“Will Devine it is.” Serenity slapped the roof of the S4. “Let’s move.”

Will Devine lives on the western edge of Vidalia, not more than a couple of blocks from the houses of Snake Knox and Sonny Thornfield. During the drive over from Clayton, I give Serenity a briefing on my history with the Devine family and what I hope to learn from him or his sons.

“So Devine probably took part in the murder of Sonny Thornfield,” she says. “Inside the Concordia Parish jail?”

“If he didn’t take part, he saw it happen.”

“And Snake Knox was in there at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Well, damn. Let’s get this redneck talking.”

“I don’t think you appreciate the reality of this situation. The two times I’ve been there, Devine met me at the door with a double-barreled shotgun.”

She laughs. “Maybe you need lessons in sweet-talking, Mr. Mayor. Your history as a prosecutor obviously didn’t give you the proper skills for this kind of work.”

“Okay. We’ll see how you do. Devine weighs about two seventy, and he’s ugly as an albino sea lion.”

“Then attention from a sister like me ought to be even more welcome.”

I park in Will Devine’s driveway, just behind the pickup that was parked near Viola’s sister’s house on the night Viola was murdered. As we walk to the front door of the small 1950s ranch house, Serenity points a finger and cocked thumb at the truck and says, “There’s the Darlington Academy sticker.”

Just before we reach the screen door, the wooden door behind it flies open and Devine barks, “Ya’ll get away from here! I done told you twice now. I’ll shoot. I will!”

The voice seems too high-pitched to come from such a big man. Devine sounds panicked, and I can see that Serenity instantly picked up on this.

“Mr. Devine,” she says in an official voice, “I’m Corporal S. T. Butler. I’m here concerning your affiliation with the terrorist organization known as the Double Eagle group.”

Through the fine wire screen, I see Devine blinking in confusion. “What are you, some kind of cop?”

“If you refuse to cooperate, Mr. Devine, you will wish that I was a cop. This is a terrorism investigation. Is that clear?”

“No. What the hell you want with me? I ain’t done nuthin’.”

“If that’s true, then you’ll have no problem putting down that firearm and stepping out here for a word.”

As on my previous visits, I hear a female voice murmuring behind Devine’s bovine silhouette. Squinting, I can just make out the shoulder and hair of a dark-haired woman behind him. His wife, surely, Nita Devine.

“If this is a terrorism investigation,” he says, repeating his wife’s words, “what the hell is the mayor of Natchez doing with you?”

“That’s privileged information, Mr. Devine. Now, please step outside. Without the firearm.”