“I want her gone, Senator,” he’d say. “That woman’s time has come. Not in my county. No way. No how. Not anymore.”

And Vardaman, being a man of the world, might ask for a favor in return.

Skinner drove into the bright sunlight, his truck turning off the main road onto a long stretch of gravel up into the hills. He knew just the right offering. The great house made of stone and thick logs came into view, like some kind of medieval fortress. Skinner still thinking how the conversation would go that morning.

Skinner would nod, holding his tongue and being slow to speak, clutching his pearl white Stetson in his hands, and then say, “That ole boy Quinn Colson sure has been a thorn in your side, Senator. I might just know a way we can push him right out of the way.”

*   *   *

“I brought you lunch,” Maggie said.

“I had lunch,” Quinn said. “But I appreciate it.”

“Fried chicken from Miss Annie’s?” Maggie asked. “Field peas and cabbage cooked with neck bones.”

Sitting behind his desk, Quinn looked down at his watch. “OK. Maybe an early supper, then?”

“Works for me,” Maggie said. “Might be the only chance to see me. The hospital has me working late the next two nights. I’m sorry for just barging in, Quinn. But I had to see you. We need to talk in a bad way.”

He stood up and walked around the desk and reached around her waist. As he pulled her in and kissed her neck, Maggie felt a little tight, even rigid, against his side. She let him kiss her neck and smiled back but pushed against his chest with the flat of her hand, bracelets jingling on her wrist.

“You all right?”

Maggie had on her street clothes that morning, faded blue jeans and a gray V-neck tee, her reddish hair up in a bun, pale freckled face looking even more pale and serious. Her green eyes wandered around the office and to the old door with its frosted-glass pane adorned with a large black star. Quinn walked over and closed the door.

“Guess you didn’t come to fool around.”

She reached into her purse and dug out an envelope. She closed her eyes for a moment and passed it over Quinn’s desk. He picked it up and pulled out a letter. “There’ve been others,” Maggie said, looking a little rattled, playing with the bracelets on her wrist. Her mouth twisted into a little knot. “But not like this. I couldn’t keep this from you.”

BRANDON DIDN’T DIE ALONE. LOOK AT THE FAR WEST CORNER OF WHAT USED TO BE THE PENNINGTON PROPERTY. THERE’S AN OPEN FIELD OF BRAMBLES AND PINE TREES. FIFTY FEET FROM THE SARTER CREEK YOU’LL FIND A FLAT STONE AS LARGE AS A TABLETOP. THEY BURIED HER TEN FEET DOWN.

“What the hell’s this?”