“Anyway, Agent Solomon, your personal items are right here in this carton,” she said. “Do you want me to find room in the closet for them?”

“You can just take ’em back with you,” he said.

“I can’t, really…”

“I got no family, nobody to give it to, never mind nobody to help carry it all home. If I ever get home. Speaking of which. I know I’m imposing on you, but with the suspension you got nothing but time…”

“It’s not officially a suspension, really…”

“My mistake,” he said with a gentle smile. “But like I said, I got nobody else in my life. Would you please, if I give you the address, bring my things back to my home? And maybe check on the place while you’re there? Turn on a few lights inside—feed Dennis. Damn.”

“Who’s Dennis?”

“Fish I adopted. Orphan fish. Very sad…He’s gonna be hungry.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah. Forgot about him. He might be looking for a new home soon, if you know of anyone.”

Solomon scribbled down his address, then closed his eyes to rest. Odessa put the address in her pocket, lifted the carton, and said goodbye…but Earl Solomon was already asleep.

Chapter

1962. The Mississippi Delta.

Rookie agent Earl Solomon tramped through the woods in his leather wing-tip shoes. He stepped carefully; he owned only one pair. The ground was dry on top, but the soil and debris were damp when turned over. His white cotton shirt, under his summer-weight suit jacket, was already soaked through with perspiration.

Sheriff Ingalls wore boots, walking a few paces ahead of Solomon. SAIC Macklin had covered his shoes with galoshes, which he usually kept in the trunk of his car.

Macklin was handing Solomon photos of the lynching. The victim, a white man named Harold Cawsby who went by the nickname “Hack,” hung from a noose fashioned of thick twine, the weight of which looked barely strong enough to support the body of an adult male. The limb was thick and low, Hack Cawsby’s toes—one shoe on, one shoe off—dangling not more than a foot off the ground.

“Chicken wire around his wrists behind his back,” said the sheriff, walking ahead of them. “His pants are down around his hips, but Hack didn’t wear no belt. Most likely he fought the noose once he was hanged, kicking and flailing, but that’s a fight few men win.”

Another photograph showed the man’s hands. The camera film had been black and white; the blood coating his palms and fingers looked like molasses in tone and texture.