"What does that mean?" Annie asked.

Marcus attempted a bland smile. "Probably that you remind him of someone. Or more precisely, that you resemble someone you aren't."

Victor rocked himself a little, muttering, "Red and white. Now and then."

"Victor, why don't you go get your binoculars?" Marcus suggested. "The woods are full of birds today."

Victor cast a nervous look over his shoulder at Annie. "Change, interchange, mutate. One and one. Red and white."

He held himself still for a moment, as if waiting for some silent signal, then hurried back into the house.

"I expect he sees a resemblance between you and Pam," Marcus said.

"Did he know her?"

"They met at the office once or twice. Victor periodically expresses a curiosity in my work. And of course he saw her picture in the papers after… He reads three newspapers every day, cover to cover, every word. Impressive until you realize he'll be held in thrall by the sight of a semicolon while the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma City meant nothing whatsoever to him."

"It must be difficult to deal with his… condition," Annie said.

Marcus looked to the open door and the empty dining room beyond. "Our cross to bear, my mother says. Of course, she takes great satisfaction from having to shoulder the load." He turned back toward Annie with another wan smile. "Can't pick your relatives. Do you have family here, Annie?"

"In a manner of speaking," she said evasively. "It's a long story."

"Family stories always are. Look at Pam's daughter. What a family story she'll have, poor little thing. What will, become of her grandfather?"

"You'd have to ask the DA," she said, though she thought she could give an accurate guess as to what would become of Hunter Davidson: nothing much. The outcry against his arrest had been considerable. Pritchett would never risk the wrath of his constituents by pressing for a trial. A deal would likely be cut quickly and quietly-maybe already had been-and Hunter Davidson would be doing community service for his attempted sin.

"He tried to kill me," Renard said with indignation. "The media is treating him like a celebrity."

"Yeah. There's a lot of that going around. You're not a well-liked man, Mr. Renard."

"Marcus," he corrected her. "You're at least civil to me. I'd like to pretend we're friends, Annie."

The emotion in his eyes was soft and vulnerable. Annie tried to imagine what had been in those eyes that black November night when he had plunged a knife into Pam Bichon.

"Considering what happened to your last 'friend,' I don't think that's a very good idea, Mr. Renard."

He turned his head as quickly as if she had slapped him, and blinked away tears, pretending to focus on the fisherman down the bayou.

"I would never have hurt Pam," he said. "I've told you that, Annie. That remark was deliberately hurtful to me. I expected better from you."

He wanted her contrition. He wanted her to give him another inch of control, the way he had when he had asked to use her name. A little thing on the surface, but the psychological sleight of hand was smooth and sinister. Or she was blowing it out of proportion and giving this man more credit than he deserved.

"It's just healthy caution on my part," she said. "I don't know you."

"I couldn't hurt you, Annie." He looked at her once again with his watery hazel eyes. "You saved my life. In certain Eastern cultures I would give you my life in return."

"Yeah, well, this is South Lou'siana. A simple thanks is sufficient."

"Hardly. I know you've been suffering because of what you did. I know what it is to be persecuted, Annie. We have that in common."

"Can we move on?" Annie said. The intensity in his expression unnerved her, as if he had already determined that their lives would now be intertwined into eternity. Was this how a fixation began? As a misunderstanding of commitment? Had it been this way between him and Pam? Between him and his now-dead girlfriend from Baton Rouge?

"No offense," she prefaced, "but you have to admit you have a bad track record. You wanted to be involved with Pam, and now she's dead. You were involved with Elaine Ingram back in Baton Rouge, and she's dead."

"Elaine's death was a terrible accident."

"But you can see how it might give pause. There's a rumor that she was going to break off your relationship."

"That's not true," he insisted. "Elaine could never leave me. She loved me."

Could never, not would never. The choice of words was telling. Not: Elaine would never leave him of her own accord. But: Elaine could never leave him if he wouldn't allow it. Marcus Renard wouldn't have been the first man to use the "if I can't have her, no one will" rationale. It was common thinking among simple obsessionals.

Doll Renard chose that moment to come onto the terrace. She wore a dotted polyester dress twenty years out of date and an enormous kitchen apron. The ties wrapped around her twice. She was thin in the same way Richard Kudrow was thin-as if her body had burned away from within, leaving bone and tough sinew. She offered no smile of welcome. Her mouth was a thin slash in her narrow face.

Annie thought she saw Marcus wince. She rose and extended her hand.

"Annie Broussard, sheriff's office. Sorry to disturb your Sunday, Mrs. Renard."

Doll sniffed, grudgingly offering a limp hand that collapsed in Annie's like a pouch of twigs. "Our Sunday is the least of what you people have disturbed."

Marcus rolled his eyes. "Mother, please. Annie isn't like the others."

"Well, you wouldn't think so," Doll muttered.

"She's going to be looking into some things that could help prove my innocence. She saved my life, for heaven's sake. Twice."

"I was just doing my job," Annie pointed out. "I am just doing my job."

Doll arched a penciled-on brow and clucked her tongue. "You've managed to misread the situation yet again, Marcus."

He looked away from his mother, his color darkening, tension crackled in the air around him. Annie watched the exchange, thinking maybe she was better off not having any blood relatives. Her memories of her mother were soft and quiet. Better memories than a bitter reality.

"Well," Doll Renard went on, "it's about time the sheriff's office did something for us. Our lawyer will be filing suit, you know, for all the pain and anguish we've been caused."

"Mother, perhaps you could try not to alienate the one person willing to help us."

She looked at him as if he'd called her a filthy name. "I have every right to state my feelings. We've been treated worse than common trash through all of this, while that Bichon woman is held up like some kind of saint. And now her father-all the world's calling him a martyred hero for trying to murder you. He belongs in jail. I certainly hope the district attorney keeps him there."

"I really should be going," Annie said, gathering her file and notebook. "I'll see what I can find out on that truck."

"I'll walk you to your car." Marcus scraped his chair back and sent his mother a venomous look.

He waited until they were along the end of the house before he spoke again.

"I wish you could have stayed longer."

"Did you have something more to say pertinent to the case?"

"Well-ah-I don't know," he stammered. "I don't know what questions you might have asked."

"The truth isn't dependent on what questions I ask," Annie said. "The truth is what I'm after here, Mr. Renard. I'm not out to prove your innocence, and I certainly don't want you telling people that I am. In fact, I wish you wouldn't mention me at all. I've got trouble enough as it is."

He made a show of drawing a fingertip across his mouth. "My lips are sealed. It'll be our secret." He seemed to like that idea too well. "Thank you, Annie."