”You better straighten out those boys at the door!“ Burns yells at Detective Ruff. ”Or they’ll wind up in the county jail!“

Ruff squares his shoulders at the shorter man. ”What the hell are you talking about, Burnsie?“

”Sheriff Byrd is commandeering this crime scene. That’s what I’m talking about.“

Ruff glances at me, at his men, then back at the deputy. ”You been smoking something from your evidence room, Burnsie? Didn’t you notice this house is in the middle of Natchez? That makes it our jurisdiction.“

Before Deputy Burns can reply, two more deputies appear behind him. This makes it a fair fight: three county officers versus three from the city. The paramedics are staring in amazement and anticipation. They’ve already declared the Wilsons dead, and are only waiting for the police photographer to complete her work.

Emboldened by the appearance of his comrades, Deputy Burns continues. ”Sheriff Byrd’s the chief law enforcement officer of Adams County. The city’s part of the county. That makes everything his jurisdiction. He can take over any crime scene he deems necessary for public safety, and he already told me that these murders will be investigated by the sheriff’s department. End of story.“

John Ruff draws himself to his full height and puts his hands on his hips. ”Burnsie, if you or your buddies touch anything in this room, you’re gonna find yourself in a world of shit. You’ve already contaminated the crime scene by tromping three men through it without any need. Now get your ass outside and wait for the sheriff and the chief to work this mess out.“

Unbelievably, Deputy Burns lays his right hand on the butt of the automatic in his gun belt. ”If you want me to arrest you, I will,“ he says in a bellicose tone, nodding as though to convince himself.

The paramedics blanch.

John Ruff is clearly outraged, but he’s also reluctant to escalate this argument into an armed confrontation. After fifteen years working with seasoned professional cops in Houston, I have no patience for this kind of crap. I step in front of Ruff and address the deputy in a strong voice.

”Look over there,“ I say, pointing at the Wilsons’ bloody corpses. ”Do you see those people?“

”You stay out of this, Cage,“ he snarls.

”Look at them!“I shout. ”They were murdered less than ten minutes ago. Are you investigating the crime? No. You’re standing here obstructing the investigation, bowing up for a fight like some junior high redneck. There’s an enemy in this town, Deputy Burns, but it’s not the police department. You and Ruff are after the same thing-or you should be-and your boss’s small-town political bullshit shouldn’t have a thing to do with this crime.“

The deputy’s chin is quivering, but whether from shock or anger, I can’t tell.

”You’re not looking at them!“ I yell, unable to control my frustration. ”How many murders have you seen like that in your career, Burns? One? None? You think a single person in this town gives a damn about Billy Byrd’s feud with Chief Logan? You leave that crap back at the station and do your work!“

The deputy’s gun is out of its holster now. He’s not pointing it at me, but it’s plain that he’d like to. ”I’m puttin‘ your ass under arrest!“ he yells, spittle flying from his mouth. ”Goddamn big-city lawyer!“

I hold out both hands. ”Go ahead, Deputy. Arrest me. Arrest me, and in thirty days I will have your ass. “

”Penn?“ Ruff says, gripping my shoulder from behind. ”Take it easy, now. Seeing these bodies got you upset. But don’t be stupid.“

I know Ruff is right, but under the gaze of the Wilsons’ dead eyes, I cannot rein in my anger. ”You think these bodies upset me?“ I take a step toward Deputy Burns. ”I was an assistant district attorney in Houston for fifteen years. I’ve seen more murder victims than you will in your whole career. I’ve sent twelve men and women to death row. You want to arrest me? Clap ’ em on. You just be ready to take the heat for it.“

The deputy’s face has gone from scarlet to gray, but he still gets out his handcuffs. He’s trying to fit one around my wrist when Sheriff Billy Byrd swaggers into the room.

”Whoa there, Tommy boy,“ he says in the voice of a poor man’s John Wayne.

”Sheriff Byrd?“ sputters Burns. ”This crazy sumbitch-“

”I heard him,“ says the sheriff. ”You just leave him be for now.“ Byrd glances at Detective Ruff. ”Did you get a statement from Mr. Cage, John?“

The detective nods warily.

”Okay.“ Byrd shifts his gaze to me. ”You’re free to go.“

I start to ask him about the jurisdictional dispute, but then I remember the flash drive concealed in my shoe. With a last look at Paul and Janet Wilson, I exit the house through the door no one answered when I arrived and walk down the sidewalk to my Saab.

Closing myself into the little space, I start the engine, but I don’t pull into the street. My hands are cold and shaking, and my chest feels full of something besides air. ”What’s happening?“ I ask aloud. ”I mean what the fuck?“

One thing I know for sure: the murders of Paul and Janet Wilson will stun this town in a way that the attack on Cyrus White’s safe house never could, and possibly even more deeply than the murder of Kate Townsend. The reason is simple. When drug dealers get killed-black or white-the public perception is that the victims simply got what was coming to them. When a young girl is raped and murdered-black or white-our knowledge of the primitive laws of attraction and male sexual dominance informs our response. But when middle-aged white people minding their own business are murdered in their home in the safest part of town, the fundamental order of Southern life is thrown out of balance. And the repercussions of such a severe anomaly are inevitably dire. By noon tomorrow, the full resources of law enforcement will be mobilized to a degree only surpassed by the response to a kidnapping or to the murder of a cop. A multiagency task force will almost certainly be formed. The DEA and FBI will be part of it. But as I sit in my idling car on Espero Drive, images of Paul and Janet’s butchered bodies running through my mind, one question comes to me: What are all those agencies going to do?Because despite having been embroiled in this mess from the start, I have absolutely no idea what is going on.

”Dad, it’s Penn. You awake?“

”You know me,“ my father says in his deep voice. ”I’m dictating and smoking a cigar.“

Dad was doing exactly the same thing thirty years ago, while I tried to stay awake to watch the late movie, back in the dark ages before HBO. Eternally behind with his hospital charts, he would dictate late into the night and then reward himself with three hours of reading on the Civil War or the history of the Crusades.

”I heard the ER’s been pretty busy tonight,“ he says with understated curiosity.

”Yeah.“

”What do you need, son?“

”A gun.“

”What kind?“

Not a moment’s hesitation. My father has collected guns for most of his life. The bulk of his collection consists of Civil War muskets, with a few pieces dating back to the Revolutionary War. But he also has a nice collection of modern pistols.

”I need an automatic with a big magazine.“

”I’ve got a nice Browning you can use. You on your way over?“

”Yep.“

”You in a hurry?“

”I need to get some sleep.“

”I’ll meet you outside.“

Five years ago, my parents’ house-my childhood home-was burned to the ground by a man trying to stop me from working on a thirty-year-old race murder. Five years, yet I still find myself turning into our old neighborhood, as though the house I grew up in is still standing. It’s not. My father had the wreckage cleared but built a new house elsewhere. Now our old lot holds only flowers and a small granite monument to Ruby Flowers, the black maid who raised me and my older sister. Ruby died as a result of the fire that took the house, and part of me died with her. The new house is south of town, where most new construction in Natchez goes up.