“You that black-eyed Indian?” Royce said. “The same one who shot up the jail?”

The figure didn’t move or speak. Royce could hear the tapping of water off the man’s jacket, nothing really but a form in front of him.

“Well, goddamn son of a bitch,” Royce said. “Go on and get it over with. I should’ve known I wasn’t never getting no payday. Ole E. J. Royce never gets what’s coming to him.”

The man lifted his hand and Royce could clearly see the gun. The man stepped forward, Royce seeing it was a goddamn Indian but also a fucking kid. Royce smiled, hacking out a laugh, the boy wearing a silly-ass hat like some kind of black man would wear. That boy didn’t look like nothing but a cheap filling station thief.

“Don’t go on and get stupid, boy,” Royce said. “That pistol in your hand ain’t no fucking toy.”

And the damn Indian shot him. Royce fell back, slamming onto the kitchen table and scattering the baked beans and greens, the pint of Fighting Cock shattering on the floor. Royce held on to his chest, feeling blood and so much pain he couldn’t even mouth the words for mercy. And then the second shot came and it was all over.

*   *   *

Quinn stopped at Royce’s old blue mailbox and knocked his truck into four-wheel drive, turning up onto the eroding gravel road and heading toward the old shack on top of the hill. Lillie popped some chewing gum as she watched the truck’s bright lights wash over Royce’s place, saying even dogs deserved better shelter.

“Doesn’t look like he’s here,” Lillie said.

“He’s here,” Quinn said. “There’s his truck.”

Quinn slowed and stopped close to the front door of the shack, a group of a half-dozen Walker hounds coming out to greet them as he got out. Lillie followed, pulling on the hood of a black slicker, the truck’s headlights shining up onto the porch and into the darkness. Quinn reached down for his radio mic and called in the location to Cleotha and hit the light bars to make sure the old man didn’t come out shooting.

Lillie pulled the Sig Sauer off her belt and headed up for the porch.

“I thought you said to take it easy,” Quinn said.

“This is easy,” Lillie said.

Quinn carried the old Winchester lever-action he’d brought with him to the range. He called out to Royce, seeing the shoddy aluminum storm door was wide open, battering against the wall. He called out again. The door kept hammering against the siding.