“Me and you is gonna be good friends,” Bishop said. “I’m coming back here each and every night until we get what we is owed. You decide to bring in the law, and I’ll start showing up at your house or over at that country woman’s trailer you’ve been screwing.”

“Who’s that?”

“You telling me you haven’t been knocking boots with that Byrd woman?”

Chester Pratt was quiet. The only sound came from outside, trucks coming and going from the Rebel, and the man’s slow, ragged breathing.

“Don’t be late, Chester Pratt,” Bishop said, knocking Chester in the head with the butt of his pistol. “Last fella tried to fuck me ended up getting cornholed by a cattle prod.”

“Good Lord Almighty,” Pratt said from the floor, touching the heel of his hand to his bloody temple.

“Yeah,” he said. “That fella said the same thing. But I damn sure got his attention.”

*   *   *

Quinn couldn’t find Chester Pratt at home or working late at the liquor store, so he headed back to the farm for a few hours’ sleep. He was back up at five, showered and shaved and cooking breakfast for his adopted son Brandon. The kid was now eight years old, towheaded with bright blue eyes and a near constant smile. Brandon not only didn’t complain about having a new sister, he welcomed it, helping his mother decorate Halley’s room, and always happy to hold her while Maggie had to make dinner or tend to an errand.

The black skillet hissed and popped as Quinn watched a gaggle of turkeys in his back field, picking around the remnants of their corn. The landscape barren and shadowed in late February, the stalks brown and broken. Twin pecan trees loomed big and skeletal behind the old farmhouse that had been in Quinn’s family since 1895.

“How much longer till turkey season?” Brandon asked, standing beside him and looking out into the same field.

“Three weeks.” Quinn flipped the ham. “Since when do you care about turkey hunting?”

“Since I started practicing my call,” Brandon said. “Want to hear it?”

“Better hold off,” Quinn said. “Your momma’s still asleep. She may not appreciate it like I would.”

Quinn continued to watch the back field, the turkeys skirting the woods as he cooked up three fried eggs with ham and served Brandon on a bright blue Fiesta plate.

After they both ate, Quinn would drive Brandon to school before heading into the sheriff’s office. He’d already called in to Cleotha at dispatch to make sure he wasn’t needed earlier. Cleotha, being Cleotha, just said, “Ain’t shit going on, Sheriff. Besides a couple peckerwoods in a tussle outside the Dixie gas station last night. Both of them scattered when patrol rolled up on their ass.”