"And you'll be judged according to your works," Feur said.

"Revelation 20:12," Virgil said.

Feur cocked his head: "Are you born-again?"

"I'm a preacher's son," Virgil said. "I talked the Bible at supper every night of my life until I went to college, Mr. Feur. You don't get that kind of an education at Stillwater."

"Maybe not," Feur said. "But I kept one book in my cell, the King James. When we were locked down, I had that one book to read; and I read it twenty hours a day. When we weren't locked down, I read it four hours a night, every night for three and a half years, there among the sodomites and catamites and child molesters. You didn't get that kind of education."

Virgil sat back: "Revelation is your text?"

"It is…" Feur's eyes went to the light coming through the window, playing on the floor…"It is the most powerful thing I've ever read. It was a Revelation."

"My personal belief is that Job is the key book in the Bible," Virgil said. "The question of why God allows evil to exist."

Feur leaned forward, intent on the point: "Job talks of the world as it is. Revelation tells us what is coming. I'm not entirely of this world, Mr. Flowers; not entirely. Some of this world has been burned out of me."

Virgil said, "We're all entirely of this world, Reverend. You're just like anybody else, going to and fro on the earth, and walking up and down on it."

Feur was smiling at him, then shook his head once and said to Trevor, "Show Mr. Flowers to the door. And give him one of our booklets about the niggers."

ON THE WAY back to town, Virgil's cell phone rang. He glanced at the dashboard: one minute after two. Williamson from the newspaper. He flipped open the phone and said, "Yes?"

"Todd Williamson. You had some news for me."

"This comes from the sky, from nowhere. You can get confirmation of the rumor from a Mrs. Margaret Laymon or her daughter, Jesse. Jesse, we are being told, is the natural daughter of Bill Judd Sr."

After a moment of silence, Williamson said, "Fuck me with a barbed-wire fence," which Virgil thought was pretty prairie-like of him.

WHEN HE'D GOTTEN off the phone with Williamson, Virgil punched up Stryker's cell-phone number, thought about it for a moment, then tapped it. Stryker came up five seconds later. From the background rush, Virgil could tell that he was in his truck.

"Did you talk to the Laymons?" Virgil asked.

"Yeah: sex and money on the low plains," Stryker said. "They're telling the truth. They've talked to an attorney over in Worthington, and they're going to petition the district court for a part in the probate process. Margaret says Jesse will stand up to a DNA test."

"Where're you at now?" Virgil asked.

"Heading back to the office."

"Got your heart in your mouth?"

"I wish I hadn't told you about that," Stryker said. "You gonna spread it all over town. On the other hand, I've got Joanie to hold over your head."

"Listen. I'm just coming up to I-90 after talking to Feur. Not much to report there. So: tell me how to find the Laymons. And give me their phone number."

GEORGE FEUR'S readiness to swear on the Bible, and in a comprehensive way, had impressed Virgil. Feur had the stink of fanaticism about him, and fanatics, whatever else you might say about them, didn't take the Word lightly. Interesting, though, that he'd denied knowing the Gleasons. That was something that could be falsified…

The town of Roche once had a bar and a combination grocery-gas station. Now it had two empty and unsalable old commercial buildings slowly sinking back into the earth, and a dozen houses, some neatly kept, some not: flower gardens here, untrimmed lawns there; grape arbors and old wire fences, rusting swing sets and a brand-new tree house, a collapsed chicken house, abandoned farm equipment from the first half of the twentieth century, all gathered on the banks of the Billie Coulee, a seasonal creek that ran down to the Stark River.

A white dog with floppy ears was sitting in the middle of the street when Virgil got there, twenty minutes after talking to Stryker. The dog examined the front of Virgil's truck, realized that it didn't belong to anybody in town, and so ambled off to the side, keeping an eye out for trouble.

The Laymons' house was on the left side of the main street, a white-clapboard story-and-a-half with a brooding dark roof and a brick chimney at one end, a narrow front porch with a white-painted railing. Orange earthenware pots of geraniums sat on the railing, and hollyhocks grew next to the steps. A huge cottonwood stood in back, towering over two smaller apple trees.

A side yard was occupied by a vegetable garden, neatly laid out, tilled and weeded. The sweet-corn leaves were showing brown edges, the corn silk brown, the ears ready to eat. Four rows of potato plants marched along at eighteen-inch intervals, and cucumber and squash vines sprawled around the corn. The whole thing was edged with marigolds, which, Virgil thought, were intended to ward off some kind of rootworm.

In any case, his parents still did the same thing: grew an annual vegetable garden, and edged it with marigolds.

Virgil parked and got out and the white dog barked at him, but only once, and then tentatively wagged his tail. Virgil grinned at him: a watchdog, but not an armed-response dog. At the house, a blond woman came out on the porch. She was dressed for an office in black slacks and a white blouse. She said, "You're Mr. Flowers."

MOTHER AND DAUGHTER didn't look much alike. Margaret, the woman who'd met him on the porch, was in her mid-fifties, Virgil thought, and dressed from Target or Penney's, standard office wear. She was about five-six, a bit too heavy, and busty, with short, heavily frosted hair, plastic-rimmed glasses, and the lined face of a woman who'd been long out in the wind. She'd been pretty; still was, for her age.

Her daughter was almost her opposite: long dark hair, eyes that were almost black, slender, with high cheekbones and a square chin. She was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a plain white T-shirt. She had pierced ears, and was wearing silver crescent-moon earrings. She was waiting in the living room, standing next to an old upright piano. An electric guitar was propped next to it, with a practice amp; the window ledges were lined with pots of African violets.

Virgil stood in the living room for a moment, blinking in the dim light, and Jesse asked, "Ooo. Do you like to rock 'n' roll?"

"I do," he said. He recognized her. She'd been at Bill Judd Sr.'s house, the night of the fire. She'd had a beer can in her hand.

Jesse, to her mother: "He looks like a surfer dude, doesn't he?"

"He's a police officer," her mother said dryly. "You probably should remember that."

"Police officers gotta fuck," Jesse said, flopping back on a worn couch, smiling up at him. "If they didn't, where'd we get all those goobers who go to monster truck rallies?"

"Jesse!" her mother said.

"Thank you," Virgil said. Jesse teased her mother with the f-word, and her mother pretended to be shocked, but wasn't; it looked like an old mother-daughter game. "If I ever have any little goobers, I'll name one of them Jesse."

She laughed, and said, "Want a Pepsi?"

"No thanks, I just want to chat," Virgil said.

"Might as well. The newspaper just called, and every single soul from Fairmont to Sioux Falls will know about it tomorrow morning…"

HER MOTHER had been at work when the Judd mansion burned down, and had no idea where she'd been when the Gleasons were killed. Jesse had been on her way to a bar in Bluestem, and saw the fire on the ridge, and trucks pulling out of the bar's parking lot, heading up the hill.

"That good enough?" Jesse asked.