Meadows nodded. “I contacted him. He told me he might have something he’s allowed to share with me, did I want to come up and visit him. He’s apparently very ill, so I may be just in time. I thought I’d drive up there next week. It’s a nice area and a good excuse to get out of town. Away from the wife. You okay? You got pale before and now you’re a little flushed. How’s your blood pressure?”

“I don’t remember it being so hot here. I guess my blood needs to thin.” With all his attention on keeping his hand from shaking, he put the payment for both his and Meadows’s drinks on the bar with a small tip, and left.

Meadows looked disappointed.

Going up against a seasoned investigator, that might not have been the smartest thing, but how else could he find the information he’d just received? His face felt cold with fear despite the Florida heat as he made a beeline three blocks away where he could run into a Quick Stop and get a pack of Newports.

After a couple of those he told himself he was safe. Meadows hadn’t even asked his name. There was no record of him anywhere, except for those fingerprints taken decades ago, the last time he was arrested. They were probably still sitting in some file with the other millions of prints, waiting to be scanned into the FBI database. Even if that happened, the Walker print wasn’t a finger, it was a palm.

Only with the possibility of that confession, and this Meadows on the verge of finding it, whether it was in writing or whether that no-name priest would testify to it …

He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and looked at his palm. Which of the lines etched in it had been left on the faucet? Which lines could indict him? He rubbed his palm on the side of his jeans.

He wasn’t safe. He had gone into the bar thinking he was following up on the Walker case, and come out knowing that there might be a document that linked him not only to the Walkers, but to the Clutters, too. He couldn’t be sure he was safe unless he got to Hickock’s priest before Meadows did.