The fat man’s jaw juts out in defiance. “I ain’t no rat.”

“Snake Knox wouldn’t give up one day of freedom to protect you, Will,” I tell him. “And he murdered your buddy Silas Groom to get himself off the FBI’s wanted list. A Double Eagle, just like you. Or maybe you killed Groom, for Snake.”

“That’s a lie! That’s a damn lie!”

“Well, somebody killed Groom. And whoever it was, they’re going to ride the needle in Angola.”

Through the screen door, the woman says, “That’s enough, now. Come inside, Will.”

“I’m not finished with him,” Tee says.

“Yes, you are.” The woman steps forward and opens the screen door, and in her sullen, wrinkled face I see twice the intelligence present in her husband’s eyes.

Serenity removes the shells from the shotgun, then hands the weapon back to Devine, who makes no move to go inside.

“I’d reload as soon as we leave, Mr. Devine. Once it gets out that I was here, Snake may put out the word to drop the hammer on you. A couple of those skinhead motorcycle freaks might pull up here around two a.m. to pour acid down your throat.”

She turns and walks back toward the car. As I follow, Nita Devine says, “Wait up, Mayor. I want to ask you something.”

I turn and wait for her. Nita steps outside and lets the screen door clap shut. Tee starts to join me, but Mrs. Devine jabs her finger and says, “Not you, missy. Just him.”

Tee stands her ground long enough to save face, but after a couple of seconds, she heads back to the car.

Nita Devine looks like she hasn’t slept for days. Her hair is unkempt, and the circles under her eyes are so blue they look black.

“How can I help you, Mrs. Devine?”

In a low voice, she says, “If somebody was to talk to the FBI—one of the original boys, I mean, from the group . . .”

“The Double Eagle group?”

She nods. “What kind of deal could they get?”

While I try to decide how best to respond, she says, “What I mean is, can the government really protect Will? And his family?”

“Of course. They do it all the time. Just like in the movies. Witness protection program.”

“They didn’t protect Sonny Thornfield too good.”

She’s right about that. “That was Sonny’s fault, ma’am. Sonny made demands that the Bureau couldn’t possibly meet fast enough to save him.”

I glance at her husband, who’s staring at the concrete under his feet. “Will, you were in the jail when Sonny was killed. Can you tell the FBI who did that? Because that would buy you one hell of a deal.”

Devine’s mouth begins working as though around a plug of tobacco. “Who says Sonny was murdered?”