“I mean it. I’m here to talk. But this asshole is dangerous. I assume you won’t stand on ceremony if he tries to kill me.”

“He makes the first move, I got no problem punching his ticket.”

“Come on, then.”

I get out and walk toward the trailer, Kelly on my heels. We’re ten feet from the concrete steps when the front door bangs open and Presley yells from inside.

“That’s far enough! What the hell you doing here, Cage?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“Who’s that hippie?”

“A friend.”

“Is he carrying?”

“You bet your ass.”

A long pause. “I got nothing to say to you. Except you’re playing mighty fast and loose with your daddy’s future, all that shit you’re saying in the papers.”

“You haven’t heard my proposition, Ray. You might just save your life by listening. However much you’ve got left, anyway.”

“Yeah? Fuck you. You could save your daddy from going to jail by shutting the hell up and going back to Houston.”

“My father will never go to jail for the Mobile thing, Ray. But you will if you open your mouth.”

A bluejay cries raucously in the silence, the sound like a rusty gate closing.

“You got two minutes,” calls Presley. “But the hippie stays out there.”

I look back at Kelly, who walks casually past me and up to the open door, his hands held out to his sides. I can’t hear what he says, but when he’s done, he walks back to me and gives me the OK sign.

“What did you say to him?”

“I made sure he understood that hurting you would be a bad idea. He understands. Watch the girl in the corner, though. She looks shaky.”

Holding my hands in plain view, I walk up the three steps and into the trailer.

The stink of mildew and rotting food hits me in a wave, as though the trailer hasn’t been opened for days. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I see Ray standing by his wall of police memorabilia. He’s dressed just as he was the other day: pajama pants, tank-top wife-beater T-shirt, and the John Deere cap pressed over his naked skull. He’s also holding a shotgun, which is aimed in my general direction, and wearing a shoulder holster with the butt of a large handgun protruding from it. Deeper in the gloom, on the couch by the IV caddy, sits the pallid blonde I saw on my first visit. Her legs are folded beneath her, and she’s clenching a rifle in her hands. She looks nervous enough to pull the trigger without provocation.

“So talk,” says Presley.

“I’ve got three days to prove Leo Marston conspired to kill Del Payton.”

He snorts. “Maybe you can find out who killed the Kennedys before Wednesday too.”

“I know you killed Del, Ray.”