“Look, Lieutenant, Kris Ann needs protection. I’m not asking for me or Cade or Cantwell, but for her who’s got no part in any of this.”

Dislike for me warred on his face with whatever kept him a cop. Finally he scribbled some numbers on a pad of paper. His voice was flat. “The top one’s the police emergency number. The other two are where she can get me or Bast if we’re not here. Days I’ll have a patrolman look in and if she calls someone will be there. You’ll be home nights, I hope.”

“I should.”

He looked down at Kris Ann’s photo. “Tell me, Shaw, how do you know Cantwell didn’t do this?”

“That’s ridiculous. Henry’s known my wife since she was small.”

He paused. “Thing is, we’ve never let out what had been done to the eyes. You tell anyone?”

“Just Kris Ann.”

“Then the only other person who knows for sure is the one who killed Mrs. Cantwell. I’d think about that. You in particular should think about that.”

“I already have.”

“Think harder,” he said harshly. “Because I’m going to get him even if it’s Henry Cantwell. You don’t want to be in the way.”

We stared at each other. At length, I said, “Thanks for your help.”

He shrugged. “They told me your father was a good cop. Except maybe the last.” He looked down at the scraps of paper and began working again.

I shut the office door behind me and slumped in my chair, thinking. Then I picked up the telephone and dialed the main number at Auburn University. Five minutes and four transfers later a deep voice answered, “Ransom.”

“This is Adam Shaw, Professor, a lawyer, in Birmingham. I’ve just read your book on Grangeville.”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to ask about your research. It’s for a case I’m working.”

There was a pause. “Grangeville was forty years ago, sir. I don’t see what it could relate to.”

“I’m not sure, exactly, but it’s about Judge Hargrave’s daughter, Mrs. Cantwell. She’s been murdered.”

“Yes, I saw that.” Ransom’s voice—rheumy, ancient, and bourbonous—lent the odd sensation of speaking to history. “Whom do you represent?” he asked.

“The husband. Henry Cantwell.”

“The papers made it sound like he killed her.”

“Forty years ago, Professor, some of the papers made it sound like two black men raped a vestal virgin.”

“True enough. What do you want?”

“The blacksmith, Moses McCarroll, had a small boy. Do you know where he is?”