Pratt, knowing he was beat, nodded and reached for the door handle, crawling into the black leather before realizing that the man called Bishop was seated directly behind him. Pratt shook his head at the sheer stupidity of his situation as the windshield wipers tick-tocked across the glass. He sure was fucked now.

“You know Mr. Bishop,” Stagg said.

Pratt didn’t answer, not liking at all the proximity to the man who’d busted up thousands of dollars of Pappy Van Winkle’s finest. The hot blowing air smelled like cigarettes and sweat and a little of the cherry air freshener that hung from Stagg’s rearview mirror. Stagg let his foot off the brake and they rolled out of the lot and onto Jericho Road, heading away from Highway 45 and moving toward town.

“Where we going?” Pratt said.

“Oh, just a little drive in the country,” Stagg said. “Sometimes I take this ole ElDo for a crawl in the afternoon. I appreciate the opportunity to see the miracle of this lovely county we live in. After five years behind prison walls, you start aching for that kind of scenery.”

Pratt didn’t answer. Stagg’s radio was tuned low, and he just made out the sounds of Brenda Lee, “Break It to Me Gently.” Pratt kept his hands in his lap as Stagg drove, feeling that man Bishop’s breath on his neck. It smelled like the liver and onion platter over at the Rebel.

“I hope you aren’t angry about Mr. Bishop’s little visit,” Stagg said, effortlessly driving the big old car. He steered with one hand, half his face shadowed, tapping his fingers in time with the tinkling piano. “He ain’t a drinking man and mighta gone a little too far.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.”

“I understand,” Stagg said as he approached the old rusted water tower looming over Jericho and the town square. “Sure am sorry about what I’m hearing about that Byrd woman. I understand y’all were kind of friendly?”

“She was my girlfriend.”

“Don’t that beat all.”

“She was murdered.”

“Whoo-wee,” Stagg said. “Now that’s a real sucker punch. I sure am sorry to hear that. I know Mr. Bishop was real broke up about it, too. Weren’t you, Mr. Bishop?”

Bishop grunted as Pratt wiped at the back of his neck, that hot breath on him like a gosh-dang dog. The windows fogged up so bad that he didn’t know how Stagg could see, maybe just driving from memory around the old veterans’ monument and then heading north off that spoke, up toward the Blackjack community and beyond.

“You got any idea on what might’ve happened?” Stagg asked.

“No, sir,” Pratt said. “Some folks believe her own daughter may have done it.”

“Her own daughter?” Stagg said. “Hellfire. I ain’t never even heard of such a thing.”