“Vardaman,” he said. “The Watchmen. Quinn’s trying to make trouble for him for something that happened a long time back. With that kid Brandon Taylor. Quinn’s trying to embarrass the senator about some parties he used to throw a long time ago. It could turn into a real mess, damage his time as governor.”

“Sure hate to see that,” Caddy said. “Such a fine man.”

“I don’t want to be a part of this anymore, Caddy,” he said. “I’m finished. I swear to God. Just give me back the broom. I want to help you. I want to be part of your life. Me, you, and Jason.”

Caddy looked at Bentley’s smooth face—no wrinkles. His full head of hair without a single gray. He wore an earnest expression as he stood there in the sunlight cutting through the barn doors. She nearly felt sorry for him but was too disgusted. He’d been dumb enough to follow those people. They didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, only wanted to take and use whatever they could get. “Don’t ever say my son’s name again,” she said. “Just go. Please just get the hell out of here and out of my life. You’ve humiliated me and my family enough.”

“Please,” he said. “Just listen to me.”

“I hope you find your purpose, Bentley,” Caddy said. “I really do. But it’ll never be here. Or never be with me. For once in your life, you’ll have to find your own way. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

*   *   *

Three days later, Quinn drove to Oxford to see Holliday. The federal agent arranged for them to meet at a law office on the Square. It was an old building with a plaque outside saying it was the first structure built after the town was burned during the Civil War. Quinn took the steps up to a wide porch looking out at the old courthouse, white Christmas lights strung from buildings around the structure up to the clock tower. Holliday was smoking one of the cigars Quinn had given him while looking out at the marquee to the Lyric Theatre.

“I felt guilty after I left you in Montgomery,” Holliday said, looking down at the cigar. “Aren’t I the one who should be giving you a wedding gift?”

“Sounds like you got one.”

He followed Holliday around the corner to a small metal table where a manila folder sat waiting. Quinn pulled his own cigar from his pocket, fired it up with the Zippo, and flipped open the file.

“Stagg’s one crooked, mean bastard,” Holliday said. “But the son of a bitch delivered. He kept the copies in a safe-deposit box in a bank in Water Valley. It’s there. Just like he said.”