both arms. Stagg believed the daggers and skulls represented kills he’d made in and out of the service.

“But Johnny,” the Trooper said. “Just ’cause the man’s getting out doesn’t mean he’s coming straight to Tibbehah County. That bastard is sixty-fucking-six years old. He probably just wants to go and live a quiet life somewhere. I think you’re putting too much thought into the past, buddy.”

Stagg swiveled his chair around, looking at Ringold and then back to the Trooper. He could feel himself perspiring up under the red Ole Miss sweater and his face heating up a good bit. He reached into his pant pocket and found the key to his desk, unlocked it, and pulled out two neat stacks of envelopes, all of them postmarked from the Brushy Mountain federal penitentiary in Tennessee. “For twenty years, that son of a bitch has been writing me letters, saying what he planned to do when he came back,” Stagg said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” the Trooper said. “Shit, the parole board would’ve found that pretty damn interesting.”

“Been a good idea if the bullshit he wrote wouldn’t incriminate me, too,” Stagg said. “This man is one of the most cunning, evil, hardheaded sonsabitches I’ve ever met. He’s gonna join up with those shitbirds down on the Coast, they’re gonna put his old weathered ass back on the throne. Then they’re coming straight back for me. He’s going to do it. You know why? Because he goddamn promised he would, gave me his word, and now it’s his time.”

“That man sets foot in this place and we can arrest his ass,” the Trooper said. “You got so many friends in Jackson, Stagg. People who owe you favors are waiting in line. This guy makes any trouble, coming after you, and his ass is in jail or shot dead.”

“Y’all don’t get it,” Stagg said, rubbing his temples, standing up, and spitting the mawed toothpick in the trash can. “He doesn’t want to do me harm. He just wants to get back in the saddle and slide into the world he left.”

“And what’s that?” the Trooper said, grinning. Ringold shuffled a bit on the far wall, those spooky blue eyes blank and almost sleepy, but he heard every goddamn word. His jacket bulging with a Smith & Wesson automatic.

Stagg looked at him, the pulsing dance music in the bar shaking the thick concrete walls. “You’re sitting right in it,” Stagg said. “Chains LeDoux says he’s coming to take over what’s rightfully his.”

Quinn took the highway north headed toward Fate, the fastest way from town up into the hills and his farm, his family, and his cattle dog, Hondo. The setting sun gave all the busted-up trees on the way that in-between red-and-black glow, almost making the destruction pretty. Ophelia and Caddy were still outside, talking on top of a big wooden picnic table, while Jason ran around the bare apple trees with Hondo. Caddy smoked a cigarette but quickly extinguished it as Quinn got out of his truck.

The old farmhouse was a two-story white box with a tin roof and wide porch facing the curve of a gravel drive. The big colored Christmas lights still up from the holidays shined bright and welcoming as Jason and Hondo raced toward him. He picked up Jason, which got harder to do every day as the boy grew, and walked up to where the women sat. Hondo’s tongue lolled from the side of his mouth as Quinn patted his head.

“Trouble,” Quinn said. “Real trouble, with y’all discussing matters.”

“Why’s it men always think women are talking about them?” Caddy said. “You know, there are a lot more interesting subjects.”

“Like what?” Quinn said.

“Embalming,” Ophelia said. “Miranda Lambert’s new album, and maybe taking a trip Saturday to Tupelo. Jason wanted to go see his Great-uncle Van.”

“Embalming?” Quinn said.

“Been a busy week,” Ophelia said. “Should I expect more business tomorrow?”

“Nope,” Quinn said, smiling. “Slow day in the county. Although I saw Darnel Bryant at the gas station and he was looking pretty rough. Not long now.”

Ophelia had brown eyes and brown hair parted down the middle, cut in kind of a stylish shaggy way when not worn up in a bun. When she worked, she didn’t wear makeup, jewelry, or let her hair down. Working with the dead meant hospital scrubs and rubber gloves and masks, and Quinn was always glad to see her out of uniform in blue jeans and lace-up boots, an emerald green V-neck sweater scooped enough to show the gold cross around her neck. She wore her heavy blue coat unbuttoned.

She smiled back at Quinn. Very white straight teeth, nice red lips, and an impressive body under all those winter clothes.

“Grandma’s fixing meat loaf,” Jason said. “You like meat loaf, Uncle Quinn?”

Quinn looked to his sister, and she nodded, shooting him a look. Quinn nodded, too, and told Jason he liked it just fine.

“Momma says it tastes like shit,” Jason said.

Caddy swatted his little leg, lightly but firm. “Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?”

Jason shrugged, unfazed. Quinn kept quiet, knowing exactly where he heard it.

The back field had been turned over, waiting for the spring, lying dormant until after Good Friday and planting time. Jean and Caddy both had a pretty ambitious list for the farm this year. Lots of corn, tomatoes, peppers, and peas. They already had cattle, but his mother wondered if they might get a milk cow, too. Quinn wanted to know who was going to milk it every morning when his mother moved back to town once her house repairs were done.

“Who was at the Star?” Ophelia asked.

Quinn shook his head. “Boom,” he said. “Ran into Diane Tull.”

Caddy looked up, Jason crawling up into her lap, watching Hondo chase after a brave squirrel who’d come down from a pecan tree. “When can I shoot?” Jason said. “I could shoot that squirrel. Pow. I could knock him outta that tree.”