Judith Denton’s body was transferred to the morgue by Victor Powell a little after noon. From initial indications, it appeared that she’d been dead for approximately twelve hours.

“Midnight, one, maybe two in the morning,” Powell told Gaines. “I’ll give you a more accurate time once I’ve done the autopsy.”

Powell hesitated. There was an unspoken question on his lips. “Did she know that Webster was being released?”

Gaines shook his head. “I don’t know, Victor.”

“I heard about the thing with the warrant,” Powell went on. “We make mistakes, John. We’re human. Mistakes are often what we do best. You can’t beat yourself up about it.”

Gaines did not reply, and they did not speak again. Gaines merely watched Powell drive away in the long white car, and he wondered if there would be further dead before the truth of Nancy Denton’s killing was revealed. If it was ever revealed.

Gaines headed back to the office. He took the Morgan City files from his desk and put them in the evidence locker. He spoke to Hagen, told him to chase up the Webster findings.

“And you?” Hagen asked.

“I’m going to visit with Matthias Wade.”

“On what basis, John?”

“Oh, just a social call. I thought we might perhaps have watermelon juleps on the veranda.”

Hagen smiled sarcastically. “I doubt he’ll give you the time of day.”

“We shall see.”

The Wade estate went as far as Gaines could see both left and right. Somewhere close to two thirty, he stood in front of the main gates and looked down a driveway that snaked away between groves of trees shrouded in Spanish moss, a dense curtain of foliage that made the house itself invisible. Gaines did not know what parish he was in, perhaps St. Mary’s, maybe now St. Martin’s. The site seemed to follow the curve of the Atchafalaya River away from Morgan City. To the west was New Iberia, to the right was Donald-sonville, and Gaines would not have been surprised to learn that the Wades owned every acre of land in between.

At the gate there seemed to be no means by which visitors could make their presence known, but it was not long before someone appeared from among the trees to the right and walked toward the entrance.

The man was well built in the upper body, a bull neck, a blunt and brutal fist of a face, the range of expressions spanning little breadth beyond anger, obstinacy, and displeasure. He wore a permanent scowl, as if anyone appearing at the gate was interrupting something of great importance.

He did not speak. He just looked through the bars at Gaines and raised his eyebrows.

“I need to speak to Mr. Wade,” Gaines said.

“Which one?” the man asked.

“Matthias.”

“And who are you?”

“Sheriff John Gaines.”

The man didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge; he simply turned and walked the way he’d come and disappeared into the trees.

Four, five minutes passed, and then the gates started opening.

Gaines hurried back to his car, started the engine, drove slowly through the gates, and headed along the drive.

Past the first bend, and then the same man appeared from between the overhanging boughs. He stared at Gaines for a moment, and then he raised his hand and pointed to his right.

The Wade house itself came into view in stages. It must have spanned a good hundred or hundred and twenty yards, but parts of it were obscured behind further trees, and down to the left there was a separate arrangement of smaller buildings that were fashioned in the same architectural style but were evidently a good deal younger than the main house.

On the second floor was a balcony that ran the length of the entire facade, and it was in the center of this that Gaines saw Matthias Wade. Wade stood immobile for just a moment, and then he turned and reentered the house. As Gaines drew his car to a halt in front of the main steps, Wade appeared at their head. He had on a cream-colored suit, an open-necked shirt, and a sun hat despite the coolness of the day. He seemed relaxed, at ease, and Gaines was very much aware of the fact that this was Wade territory and he was nothing more than a guest. He had no right to be here save the courtesy and favor of the host.

Gaines killed the engine. He got out of the car and walked toward the steps.

“Sheriff,” Wade said. He came down the steps and extended his hand.

This time Gaines felt it best to respond appropriately. “Mr. Wade,” he said, and they shook.

“Do for you?”

“Just a house call, Mr. Wade. Just wanted to ask you about the events that might have followed your bail payment yesterday.”

“Mr. Webster is dead, I understand,” Wade said.

“Yes, he is. His motel room was burned to the ground, and he was inside.”

“You’re sure it was him?” Wade asked.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Word is that his head and his hand were missing.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s what I heard, Sheriff.”

“From whom, might I ask?”

Wade waved the question away as insignificant. “Just around, you know?”

“I don’t know that I do know, Mr. Wade.”

Wade smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Maybe you’d be better off spending your time someplace you’re welcome, eh, Sheriff?”

“I’m not welcome here, Mr. Wade?”

Wade shrugged. His eyes smiled, but his mouth didn’t. “Perhaps welcome is too strong a word. Maybe you should be spending your time with people who can answer your questions . . . people who can tell you something you don’t already know.”

“I believe you know a number of things that I don’t know, Mr. Wade.”

Gaines didn’t wait for Wade to respond.

“You know where you took Mr. Webster after he left the Sheriff’s Office at three in the afternoon yesterday. You were, as far as I can tell, one of the last people to see him alive. You also know why you were willing to pay five thousand dollars to get him out of jail . . .”

“Perhaps, in truth, I am nothing more than a concerned citizen, Sheriff.”

“How so?”

“Perhaps I am one of those people who have become somewhat dismayed by the apparent lack of justice that seems available for the common man. Perhaps I felt that justice would best be served by letting fate take its course as far as Lieutenant Michael Webster was concerned. Perhaps there are folks in Whytesburg who think that an eye for an eye is still the best kind of justice.”

“You think he was killed by someone for what he did to Nancy Denton?”

Wade took a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one. He did not offer one to Gaines. “I am not trying to second-guess you, Sheriff, but it might be worth looking into that as a possibility.”

“You know that Nancy Denton’s mother is dead.”

Wade didn’t flinch. There seemed to be no reaction at all. He looked directly at Gaines, smoke issuing from his nostrils, and said, “No, I did not know that.”

“Suicide,” Gaines said. “As far as we can tell right now.”

“Would make sense.”

“How so?”

“Lost her daughter in such terrible circumstances, no husband, overwhelmed with grief . . . Seems that suicide would be very much at the forefront of her mind. People don’t commit suicide when they’re at their best, Sheriff.”

Gaines didn’t rise to the sarcastic bait. He was doing his utmost to maintain his objectivity and patience. There was nothing to suggest Matthias Wade had anything to do with the deaths of Nancy Denton or Michael Webster. The only thing that connected Wade to any of it was the fact that he and Webster had known each other for many years and Wade had paid Webster’s bail. How well they had known each other, Gaines did not know. And how well each of them had really known Nancy Denton was also uncertain. The dynamics of their relationship all those years ago were still a mystery to Gaines. Webster had been so much older than all of them. If Matthias Wade was now in his early forties, he would still have been ten years younger than Webster back in ’54 and a good five years older than Nancy. But they had acted like equals—at least that was the impression from the pictures he had seen. It was as if all seven of them—Webster, Nancy, the four Wade children, and this unidentified Maryanne—had been oblivious to all accepted social parameters. Neither age nor the Wades’ position in the community had seemed an obstacle to their respective friendships. Had Nancy’s death therefore been precipitated by nothing more complex than jealousy? Had Matthias Wade actually killed her because he couldn’t have her?