“But when she didn’t come back, I figured maybe it was because of the deal I’d made. And then I figured that maybe I just had to be patient and never say a damned word about it, because saying anything about it would have ruined any hope that it would work . . .”

He shook his head, lowered his chin to his chest, and for a moment Gaines believed the man was crying again.

When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“But it didn’t work, did it? She didn’t come back. You found her all this time later, and now all I can hope for is that she made it through to the other side and she’s safe somewhere, someplace where she don’t hurt no more . . .”

But she did come back, Gaines thought. She was preserved perfectly, looked the same as she had twenty years before.

“But why, Mike?” he asked. “Why do what you did to her after killing her so brutally?”

Webster’s eyes widened. “What?” he asked, in his voice a tone of disbelief and incredulity. “What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t kill her. Is that what you think I did? Jesus Christ, no, I didn’t kill her. I found her dead, Sheriff . . . found her dead in the doorway of that shack by the side of the road and just tried to help her the best way I knew how . . .”

18

Gaines could only listen to so much. He knew he was dealing with a crazy man, and whatever chords might have struck with him, it was still delusion and insanity.

Gaines did not want to question Webster further, not until a lawyer was there, not until they could get this on tape. He did ask Webster one other question, however, and that was the location of where Webster had found Nancy Denton. Where he said he’d found her. The location was a half mile or so from the motel where Webster lived. Gaines took Hagen with him and drove out there. He just stood at the side of the road and tried to imagine what had happened twenty years before. If ever there had been a shack there, it was long since gone. Perhaps if they tore up the undergrowth, they could find the footprint of it, but Gaines wasn’t about to do such a thing.

Gaines and Hagen then drove on out to Bogalusa, only to learn that Sheriff Graydon McCarthy was off shift. A couple of questions and they found him in a bar up on Wintergreen. He was sitting in the corner with another man, the pair of them watching a pickup band rehearsing a set for a visiting singer. Above their heads, right there on the wall, was a sign.

Bar Tabs Available

Terms & Conditions Apply*

*$1,000 Deposit Required

“Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you so soon,” McCarthy said.

“Looks like maybe we got our man,” Gaines said.

“Good to hear it.”

“Need to coordinate this with you.”

“Understand that, Sheriff,” McCarthy said, “but this here is my brother, come on down from Hattiesburg to see a little music with me. We don’t get to see each other much these days, but we do like a bit o’ country music.” McCarthy nodded at the band. “This here shower o’ half-wits are strangling a couple of classics, but we got Mary May Coates arrivin’ sooner or later, and she’s an old-time star, a real class act.” McCarthy smiled. “You could stay and have a drink with us, sociable like, and then we could deal with this mess in the morning.”

“Thank you, Sheriff McCarthy, but I gotta get back. All I need is your sanction on taking this case. The guy we got lives out in that motel place you spoke of, so, in truth, that makes the arrest itself a Travis County matter. However, the girl was from Whytesburg. Her ma still lives there, and that makes it Breed County. I wanna take this thing, Sheriff, but I’m more than likely gonna be back and forth in Travis checking up on things and getting myself involved in other people’s business, if you know what I mean.”

McCarthy set down his glass. He leaned forward, rested his hands flat on the table. His expression was serious, almost foreboding.

“You’re tellin’ me that you wanna take a murder case off my hands? You want to take a case from Travis and just move it all over to Whytesburg and leave me with nothin’ to do?”

“I don’t mean this disrespectfully, Sheriff—”

McCarthy grinned—high, wide, and handsome. “Hell, son, I’m just yankin’ your chain. You go on and take all the cases from Travis you can carry, and when you’re done with them, you can come on back and take some more.”

Gaines nodded. “ ’Preciated, Sheriff.” He stood up, extended his hand to McCarthy’s brother. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” They shook hands. “Sheriff,” Gaines added, replacing his hat and touching the brim.

Gaines headed back to the door, found Hagen standing beside the car watching an overweight woman in full country singer regalia—rhinestones, knee-high maroon leather boots, a mountain of blond curls—as she maneuvered her way out of a station wagon.

“Miss Mary May Coates, I believe,” Gaines said.

The woman turned, beamed at Gaines.

“Think you’ll find yourself an enthusiastic crowd tonight, ma’am.”

“Why, honey, that’s mighty sweet of you,” she crooned.

Gaines got in the car, and Hagen headed around and got in the passenger side. They pulled away sharply, left a wide crescent in the gravel of the forecourt behind them.

“He all right?” Hagen asked.

“It’s our case,” Gaines replied. “Because he doesn’t want it, first and foremost, but mainly because we do.”

Back at the Whytesburg office, Gaines headed on down to see Webster. Webster was sleeping, snoring lightly, the expression on his face one of a man seemingly untroubled by anything.

Gaines woke him.

Webster rubbed his eyes, sat up, stretched his neck from side to side.

“Mike, I have to get straight what you’re telling me here. You’re telling me that you found Nancy Denton dead in a shack at the side of the road.

Webster nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“And the things that were done to her . . . before she was buried?”

“I just did what I had to do,” Webster replied. “To help her through, you know? Just to help her through.”

“And she was already dead? This is what you’re telling me?”

Webster looked hurt. “I cannot believe you would think I was capable of killing Nancy—”

Gaines was silent for a moment—taking it all in, trying not to picture this man sweating over the body of Nancy Denton, the strength it must have taken to cut through her chest, the removal of her heart . . . and as far as the snake was concerned, he could not even bring himself to mention it.

“I need to look in your room, Mike. I can fuck around for a day getting a warrant, or you can give me permission to go look in your room.”

“Go look,” Webster said. “I ain’t hiding nothin’ from you.”

“You’ll sign something to that effect, that you gave me permission to search your room, your belongings, everything?”

“Sure I will.”

“Good enough,” Gaines said, and then he turned to walk away.

“Sheriff?”

Gaines hesitated, turned back to look at Webster.

“After you’re done searchin’ my place, can I see Nancy?”

Gaines didn’t reply. He took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly. He walked as quickly as he could to the stairwell and left the basement.

19

As Graydon McCarthy had said, the motel was owned by one Harvey Blackburn. Harvey was easily found, again in the nearest bar, and Gaines explained the situation as far as Webster was concerned.

Blackburn was a drunk, was drunk when Gaines found him, would be drunk for the rest of the night. From Gaines’s first impression, the man was a chiseler and a thief. Somehow or other, he’d wound up owning the property—a dozen or so falling-apart motel rooms built in a crescent, the neon sign in the center driveway, now broken down and out of action, a small office to the right. This was the kind of place that had been in its prime in the midfifties, a simple, clean stopover joint for interstate travelers, some headed south to New Orleans, others north to Jackson, perhaps even Memphis. There would have been a catalog of house rules, a wedge of pages with a hole punched through the upper-left-hand corner and hung from a nail behind the door of each cabin. No smoking in the bed. No milk to be left in the room upon vacating. No music. No dancing. No loud talking after nine p.m. On it would go—item by item—until it seemed that whatever brief sojourn might be endured there would involve nothing more than standing silent and immobile in the corner of the room, your unpacked suitcase ready for collection at the door, your shod feet encased in polythene bags to prevent inadvertent marks on the carpet or scuffs on the baseboard.