“Oh, yes, sir,” Reggie said. “I been married five years longer than you. And I don’t lie to my woman about nothing. You know, she can tell anytime I’m not telling the truth. Like she can smell a lie on me. It’s best just to play it straight and do what she asks. If you don’t, you’re just gonna catch hell for it later. Might not be right away, but a woman sure won’t forget.”

Quinn nodded, watching big Chucky Crenshaw unload his CAT backhoe off his trailer. Chucky was a solid citizen, always quick to assist the sheriff’s office at a moment’s notice. Earlier that year, Chucky, who weighed in at a little more than four hundred pounds, had helped Quinn subdue a suspect high on bath salts by sitting on him until they could cuff him. Chucky unhooked the chains from the backhoe tracks and hefted himself up into the seat, his XXXL MISSISSIPPI STATE shirt hanging down below his knees, the ball cap on his head about two sizes too small.

“Damn,” Reggie said. “Where you think that man finds his clothes?”

Quinn leaned against the tailgate of his truck, the creek bed on the old Pennington property spread out in a Y, a big oak standing lone and proud in the middle of what used to be a cattle pasture. Before he’d called in Chucky, he’d found the creek, the oak, and the flat rock, just like the letter had described. Whoever had been pulling Maggie’s leg had at least known a little about Tibbehah County and the Pennington family, although the letter had been postmarked Southaven.

Chucky backed the backhoe off the trailer and moved slow under the tree and toward the creek. It was a gray, overcast day, the creek running free after the rains from the week before, cottonwood trees, crooked and slanted, shadowing the slow-rolling water. Quinn walked over to the flat rock and pointed to Chucky, stepping back to let the man work. There had to be plenty of snakes around here. Quinn had spotted a copperhead sunning itself on a rock amid the ripples.

“How far down you think?” Reggie asked.

“I was told ten feet.”

“Who said that?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “Man, would you watch ole Chucky work. He could peel a damn grape with a backhoe.”

“A true artist,” Reggie said. “He the man to call if you got work and don’t want your yard all tore up. He picked up that stone and set it aside like he was using his own hand. He still working down at Cobb’s after ole Larry was put in jail?”