She gives me a sidelong glance. She means Livy.

“Oh. I have no idea. With her father, I guess.”

Caitlin obviously wants to say more, but she’s unwilling to do so in front of Kelly. “I’ve got to get going, guys.”

“Wait. Go with her, Kelly.”

Kelly looks at Caitlin, then back at me. “I think you’re the one who needs protection, boss.”

“I’ll have a photographer with me,” she protests. “I’ll be fine.”

“Kelly’s worth ten photographers. I’ll be here for at least two hours, then I’m going straight back to the motel. He can tell you how he saved my life on the way.”

Caitlin is wavering.

Kelly bends over, lifts a cuff of his jeans, and pulls out a small automatic, which he passes to me. “Safety’s on.”

I slip the gun into my pocket and look at Caitlin. “Satisfied?”

“Okay, I’ll take him. But you go straight to the motel from here. No side trips.”

“I need a computer. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“We’ve got plenty of both.”

Kelly and Caitlin still haven’t returned when I leave for the motel. While typing my discovery requests, I overheard enough newsroom conversation to follow the situation unfolding at the Concord Apartments. The two teenagers who allegedly shot Billy Earl Whitestone had holed up in the apartment of their grandmother. Somehow, Caitlin managed to get them on the telephone, and during that conversation one of the boys admitted to the shooting. He claimed he’d shot Whitestone because Ruby Flowers’s death had so upset his grandmother that he had to do something. He chose Whitestone as his victim because he’d often heard an uncle talk about how Whitestone had run the Klan during the “bad times.” An hour after this confession, the grandmother talked the boys into giving themselves up, on the condition that Caitlin be allowed to accompany them to the police station to ensure their safety. I assume Caitlin is still at the station now, running the police crazy and keeping Kelly jumping.

Kelly’s pistol is on my lap as I drive toward the motel. There’s no traffic on the streets, or even the highway. Fear has worked its way into the fabric of the town.

A police car screams out of the empty darkness, siren blaring, going in the opposite direction. Halfway to the motel, a jacked-up pickup filled with white teenagers roars alongside me, pauses as its occupants peer in at me, then roars off again. Night riders looking for a fight? Or kids trying to figure out what all the excitement’s about? I won’t know until I read tomorrow’s paper.