“I’m sure your lawyer won’t mind the longer drive,” Lillie said. “It’s only an hour away. Hope your Syndicate folks set you up with someone good. Or did your buddies scatter like bottle flies on shit when you got on the phone?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, woman,” Taggart said, his pockmarked face working into a little snarl. “There’s no more a Syndicate or Dixie Mafia than there is a fucking Santa Claus.”

“And you didn’t even know your name was Wes Taggart, either,” Lillie said. “Can you believe that, Charlie? The man had amnesia when I found him at the Star Inn scrubbing his little ole peter.”

Charlie chuckled. He was a good guy. He’d been Lillie’s mentor since she came on with the Marshals last year, right out of Glencoe.

“I don’t want to go to Tibbehah,” Taggart said. “And y’all got no business to take me there. ’Cept the sheriff was friends with that big nigger y’all say I beat up. Which is a goddamn lie.”

“You’re a charmer, Wes,” Lillie said. “Sheriff Colson’s gonna love spending some time with you.”

“My lawyer is a big damn deal,” Taggart said, turning his head, watching the flat land along Highway 45 zip by, a sprawling cow pasture featuring a life-sized statue of Jesus with His arms wide. “A big damn deal. Y’all are wasting your time. This is all bullshit. I was on fucking vacation.”

“You always bring thirty grand with you on vacation?” Lillie said. “And two handguns and a fake ID?”

“I’ll be gone from that shithole town by morning.”

“We’ll see,” Lillie said.

“If the damn sheriff lays a hand on a single hair on my head . . .”

“Don’t worry, dipshit,” Lillie said. “You shaved it all off.”

*   *   *

“Your friends will say I’m too old,” Caddy said. “I’m robbing the cradle.”

“I’m twenty-nine damn years old,” Bentley said. He was a handsome young dude, with straight white teeth and lots of thick brown hair swept back from his tanned face. “Where I’m from, that’s not very young. Besides, how is it their business?”

“Momma likes you,” Caddy said, tossing a big bag of cow manure from the back of her truck to Bentley’s feet. “Momma can be hard on men I like.”

“So you like me?” Bentley said, looking up at the tailgate of the old brown GMC Caddy drove. “You’re going to go ahead and admit that right here and now? Because I’m getting tired of having to meet down in Jackson or in Memphis just to go to a movie and dinner.”