Just before Stone’s eyes glass over, I glimpse an anger even more personal than that which I have seen to this point.

“I remember him,” he says in a flat voice.

“Do you think the police made an honest attempt to investigate the case?”

“That’s two questions.” Stone turns to Annie, who’s now touching a clay pot that looks like Pueblo work. “How’d you like that hot chocolate, little darling?”

“Mmmm. It was great!”

He walks to the door, leaving us little choice but to follow. I take Annie’s hand and lead her after him.

“Sorry you folks had to come all this way for nothing,” he says, opening the door to the dark vista of Gothic Mountain rising above the mesa. “Rain coming. That’s October for you.”

We’re on the porch now. The sibilant sound of the Slate beckons from the edges of the cabin.

“I don’t think it was for nothing,” Caitlin says, turning to Stone with a look of absolute frankness. “I think something evil happened in Natchez in 1968. I think you know what it was. I realize we sort of ambushed you here, and I apologize for that. But we want justice for Del Payton. I think you do too.” She takes a card from her pocket and passes it to Stone. “You’re going to do a lot of thinking after we leave. You can reach us at this number.”

His jaw tightens as he examines the card. “You’re a goddamn reporter?”

“A publisher. An honest one.”

He looks at me, his eyes brimming with outrage.

“She won’t print a word you said,” I assure him. “She won’t even print your name. She prints nothing at all until this whole mess is resolved.”

Stone shifts his gaze to Caitlin.

“I want the truth,” she says. “The truth, and justice. Nothing else. Thank you for your time, Agent Stone.”

As we walk to the Cherokee, he stands in his doorway looking—for the first time since we’ve seen him—a little unsure of himself. It strikes me that he liked Caitlin using his old rank. Despite all his deep-rooted anger, Stone is still proud to have been an FBI agent.

Unlocking the door, I hear the scuff of boots behind me. Stone has come down off the porch. He puts his right arm on my shoulder in a fatherly way and looks into my eyes.

“You’ve got too much to lose to dig into this mess, son. The world has already changed too much for it to make any difference.”

“I don’t agree.”

A strange recognition lights his eyes, and I am suddenly sure that in me he sees a shadow of the man he was years ago. “I’d like to give you one more quote,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”

“Whatever.”

“The hour of justice does not strike on the dials of this world.”