By the time Quinn arrived, the rally was over, but he spotted Vardaman’s campaign bus parked outside the Landers Center. The flashing sign facing Interstate 55 advertising that CURIOUS GEORGE LIVE would be coming soon, as well as MONSTER TRUCK JAM and REPTICON: MEMPHIS REPTILE & AMPHIBIAN SHOW. Quinn stopped his truck sideways in a long stretch of open slots, Vardaman’s bus being one of the last vehicles left, a few folks coming in and out of its door. Quinn let down his window, watching the bus, and finished the cigar he’d been smoking since Tupelo, his tumbler of truck stop coffee gone cold.

He didn’t have a warrant and hadn’t given advance notice he’d be coming. Quinn wanted to catch Vardaman off guard. Within a few minutes, he spoke with three different handlers until a pudgy young guy in a rumpled blue suit with thick brown hair and a goatee led him up onto the bus and back toward a little booth situated by the rear windows. The guy said his name was Tudhope and that he broadcasted an AM talk radio show in Meridian.

“Wrote my first book when I was fifteen,” Tudhope said, mopping the sweat off his brow with his tie. “It was called Take Back My America. Went to number eighteen on the USA Today bestsellers list. Maybe you remember it?”

Quinn didn’t answer, following Tudhope’s wide body between the seats to the back of the bus. Vardaman waved from the booth, dressed in a white dress shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A woman sat with him in the little cove, lots of blonde hair, big teeth, and large, almost bovine blue eyes. Tudhope introduced her as the senator’s press secretary. Quinn took off his ball cap, still standing, and nodded to them both.

“Little far from Tibbehah,” Vardaman said. “Glad you stopped by, Sheriff. We never got to finish our talk at the Good Ole Boy.”

“We finished it,” Quinn said.

“All you said was ‘Bullshit,’” Vardaman said. “Not exactly a productive conversation or spirited debate.”

“Nope.”

“Would y’all mind leaving me and Sheriff Colson alone for a few minutes?” Vardaman asked. “Looks like he’s got something personal on his mind.”

“Did you know a woman named Skylar Cole?” Quinn asked.

Vardaman gave an odd look, his face scrunched up, turning to each of his advisers. Tudhope nodded to the press secretary and squeezed his thick frame into the banquette behind the table. His pudgy face shone with sweat.

“We found her remains not far from your hunt lodge,” Quinn said. “Someone had busted her skull.”

“Sheriff,” Vardaman said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”