A half dozen younger black men remain behind, beside a loose stack of shovels, and I remain with them. After Ruby's children drop flowers into the grave, they start toward their cars with their own children. I shake hands with them as they pass, and express my condolences. I sense different reactions in each, but all are courteous.

When Ruby's casket reaches the bottom of the grave, I pick up one of the shovels and spade it into the soft pile of earth. Dad starts to join me, but I touch his chest, reminding him of his heart trouble, and he rejoins my mother and Annie at the edge of the little cemetery.

I feel like it should be raining, but the sun is hot on the back of my suit jacket. As we shovel the diminishing pile of dirt over the gleaming casket, I think of the white funerals I have attended, how everyone walks away at the end of the graveside service, leaving the coffin to be covered by a backhoe or by couple of unknown gravediggers. This way is better. We should be covered into the earth by people who loved us.

After the grave is full and tamped down, and the camera crews have shot all the footage they want, only a few people remain on the hill. My parents stand with Annie and Reverend Nightingale beside the BMW, which someone has brought from wherever it was parked. Kelly and his associates drift around the edge of the hill, looking for possible threats. Caitlin and the photographer sit on the church steps, fiddling with a camera as Ike Ransom watches.

After Reverend Nightingale toddles off toward his baby blue Cadillac, Ike beckons me to the side of the church, out of earshot of Caitlin and the photographer. I walk over and speak to my parents, then join Ike.

"What you got?" he growls, stepping around me so that I can see no one but him. The blood vessels in his eyes form a red network around the dark irises, and the smell of cheap whisky blows past me with every word. "You got enough to nail Marston on Wednesday?"

"I'm working on it."

"Working? The trial's three days from now!"

"You think I don't know that?"

"So, tell me what you got."

I quickly summarize my case, from Frank Jones to Betty Lou Beckham and everyone in between.

"Will that bitch testify in open court?" Ike asks, loudly enough to be heard across the hill. "Betty Lou?"

"I don't know. She's scared of Presley, and her husband doesn't want her to testify. I've got my father working on her."

"What about tying Presley to Marston?"

"I've got something working," I say grudgingly, thinking of Peter Lutjens, who at this moment may be risking prison to get a copy of Stone's original FBI report.

Ike grabs my wrist, his grip like a claw. "What you talking about?"

I jerk my hand free. "I'll let you know if it works out."

His glare is disquieting. "Is Stone helping you?"

"No."

"You ask him to testify?"

"He won't. Look, I need to go. My family's waiting."

"You ain't telling me shit, man!"

"You need to get some sleep, Ike."

"Sleep? Let me tell you something. I been thinking. I been thinking I messed up coming to you. You may put Presley in jail, but that ain't nothing. He's dying anyway. Marston's laughing at you, man. Old Shad may be right about you leaving this alone, even though the nigger be a little bright for my taste."

"I'm going now, Ike."

He grabs my arm. "You keep me posted, right?"

I nod slowly. "Let go of my wrist."

He looks down at the junction of our limbs as though unaware he has hold of me. As the hand relaxes, a question comes to me. "Are you a member of this church, Ike?"

"Me? Baptist? I'm Catholic, man. Holy Family."

"You've known more than you've told me from the start. Whatever you have, now's the time to tell me."

His head moves forward, then back, like a man falling asleep at the wheel of a car. "You think I'm playing the quiet game too?" A faint smile, as though at a private joke. "I told you, man, everybody keeps something back. It's the only way to stay safe."

"I'm gone, Ike. Be careful, okay?"

When I come around the corner of the church, everyone is waiting in the cars but Caitlin and Kelly. Caitlin says something to him, then breaks away and meets me halfway.

"What was all that about?" she asks. "It sounded like he was yelling at you."

"He's drunk. He's losing his nerve as the trial gets closer."

"What about you?"

"Solid as a rock."

She smiles. "I couldn't believe Shad put you on the spot like that."

"Are you going to report what he said?"

"He said it, he's responsible for it."

"Good."

"Have you heard anything from Peter Lutjens?"

"Not yet."

"You think he really has the nerve to try for that file?"

"If he doesn't, he's going to spend a lot of winters shoveling snow in North Dakota."

"God, I hope he gets it. If he doesn't-"

"There's still Stone."

"Don't hold your breath. You want to come back to the paper and wade through some files? I'll help."

"Not yet. I'm going to take a drive. My parents and Annie are riding back with the Argus guys."

Caitlin takes my hand. "Want some company?"

"Not this time." I squeeze her hand. "But thanks for offering."

She looks off toward Kingston Road. "You're taking Kelly on this ride, right?"

"No."

She looks back at me, her eyes worried, then suspicious. She drops my hand. "Tell Livy I said hello."

"Livy? I have no intention of seeing Livy. Kelly can come if he wants, but in his own car. I just want to be alone for a while."

Her eyes soften. "I'm sorry. I understand. I'll tell him." She rises on tiptoe and kisses me on the cheek. "Keep your eyes open."

"I will."

CHAPTER 32

Sometimes we think we are moving randomly. But random behavior is rare in humans. We are always spiraling around something, whether we see it or not, a secret center of gravity with the invisible power of a black hole. As a teenager, most of my "aimless" rides led me past Tuscany. Usually I would drive past the entrance, hoping to catch sight of Livy entering or leaving in her car. But a few times, at night, I would idle up the long driveway (it wasn't gated then) and look up at her lighted window, staring at it like a caveman at a fire, then turn around and continue my endless orbit, a ritual that left me perpetually unsatisfied but which I was powerless to stop.

After Ruby's funeral, I circumnavigate the county on its back roads, hurtling along gravel lanes with Kelly in my wake, driving his rented Taurus. Like a planet and its moon, we circle the town and the mystery that lies at the heart of it. Often the act of driving acts as a catalyst that allows the information banging around in my subconscious to order itself in a new way.

Today is different.

Today the emotional fallout from the funeral will not dissipate. Reverend Nightingale's portrayal of my "unselfish" motives shamed me in a way I've never felt before. As he stood there praising me, I felt like a soldier who ran from battle being mistakenly awarded a Silver Star. At the other extreme was my anger at Shad Johnson, who hijacked Ruby's funeral for his own political ends. And yet, if I were black, his suggestion that I retract my charges against Marston would make sense. My public statements may already have frightened liberal whites who might have voted for Shad into casting their ballots for Wiley Warren and the status quo.

After an hour of driving, the secret heart of my troubled orbit finally reveals itself. For the past week I've been acting like a writer. I was a prosecutor for twice as long as I've been a novelist, and I should have been thinking like one. At least my hands know where to take me, if my brain doesn't. I'm on the Church Hill road, less than a mile from Ray Presley's trailer. When I pull off beside the dilapidated structure, Kelly parks behind me, gets out, and jogs up to my window.