I tried to hide my exasperation. I showed her the class yearbook photographs of Cindy Kershaw and Seymour Bell that Joe Bim Higgins had given me. “You remember either one of these kids?”

“I remember that one.” She pointed at the photo of Seymour Bell.

“How about the girl?” I asked.

She stared out the front window of the shop. There was a line of parking meters along the curb, and she seemed to be re-creating a scene that had taken place there. “The boy came inside. I’m not sure about the girl, though. A girl who looked like this one was with him. She was waiting for him by a big black car. She was mad about something. I remember thinking it was a shame a girl that pretty and young should have such a scowl on her face. I thought maybe it was the brightness of the day and the light hurt her eyes. But that wasn’t it. She was angry about something.”

“The boy came in by himself and bought the cross?” I said.

“No, a man was with him. I didn’t care for him. He had an odor.”

“An odor?”

“Like he’d been working outside and should have taken a shower. Or maybe he had been riding too long in a hot car, I don’t know. His clothes were pressed and clean, but he hadn’t showered. They had words outside.”

“Who did?”

“The girl and the man. She walked off, and the boy went after her. I think the man followed them in the car and they all went off together. I’m not sure.”

“Did the driver have a beard?”

“I don’t remember. He wore a blue suit and a white shirt without a tie. It was too hot a day to wear a navy blue suit. I think he even had a vest on.”

“What kind of car was he driving?”

“I didn’t pay attention. I think it was a dark color.”

I thanked her and left my business card on the counter, and Molly and I walked back toward the courthouse. I couldn’t sort out the information the owner of the religious store had given me. In truth, I had wanted her to tell me Jamie Sue Wellstone or her husband or brother-in-law had either come into the store or phone-ordered the crosses. I had grown to dislike the Wellstones for many reasons, maybe because they were rich and powerful and arrogant, maybe in part because Jamie Sue had dragged my friend Clete Purcel into her life. Regardless, I didn’t like them, and I wanted to bring them down. I doubted there was any tie between the Baptist Bible camp in Spokane and the cross Seymour Bell had worn. The big question was the identity of the driver who had accompanied Seymour into the store. Was it Quince? He didn’t seem like the kind of man Cindy Kershaw and Seymour would be attracted to.

“Maybe Seymour Bell’s purchase of the cross didn’t have anything to do with the Wellstones and their religious crusade,” I said.

“It did,” Molly said.

“Why?”

“People don’t buy a wood cross on a leather cord for ornamental reasons. The cross is important to the person who wears it because it was earned. It’s not a piece of jewelry. It’s a badge of merit.”

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at her. “Wait here a minute,” I said.

The bell above the door rang again when I reentered the religious store. “Who paid for the cross, ma’am?” I asked.

She thought about it. “The man,” she said. “His wallet was on a chain, the kind that loops around into the back pocket, even though he was wearing a suit. He counted out three one-dollar bills and made me give him a receipt.”

“Do you keep copies of your receipts?”

“Not for walk-in purchases like that. I tore it off the cash register and handed it to him.”

“You’ll call me if he comes back, won’t you?”

“I’m not sure I will. When something like this happens, I think the devil is involved in it. I think it’s a mistake to believe otherwise. I think it’s a mistake to put your hand in it.”

This was the best source of information I had found so far regarding the origins of Seymour Bell’s wood cross.

When Molly and I got back to the courthouse, the sheriff told me the SUV I had asked him to run was registered in the name of Troyce Nix, a supervisory employee at a contract penitentiary in West Texas. Joe Bim said I could call a deputy sheriff by the name of Jeff Rawlings if I wanted more information. “You think this fellow is worth all this trouble?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I said.

He gave me the use of a spare office, and I called an extension at a sheriff’s department in a rural county east of the Van Horn Mountains. Jeff Rawlings explained that he had been one of four investigative sheriff’s deputies who had interviewed Troyce Nix at his bedside in an El Paso hospital. At first Rawlings was taciturn and noncommittal, and I had the feeling he did not want to revisit his experience with Nix. “Has he got hisself in some kind of trouble up there?” he asked.

“I met him at a revival while I was investigating a double homicide. He seemed to be looking for somebody. I’d like to find out who.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“I had the sense he doesn’t easily share information.”

“Nix is on paid medical leave from a contract prison. He’s also a major stockholder in the prison. So he might be on leave a long time. He has a hunting camp not far from the prison. He had a convict under his supervision at the camp when he said a tramp come out of the bedroom closet with a shank and cut him up. According to Nix, the convict was digging postholes when it happened. Nix says the tramp must have come in from the highway and was robbing the house when Nix and the convict drove up. The tramp hid in the closet, and when Nix opened the door, the tramp sliced him up. The convict took off with the truck, and Nix called 911 on his cell. That’s the story.”

“You’re not convinced that’s the way it went down?”

“There was blood all over the bedroom. He was lying in a ball on the floor when the paramedics got there. But there was also blood behind the house. He says he went outside and tried to get the convict to help him, but the convict had took off.”

“What’s Nix’s background?”

“I was afraid you’d get to that.”

I waited, but he didn’t speak. “He’s an ex-felon?” I said.

“Nix worked as an MP at Abu Ghraib. It got him kicked out of the army. So he got into jailing on a privatized basis. I hope he’s up there enjoying y’all’s alpine vistas. I hope he ain’t up there for other purposes.”

“Like what?”

“No comment.”

“Was the convict under his supervision ever caught?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You think he’s the guy who cut up Nix?”

“There’s no motivation. The boy was half-trusty and probably gonna make parole at his next hearing. Every write-up Nix put in his jacket was positive. For me, the convict as suspect don’t add up. But nothing about Nix does. If you figure it out, give me another call.”

“What’s the background on the convict?”

“He was down for grand auto, but the way I understand it, his real crime was stopping a pimp from beating up a chippie in a parking lot. The pimp happened to be the nephew of the meanest bucket of goat piss to ever sit on the Texas bench. I wrote up my report on all this and shut the drawer on it. I don’t think Nix belongs in law enforcement. I don’t think the kid belonged in a contract jail. But I don’t get to make the rules. Anything else?”

“What’s the escaped convict’s name?”

“Jimmy Dale Greenwood. Some of the other cons called him Jimmy Git-It-and-Go ’cause he was a guitar-picking man.”

JAMIE SUE WELLSTONE and her husband kept separate bedrooms, not at her request but at his. Leslie Wellstone was an insomniac and wandered the corridors and downstairs rooms of his enormous house in slippers and robe for hours on end, sometimes reading under a lamp, sometimes fixing warm milk that he didn’t drink. Perhaps his life of sleeplessness was due to his war injuries. Perhaps it had other causes. Whatever the cause, he never discussed it. Leslie Wellstone never complained and never discussed personal matters of any kind.