“He sure did. He bragged on you so much it irritated me. But now I see he wasn’t bragging. He was only telling the truth.”

Ferris removed a roll of bills from his breast pocket and paid Pete a hundred dollars more than Paul had agreed upon. Pete counted the money twice to be sure, just the way Paul had taught him.

“I think you overpaid me,” Pete said, handing the man a hundred-dollar bill.

“No,” said Ferris. “That’s for your daddy. Folks around here know he was the greatest gun-dog man in the state.”

“Really?”

“When I was a boy, my daddy took me hunting with the governor. He had these dogs that did whatever he said. They were the best gun dogs I ever seen. I asked the governor where he got them dogs, and he told me they come from your daddy. I never forgot it. Best dogs in the state.”

“He wasn’t my daddy. He sorta adopted me and my sister, but we ain’t blood kin.”

Ferris lit a cigar and said. “Well, blood is just a liquid. He was a good man, your pa.”

“He was that,” said Pete.

“And there aren’t many of those left.”

“No, sir.”

Pete loaded Stringbean into his truck. He watched the dogs run in the countryside behind the sprawling estate, and he whispered goodbye to them. He fired the engine. He waved to Ferris and left with an empty truck bed.

He cried. Not just for Paul, but for life. It was so short. Too short. And it made him feel an urgency inside. He drove past the prisoners again and the new stretches of highway, and when he reached the tunnel, he knew he would ask Ruth a very important question when he returned home.

Seventy-Five
Angels

The deputies tried to hold the red-haired woman back, but she could not be held. She broke through them and walked toward Coot. He was startled to see her. He felt he knew her, almost. It was the way her face was shaped. It was familiar. It was almost as though he’d met her before.

The chatter of the crowd died into a hushed whisper when she approached Joseph’s cold body. She knelt beside the man. She pinned up her bright hair behind her head and looked at Coot. She asked, “How is he?”

Coot said, “He’s not . . . He’s gone.”

The woman said nothing. She only bit her lip and touched Joseph’s face. She let her eyes sit on him, like she was searching for something.

“I just took his pulse,” said Coot. “He’s no longer . . .”

“He’s not dead,” she said. “He’s only sleeping.” A faint smile ran across her fair face. “What’s his name?”

“Joseph,” said Coot. “His name was Joseph.”

Her eyes were closed. Her nostrils widened slightly with each breath.