“They were Hatchers? You any kin to Beth Hatcher over near Clayton?”

When she said no, he gave up trying to find a personal link.

Arnold Ames and their son Val were back in Dobbs, working on the innards of a motor that turned one of the kiddie rides and hoping to get it back in operation by opening time this evening, which is why it was Mrs. Ames who led him out from the carnival. He had offered to bring her in his car, but she had declined.

“Fish’s loading the truck with the rest of the stuff Braz bought so we can store it out there, and then I have to go over to the funeral home, okay? They released his body yesterday.”

“You’re burying him here?” For some reason, that surprised him. “I was thinking you’d want to take him back to Florida.”

“No, we decided to do it here,” she said, giving him an odd sidelong glance. She started to say something, then changed her mind.

She had parked the truck over by one of the sheds and the employee they called Fish was already undoing the tarp they’d tied over the load. There was a flash of bright colors inside their plastic covering as he let down the tailgate and rolled off the rack of lingerie Dwight had seen when the van was searched on Saturday. Mayleen Richards had interviewed the guy and reported that he’d spent Friday evening in front of the dunk tank, taking money from the customers who lined up to throw baseballs at the target that would trip a spring and dump their Bozo in the water. Dwight remembered the Bozo, who’d had such an insulting mouth on him that Colleton County youths were elbowing each other aside to pay for the privilege of drowning him, but he didn’t remember this Fish.

“Nice enough guy,” Mayleen had said. “Borderline retarded, though. Not bright enough to lie.”

Mrs. Ames got out of the truck clutching a handful of keys. She wore jeans and work shoes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face today and tied at the nape with a red scarf.

Since getting the ME’s report, Dwight found himself conscious of footwear around the carnival. Not that he really thought Mrs. Ames had stomped her son. All the same, he gave her shoes a close look. These were buff colored with equally light gum soles. They were scuffed and dusty as if they hadn’t been cleaned in some time, but no apparent stains. When she walked over to the barn doors, he noticed that the shoes left a crisp ripple pattern on the dirt path.

Fish’s shoes were Nikes that had started out white but were now stained and dingy. The stains were either black, as from grease and oil, or were drips of crayon-bright enamels from helping to paint the rides. They, too, left distinct patterns on the dirt.

“Some woman from Georgia caught up with Braz a couple of weeks ago,” said Mrs. Ames, unlocking the first shelter. “I didn’t see her, but he said she was pretty mad about the locker place selling her mother’s furniture.”