“Someone showed,” Quinn said. “Some man had a waitress pass along a locker key to Maggie. That’s how we got the old picture and the necklace. I took a look at the truck stop video, processed the evidence for prints, but didn’t get a damn thing. DeSoto County reached out to Memphis TV stations with the video still, asking for tips.”

“I have to be honest, too,” Lillie said. “I wouldn’t put it past your uncle to have muddied the water around the Taylor case. Hamp was a good man and tried to do the right thing. But Lord knows, he failed plenty of times.”

Quinn turned onto the road to Carthage, passing through the little grouping of a Dollar General, two gas stations, and a metal shed for deer processing. The dash of his truck glowed in the darkness, a slow rain drumming onto the windshield and cab of the truck. The road snaked through fields and forests, coming up into a thicket of pine trees, skinny cottonwoods along a creek bed. The creek was roiling hard in Quinn’s headlights, a muddy slice of water snaking down a rocky drive from up toward Royce’s place.

“If you feel the need to slap the taste out his mouth, don’t do it,” Lillie said. “Just give me the nod and I’ll do it for you.”

*   *   *

Royce found his shotgun and slung open his front door into the rain. Wind chimes made of old coffee cans and spent bullet casings tinkled like bells on his front porch. He’d pulled on a pair of old boots and a stained work shirt that smelled like the inside of a chicken house. Holding the gun, he nearly got knocked off his feet by the dogs, one of them almost his height as she stood on her hind legs and put her paws on his shoulders. Royce shooed them away, clutching the old J. C. Higgins shotgun loaded with buckshot and salt.

“Who the fuck’s out there?” Royce said, yelling into the blackness and rain, stepping out onto the soft ground by his shack. “Better show yourself or you’re gonna be picking rock salt out of your asshole in jail, boy. Come on out.”