“A certain lady was coming to see me at nine.”

“She show up?”

“No. Look, I told all this to the cops back then. Nearly got my ass killed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I nearly got my ass killed.”

Galimore drilled Fries with a look.

“Right after I talk to the cops, I get a call. Guy says my life turns to shit if I don’t change my story.”

“Who was it?”

“If I’d known that, the prick would be fertilizing a patch of forest.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him to fuck off. A couple days later, my dog turned up dead on my porch.”

“Maybe it just died.”

“She sure as hell did. From a slug in her brain. Two days after that, my house burned down.”

“You think the caller actually followed through on his threats?” I was shocked.

“No.” Fries turned to me, contempt drawing his thin, flaky lips into a downward U. “It was Al Qaeda recruiting me to the cause.”

“Then what did you do?” Galimore asked.

“What the hell would you do? I quit my job and headed west. Few years back, my brother offered me this trailer. I figured enough time had passed, so I come home.”

“You’ve had years to think about it,” Galimore said. “You must have your suspicions.”

Fries didn’t answer for a very long time. When he did, his scraggly white brows were drawn low over his lids. “All’s I’ll say’s this. Word on the street was Lovette and his pals were trouble.”

“You’re talking about the Patriot Posse?”

Fries nodded. “Why would they threaten you?” I asked.

“What?” The brows shot up. “I look like a cop? How the hell would I know?”

I asked the same question I’d asked of the others.

“Mr. Fries, what do you think happened to Cindi Gamble and Cale Lovette?”

“I think Lovette and his asshole buddies either killed someone or blew something up. Then he and his girlie split.”

“Where the hell were you?” Buckling my seat belt, adrenaline still pumping through me.

“Checking a path behind the trailer. I didn’t want Fries coming up on us from the woods.”

“Good job.”

I spent the first few miles concentrating on the road. And my nerves.

Galimore seemed to understand. Or was focused on thoughts of his own.

We were on I-485 when I finally felt calm enough for conversation. Exhilarated, almost. Being rescued from a shotgun-toting maniac and his hounds will do that, I guess.

Nevertheless, I kept it professional.

We debated the significance of Fries’s story. Galimore thought the old geezer was probably exaggerating about the threats and harassment. I didn’t think so. His house either burned or it didn’t. Easy enough to check. Why lie?