The barest hint of a smile lights the boy’s eyes. ”They been searching our place for two whole days.“

”But they didn’t find anything?“

”Nope.“

I start to speak again, but a deep voice overwhelms my own. It’s the red-faced man from the funeral. ”You boys get back to your mama,“ he orders.

Sonny and his brother instantly scamper toward their mother. This man is obviously accustomed to being obeyed. He walks toward me with a slow gait, his blue eyes focused on mine. I hold out my hand as he reaches me, and he shakes it carefully, like a man who knows he could hurt someone by simply closing his hand.

”Hello, Mr. Cage,“ he says.

”Are you Sonny’s father?“

”That’s right. Your daddy was my doctor back when I worked for Triton Battery.“

I’m thankful for this. I’ve yet to meet a former patient who doesn’t have fond memories of my father. ”I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what happened to Sonny.“

Mr. Cross takes a slow breath, then lets out a deep sigh. ”You were with him when he died, they said. That right?“

”Yes, sir. I was.“

”Did it really happen the way you told the sheriff?“

”Yes.“

”Sonny done his duty?“

”Mr. Cross, I never saw anything like it.“

The big man grimaces, then nods twice as though settling something in his own mind. He’s shown no more emotion than a man making sure his son finished cutting someone’s grass as promised, but I sense that inside he is boiling with emotions that will never be outwardly expressed.

”I saw you talking to Sonny, Junior,“ he says.

”He was saying that his father didn’t like the sheriff much.“

Mr. Cross pokes at the dirt with his booted foot. ”Billy Byrd’s a showboat. He cares more about newspaper headlines than he does about enforcing the law. That’s one way to be, I reckon. It’s not my way. Sonny’s neither.“

”I think you’re right.“

”Sonny told me you was working with him.“

”That’s right.“

”He said you put a lot of bad outlaws away in Texas.“

”I did my best.“

”And now you write books?“

”Yes, sir.“

The big man sniffs but asks no more questions.

”Mr. Cross, as Sonny lay dying in his driveway, he asked me to finish the job for him. I mean to do that, if I can.“

”Go on.“

”I think Sonny kept a lot hidden from Sheriff Byrd. I think he did that because he knew the sheriff was likely to damage his investigations. But if I’m going to do what Sonny asked me to do, I need whatever evidence he had. Now, I know there were some surveillance videotapes, and I imagine he had notebooks, still photographs, and maybe even a computer. I’m also sure that Sheriff Byrd has been pressing you about this. I just want you to know the sheriff is no friend of mine. In fact, to be frank, I consider him an enemy.“

Mr. Cross stares at me in silence for some time. Then he says, ”You know where I live?“

”No, sir.“

”Way out Kingston Road. Almost where you turn to cut through to Liberty Road. I got thirty acres out there.“

I wait for him to continue.

”We’re having some family out there. Some food, some whiskey, you know the drill. You ought to ride out there.“

”Now?“

”It’s up to you. But Sonny spent quite a bit of time out there of an evening. I’d take the boys fishing or riding the four-wheeler, and he’d work. Might be worth your time to ride out.“

My heart thumps in my chest. ”I’ll do that.“

”Just past Second Creek Baptist Church. Mailbox has a wrought-iron bronco on it. You can’t miss it.“

”I’ll be there.“

The bucking bronco mailbox marks a dirt driveway that leads back into the thick woods that border Kingston Road. On the way in, I pass two ponds and a baseball backstop. Then I see several pickup trucks parked before a simple frame house. I hate to interrupt a family gathering after a funeral, but Mr. Cross did invite me to come. Thankfully, as I park my Saab behind a massive Dodge truck, the big man opens a screen door and lumbers out to meet me.

”Have any trouble finding it?“

”No, it was just like you said.“

Mr. Cross changes direction and walks toward a green Ford pickup. ”Let’s take a little ride. My knees are too bad to do much walking these days.“

I walk around his pickup and climb into the passenger seat.

Mr. Cross drives onto the lawn and circles behind his house. The backyard looks about as I expected. There’s a Kubota tractor under a tin shed with some fig trees growing beside it, a glitter-painted bass boat on a trailer half covered by a blue tarp, and plastic hummingbird feeders hanging from almost every tree. Mr. Cross steers the truck into a couple of ruts and begins climbing a grassy hill. He obviously doesn’t feel talkative, so I say nothing. As we crest the hill, I spy a stand of trees beside yet another pond. Descending toward it, I make out a small camper trailer parked under the trees.

”Sonny liked it out here,“ Mr. Cross says. ”I bought this place after Triton downsized me in ’eighty-six. Cost me my severance pay and all my stock options, but it was worth it.“ He pulls the truck up beside the trailer but leaves the engine running. ”This is where Sonny did most of his work.“

”Is there electricity down here?“

”Yes, indeed. Put it in myself. There’s a satellite dish on the south side of the trailer. Sonny had to have that damn Internet out here. You’d know more about that than I would.“

The trailer looks like it should be sold for scrap, but maybe it’s nicer on the inside.

”I need to get back to the folks,“ says Mr. Cross. ”You take as long as you need.“

”Is it locked?“

”Never has been. No need out here. Protected by Smith and Wesson.“

Of course. ”What if I find something I need?“

”Take it. Take anything you want. This was Sonny’s business, and now it’s yours. I reckon I ought to give this stuff to the sheriff, but I just don’t believe he’d do the right thing with it. You’re welcome to come and go as you please. Just honk your horn as you pass the house driving down here.“ Mr. Cross offers me his hand. ”Good luck to you, Mr. Cage. And keep your eyes open for those bastards who shot Sonny.“

”I will.“ I shake the giant hand, then climb out of the truck.

Mr. Cross immediately drives away, leaving me in the shadow of the trailer. It’s an ugly thing, the kind of rig you tow behind a pickup truck. It was probably built to sleep two people, but there’s only one way to know.

The trailer’s door has almost no weight. I pull it open and step up into the unit.

I expected a bad smell, but a little mildew is the only odor that greets me. The interior of the trailer is a remarkable sight. The camper’s beds have been converted into worktables. A metal filing cabinet stands against one wall, and a computer glows on a Formica countertop that apparently served as Sonny’s desk. The yellow kitchen cabinets have had their doors removed and now function as bookshelves. Most of the books are criminal justice texts, but there are a couple of loose-leaf binders on the right side of the bottom shelf. Two cameras rest on the top shelf: a digital still camera with a telephoto lens, and a small Sony video camera. When I check the drawers in the kitchenette, I catch my breath. Rows of MiniDV tapes line the drawer bottoms, and they seem to be organized by date.

Surveillance tapes.

I can hardly contain myself. Probably the best thing to do is pack the tapes, the computer, and the binders into my car and take them home to study. If I stay here, I risk Mr. Cross changing his mind, or some other family member challenging my presence. I’ve seen enough families fight over property after a death to spend more time here than necessary.

Two steps out of the trailer, my cell phone rings. It’s Caitlin.

I almost don’t answer. I don’t want to lie about being here, but Caitlin wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.