Wes Taggart finished his cheeseburger with extra cheese and pickles in less than two minutes in the conference room. He wiped his mouth with a handful of napkins and leaned back into the rolling office chair. Quinn and Reggie sat at the head of the table, Reggie not being sure this was the best idea, letting a prisoner like Taggart out of his cell and out of his handcuffs. But Quinn had told him he wasn’t too worried about the situation. If Taggart made a break for the door, how far do you think he’d get?

“I’ll tell you what,” Taggart said. “Them folks at Sonic sure know how to make a cheeseburger. You boys want some fries? I don’t think I can eat this whole bag. Lord have mercy.”

He reached for his shake and started to slurp through the straw. Reggie looking over at Quinn and shaking his head. Quinn and Reggie were ex-Army and they both had a low tolerance for sloppy behavior. They’d both grown up—and later enforced—looking people in the eye, sitting up straight, and eating with proper manners at the table. It wasn’t easy watching Taggart inhale a cheeseburger and mash a fistful of fries.

The rain had started a half hour ago, a mean storm with lightning and possible tornadoes rolling in from Arkansas. They were under a watch until midnight. Reggie stood and walked over to the door, arms crossed over his chest, almost daring Taggart to even try.

“The thing about it, Sheriff, is that I know I’m fucked five ways from Sunday,” Taggart said. “Y’all are holding all the damn cards. I know you boys both saw me shoot some folks on Pritchard land. I know the Feds got some files and computers showing the gravy train we was running out of Tupelo. And even though I damn well know it’s a lie, that friend of yours is gonna say it was me and J. B. Hood who done bashed his head in. I don’t need some Memphis lawyer drawing me a diagram in the dirt. Even if I tell you a thousand damn times it was all J.B.’s doing. He was a hard, mean man, God rest his soul.”

Quinn cocked his head, staring hard at Taggart. He watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob up and down while he swallowed his vanilla milk shake, taking a short break to reach into the cup with his index finger and fish out the cherry. He sucked on it with a big grin on his thin gray lips.

“You were talking about Vardaman,” Quinn said.

“Was I, now?” Taggart asked. “Ain’t that something.”