“I dealt with folks like you when I came home,” Quinn said. Reggie cuffed the old man, Southwell, and pushed him toward the back of his patrol car. The man cussing up a storm, spit flying from his mouth, his face turning a deep shade of purple. Reggie grinned while he placed him inside, Southwell’s hands cuffed tight behind his back. “Only difference is y’all used to hide in the woods. Now you’ve crawled on out into the daylight.”

“You’ll be sorry.”

“Already am,” Quinn said.

Reggie drove out of the parking lot, saluting Quinn from behind the wheel, heading onto Tupelo Road back toward town. Quinn stood in front of his truck until Gibson pulled out in the Tahoe and headed east, hopefully out of town. He crossed the back highway in the coming darkness, finding Tashi Coleman standing by a Coke machine, her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

“What happened?”

“You were right to call.”

“They took our gear,” she said. “Our recorder. Our microphone. Jessica’s camera and her phone. They couldn’t get mine. I wouldn’t hand it over. I dared them to touch me.”

“They said you nearly busted Senator Vardaman in the mouth.”

“You believe that?”

“Nope.”

“They’ll come back,” she said. “They won’t stop us from asking questions.”

“And I’ll be here to stop them,” Quinn said, sticking a dollar in the Coke machine and getting two bottles back. Hell of a deal. He offered one to Tashi.

“I’m so damn mad I can’t even think.”

“Where’s Jessica?”

“Upstairs.”

“How about we all have a talk?” he asked. “Did y’all get to eat?”

“No,” she said. “We drove off from the drive-through when we saw them. We haven’t eaten all day.”

Tashi looked up at Quinn, Quinn noticing the girl couldn’t be more than five foot two. Her hands still plunged deep in her hoodie pockets, her small, lean face drained of all color. She took the Coke as they headed back into the U-shaped motel, its doors facing what used to be the pool. Years ago, someone had filled it all in, but you could still see where it had been, the ground soft and sunken. Back in high school, kids used to come here after the prom, the night manager not giving a damn if they were underage.

“We have to find Ansley,” she said.

“Working on it.”

“Work harder.”

“I have a friend,” Quinn said as they got to Tashi’s motel room door, fluorescent corridor lights sputtering on for the night. “She’s damn good at tracking folks down.”

TWENTY-FIVE