“I didn’t say you did or didn’t,” Royce said. “I just said your Uncle Hamp never told them state people about running you off that hunting land.”

“I never once saw Brandon Taylor out hunting anywhere,” Quinn said. “And I sure as hell didn’t take a shot at the kid.”

“Like I said, funny how the mind works,” Royce said. “Different set of facts. I guess we see the events in two different ways. Maybe it’s best to let them women decide on what happened to the Taylor boy. I’m just trying to do my best to help them ladies out.”

Quinn looked into the open window of Royce’s truck and saw a brand-new black baseball cap emblazoned with a Watchmen Society patch. He looked back at Royce and shook his head. “Vardaman will eat your old ass up.”

“That man’s got vision, Quinn Colson,” Royce said. “What the fuck do you got?”

Quinn watched Royce load the backseat of his truck with bags of canned goods, raw hamburger meat, and cartons of cigarettes before climbing behind the wheel. The old man ashed the cigarette out the open window, cranked the ignition, and peeled out of the lot.

He could arrest Royce for speeding, reckless driving. But it was best to let him go, let the line out and see under what stump or stone the man would go hide.

Quinn reached for his cell and called Reggie Caruthers. “Reggie?” Quinn said. “I need you to watch someone for me. Yep. Just let me know where he goes.”

*   *   *

Caddy watched Boom work under the hood of her ancient GMC truck, peeking out every few moments to complain about the condition of the engine. She’d driven over to Boom’s place an hour before, bringing him a plate of catfish, fries, and hush puppies from Pap’s Place for lunch. The last time they talked, she knew Boom had been drying out, not eating much, on a black coffee and cigarettes diet. And she knew some catfish and a little honest work never hurt anyone.

“These are the worst-looking spark plugs I’ve ever seen,” Boom said. “These hadn’t been changed in ten years. How long you had this truck?”

“Eight years.”

“You ever changed them in that time?”

“She’s never let me down before.”

“You call your truck a woman?”

“Why not?” Caddy said. “Jason named her Big Bertha.”

“She’d be an ugly woman,” Boom said. “All these scratches and dents. Busted-ass windshield. Tires balder than Ole Man Skinner’s head. You got maybe five hundred more miles at the most.”

“Scars add character,” Caddy said. “Scars tell a story.”

“Sometimes they’re just a goddamn mess.”

“Can you get me a deal at J.T.’s?”