As a pot of coffee made its way into mugs, and into their bellies, accompanied by a few fried eggs and pieces of coarse bread torn from a round loaf, Janson learned a few things about his would-be executioner. She grew up in Red Creek, Kentucky, a hamlet nestled in the Cumberland Mountains, where her father owned the town’s only gas station and spent more of his money at the local hunting supply store than was good for them. “He always wanted a boy,” she explained, “and half the time he kinda forgot I wasn’t one. Took me hunting with him first time when I wasn’t any more’n five or six. Thought I should be able to play sports, fix cars, and take down a duck with a bullet, not a cartridge full of shot.”

“Little Annie Oakley.”

“Shit,” she said, grinning. “That’s what the boys in high school called me. Guess I had a tendency to scare ’em off.”

“I’m getting the picture. Car would break down, boyfriend would start hoofing it for a roadside phone box, and meanwhile you’d be communing with the carburetor. A few minutes after they set off, the motor roars to life.”

“Something like that,” she said, apparently smiling at a memory his words brought back.

“I hope you don’t take offense if I say you’re not standard-issue Cons Ops.”