I look at my watch. 11:25 p.m. Mia is probably getting antsy by now. But on the other hand, Marko is the biggest question mark in this whole bloody mess. And after having Sonny Cross’s gun stuck into his mouth this afternoon, there’s no telling what he might decide to do tonight.

”I think that’s a good idea, Paul. I’ll be there in ten minutes.“

”I’ll pour you a glass of wine.“

I dial home, and Mia answers, her voice alert.

”How you doing, girl?“

”I’m good. Annie’s sound asleep.“

”Why aren’t you?“

”I finished Bowles’s book, and I started The Secret History. I meant to read just one chapter, but it hooked me. I can’t believe this was written by a girl from Mississippi.“

”In longhand, no less. Don’t you ever just have fun?“

”This is my idea of fun, believe it or not.“

As I ask Mia if she can stay another hour, a crackle of static fills my ear. Then the felt wall of silence that heralds a failing connection greets me. I accelerate up the hill in front of me until my phone shows three bars, then pull over to the curb and dial Mia again.

”Can you hear me now?“ she asks.

”Yeah, I had to pull over. Can you stay another hour?“

”Sure.“

”What will your mom say?“

”I already called her and told her I might have to stay over.“

This takes me aback. ”Meredith was okay with that?“

”Yeah. She knows you’re working on Drew’s case.“

”How does she feel about Drew after all she’s heard?“

”She’s reserving judgment. Mom doesn’t put much stock in gossip. She’s always respected Drew, and she told me she has a really hard time believing he could have killed Kate.“

”But she believes he slept with her?“

”Oh, yeah. I mean…he’s a guy, right?“

I laugh softly. ”Well, I don’t think you’ll have to stay over. I’m going by Paul Wilson’s house, but it shouldn’t take long.“

A sudden tension enters her voice. ”Are you going to talk to Marko?“

”I’d like to, but he’s not there. He’s out with his girlfriend.“

Mia makes a derogatory noise.

”What is it?“

”Marko doesn’t have a girlfriend.“

”Then what was Paul talking about? What about Alicia Reynolds?“

” God.Alicia worships Marko. She’s kind of…I don’t know, Goth, I guess. For about a year she had black fingernails. Now all she talks about is Third World debt. I think she’s kind of a sex slave for him, actually.“

”But not his girlfriend.“

”Marko’s not into boundaries. He takes whatever he can get.“

”Does that make him different from most of the guys you know?“

”Well…I guess when it comes down to it, no.“

”Okay, thanks. I’d better get going.“

”Hey, wait,“ Mia says. ”I heard a cop got killed tonight. Is that true?“

The cellular jungle drums are beating overtime tonight. ”Yes.“

”Do you know who did it?“

”Sort of.“

”Was the killer local?“

”Why do you ask that?“

”I didn’t figure you’d tell me who it actually was. So I asked for what you could tell me.“

”You seem to realize the drug business extends outside of Natchez.“

”Well, sure. They don’t grow the stuff here. Except for some shitty pot out in Jefferson County.“

”Mia, I think you should consider a career in law enforcement.“

”I might. But I don’t think they teach that at Brown.“

I laugh again. ”I’ll see you in less than an hour.“

”If I fall asleep, wake me up.“

”I will,“ I tell her, realizing as I do that we sound like nothing so much as a married couple.

The Wilsons live on Espero Drive, part of a large subdivision built in the 1970s, one that I once thought of as the ”new“ part of Natchez. Now Espero and its parallel street, Mansfield Drive, are shaded by mature oaks and house many retired couples who keep perfectly manicured lawns. The Wilson house is a one-story ranch set well back from the road. Behind it and to the right stands a two-story garage, the upper story containing the apartment where Marko lives.

I park on the street and walk up a flower-lined sidewalk, trying to recall what I can about Paul Wilson. His wife is a Natchez native, but Paul hails from Ohio. He taught political science for years at the University of Southern Mississippi at Hattiesburg, about three hours by car from Natchez. I once attended a lecture he gave on race relations, at the Natchez Literary Festival, and I was impressed. Paul seemed to have a better grasp of his subject than most Yankees ever get, and I credited his wife for that. He probably knows more about the former Yugoslav republics than I could learn in a year, and I suspect that his choice of Marko Bakic as an exchange student was rooted in that knowledge. On the other hand, he might simply have been assigned Marko at random.

The doorbell rings loudly enough for me to hear it through the door, but no one answers. I wait about thirty seconds, then ring it again.

Nothing.

Maybe Marko got home, and they went out to his room to talk to him. I step over some shrubs and walk around the right side of the house, where the driveway runs back to the garage. Rather than interrupt a family conference, I decide to check the rear of the house proper. If I remember right, the Wilsons added a large sunroom to the main house a couple of years back.

They did. The glass enclosure juts out unnaturally from the original brick, but I imagine the Wilsons were more than willing to trade symmetry for a nice place to drink wine and admire their garden without mosquitoes eating them alive.

As I move closer, I see Janet Wilson sitting in a wicker chair in the sunroom. I don’t see Paul. I’m walking up to the glass door to knock when something stops me cold. From this distance, what I thought was a floral print on Janet Wilson’s blouse looks more like spattered blood. With my own blood roaring in my ears, I scan the yard behind me for intruders.

Nothing.

I lean against the door and search the rest of the room with my eyes. Two chairs lie on their sides, possible signs of a struggle. Then I see Paul. He’s lying facedown on a pale blue sofa, and this, too, is splashed with blood. I pull out my cell phone and dial 911, not quite believing that I’m reporting murder for the second time in one night.

”911 emergency,“ says the dispatcher.

”This is Penn Cage again,“ I whisper. ”I’m at 508 Espero Drive, and I have two probable homicide victims. Paul and Janet Wilson. I need paramedics and cops. The killer could still be on the property.“

”Could you speak up, sir?“

” No.Double homicide, 508 Espero. Get two squad cars and an ambulance here, and tell them to come with sirens screaming.“

I hang up and try the door handle. It’s open.

I’d give ten grand for my lost Springfield right now, but there’s no use wishing. The smart thing would be to wait in the bushes for the cops. This isn’t rural Adams County, like Sonny Cross’s property. There should be a squad car here inside two minutes. But there’s also a chance that Paul or Janet could still be alive, and for them every second could be critical.

I open the door and go to Janet first, pressing my finger underneath her jawbone while I survey her wounds. She’s been stabbed more than a dozen times, with most of the wounds concentrated in her chest and abdomen. Both hands show the multiple slashes of defensive wounds. There’s no pulse in her throat.

Moving to the sofa, I see that Paul, too, has suffered multiple stab wounds, a half dozen on his back alone. I kneel, squeeze his shoulder, and speak close to his ear. ”Paul? Paul, it’s Penn Cage.“

A low rasp comes from his throat. As gently as I can, I roll him over.

Paul’s eyes are open, but his throat has been slashed from his trachea to his left ear. It was a clumsy effort, a butcher’s job. A small amount of bubbly red fluid pulses from the wound, but I sense that the bulk of Paul’s lifeblood is soaking into the sofa and the rug beneath it. His eyes are glassy, and his face is so gray that I can’t believe he’s alive.