Against his better judgment, Quinn shook the man’s hand, noting again how unusually small it was. Vardaman’s eyes burned bright with energy, roving over Quinn’s face, trying to get a read on why he was there, whether he was going to make trouble or just eat some barbecue chicken. His face a doughy mask of deeply tanned skin with hooded eyes, the silver hair swept up off his large forehead.

“Glad to see you, Sheriff,” Vardaman said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate Mr. Skinner’s hospitality.”

“Oh, just burning some old brush and cookin’ chicken,” Skinner said, his jowly face closely shaved, looking red and chapped in the firelight. “It’s all about tradition. Can’t disappoint half the gosh-darn state.”

Quinn turned to Vardaman and introduced Lillie. Lillie gave a cursory nod as Vardaman asked if she was his wife. Lillie started to laugh.

“Damn,” Lillie said. “You’re much funnier in person, Senator.”

Vardaman smiled.

Lillie said, “Taller, too.”

Quinn watched three of the Watchmen gather by the bonfire, exchanging looks with Old Man Skinner. They were definitely all familiar with one another. Skinner looked uneasy, stepping back, nearly tripping over a stray piece of firewood onto his ass. Quinn had to reach out and grab the old man’s forearm to keep him upright, his Stetson nearly falling off his old bald head. Skinner found his footing, his face flushed with embarrassment.

“Can I ask you something, Sheriff?” Vardaman said.

Quinn nodded.

“You mind if we talk confidentially?”

“You mean away from my wife?” Quinn said.

Lillie scowled at Quinn, squinting, but seeing the humor, too.

“You don’t mind, honey?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Lillie said. “I’ll just go talk to the ladies about how they dish out that juicy peach pie.”

Skinner had composed himself, his Stetson still crooked on his head, stepping up to their little circle. “Lillie Virgil,” Skinner said, watching her backside as it disappeared out of the firelight. “Used to work around here. Now she’s a dad-gum Marshal. Ain’t that something? The world’s gone PC on us.”

“Best shot in the state,” Quinn said, standing wide-legged with his hands on his hips. “Lillie was a star member of the Ole Miss Rifle Team and a great law enforcement officer here and up in Memphis. I wouldn’t knock her, Skinner. You of all people should know better.”

“How ’bout we take a walk, Sheriff,” Vardaman said, handing Skinner his red Solo cup. “You don’t mind. Do you?”

They moved away from the fire and the barn, the loose gathering of Watchmen standing their ground, watching Quinn, with their guns on their hips and their knives at the small of their backs. They all wore polos or T-shirts with the Watchmen logo and their sunglasses perched above the bills of their caps. The sawed-off man Quinn had grabbed turned his head and spit in the fire.

“Skinner’s a tough ole nut,” Vardaman said. “He thinks he’s running everything himself but doesn’t understand we’re all the same. You don’t serve at his pleasure. You’re an elected official same as us.”