Slidell and I had not been any more accurate. Cale wasn’t an FBI informant and hadn’t been murdered by members of the Patriot Posse. Nor had he and Cindi been piped into witness protection.

Eugene Fries’s theory was also off base. Cale hadn’t fled to avoid arrest for a terrorist act.

It was Tuesday, one week after Wayne Gamble’s death. Slidell, Williams, Randall, and I were drinking coffee in my study.

Slidell was being Slidell.

“You clean up pretty good, Doc. Last time I saw you, you looked like something climbed out of an unflushed toilet.”

“Thank you, Detective. And thanks for the flowers. They were very thoughtful.”

“I tried hiring baton twirlers, but everyone was booked.”

“That’s OK. It would have been rather crowded in here.”

It was tight anyway. Skinny was at the desk. The specials were in chairs dragged from the dining room. I was on the sofa, with Birdie curled on my quilt-covered lap.

“Bogan’s going to make it?” I asked.

“Not because I wasn’t aiming. The peckerwood hunkered down in the backhoe just as I fired.”

The pops I’d heard weren’t backfires.

“How did you know I’d gone to the Speedway?”

“A tip from a man of the cloth.”

“Reverend Grace?” Of course. I’d mentioned my whereabouts in our phone conversation.

“Hallelujah, sister.” Slidell waggled splayed fingers.

“Why did you go to the dirt track?”

“I learned that Bogan was supposed to fill the sinkhole. I hauled ass out there, saw the headlights, heard you cursing like a sailor on shore leave.”

“Thank God you finally called Winge’s pastor.”

“Big Guy had nothing to do with it. And I didn’t call Grace. He called me around ten, all in a twist because we’d collared one of his flock. I was still sweating Winge.”

“Grace persuaded him to talk?”

“Yeah. Told him that salvation would be his only if he bore witness to the truth. Or some bullshit like that. According to Winge, Bogan killed the girl and his own kid, then told Winge they’d been agents of an anti-patriot conspiracy and ordered him to bury the bodies, or both his membership in the posse and his job were toast.”

“Two years later, Bogan used the same arguments to force Winge to help dump Eli Hand.”

Williams’s comment was news to me.

“It was like a damn pyramid scheme,” Slidell said. “Danner was squeezing Bogan. Bogan was squeezing Winge.”

“J. D. Danner? The leader of the Patriot Posse?” Clearly I’d missed a lot while incapacitated.

“The head wrangler,” Slidell said.

“After events at the Speedway, the bureau decided it was time to bring in some individuals we’d had under surveillance,” Williams explained.

“Round ’em up.” Slidell circled a finger in the air.

“Danner’s lawyer allowed him to cooperate in exchange for immunity from prosecution. The DA agreed to a deal covering criminal acts prior to 2002.”