“Well, the way I told you’s the way it is. You’re gonna have to live with it.”

The deputy laughed bitterly. “So now I’m baby-sitting a redneck ’shiner.”

Bell looked past Mason, motioned to another deputy. “Hey, Frank…”

The tall, round officer ambled over to the two men.

“Frank, you go with Mason here. Over to Rich Culbeau’s.”

“Gonna serve a warrant? What’s he done now?”

“Naw, no papers. Mason’ll fill you in. If Culbeau’s not at his place just wait for him. And make sure him and his buddies don’t go anywhere near the search party. You got that, Mason?”

The deputy didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away from his boss, who called, “This’s better for everybody.”

Don’t think so, Mason thought.

“Mason…”

But the man said nothing and strode into the deputies’ room. Frank followed a moment later. Mason didn’t acknowledge the cluster of uniformed men, talking about the Insect Boy and about pretty Mary Beth and about Billy Stail’s incredible 92-yard runback. He walked to his office and dug a key out of his pocket. He unlocked his desk and took out an extra Speedloader, clipped in six .357 shells. He slipped the Speedloader into its leather case and hooked it to his belt. He stepped to the doorway of his office. His voice cut through the conversation in the room as he gestured toward Nathan Groomer—a strawberry-blond deputy of about thirty-five. “Groomer, I’m going to have a talk with Culbeau. You’re coming with me.”

“Well,” Frank began slowly, holding the hat he’d fetched from his cubicle. “I thought Jim wanted me to go.”

“I want Nathan,” Mason said.

“Rich Culbeau?” Nathan asked. “Him and me’re oil and water. I brought him in three times for DUI and hurt him some the last time. I’d take Frank.”

“Yeah,” agreed Frank. “Culbeau’s cousin works with my wife’s dad. He thinks I’m kin. He’ll listen to me.”

Mason looked coldly at Nathan. “I want you.”

Frank tried again. “But Jim said—”

“And I want you now.”

“Come on, Mason,” Nathan said in a brittle voice. “There’s no call to break your manners with me.”

Mason was looking at an elaborate decoy—a mallard duck—on Nathan’s desk, his most recent carving. That man has some talent, he thought. Then said to the deputy, “You ready?”

Nathan sighed, stood up.

Frank asked, “But whatta I tell Jim?”

Without responding, Mason walked out of the office, Nathan in tow, and headed toward Mason’s squad car. They climbed in. Mason felt the heat bristle around him and he got the engine going and the AC blasting full up.

After they’d belted up, as the slogan on the side of the cruiser instructed all responsible citizens to do, Mason said, “Now, listen up. I—”