That black pitchfork tree loomed in the distance.

“He pushed her down to the ground,” Diane said. “Right here. He told us if we didn’t stop crying, he’d kill us both. He said if I tried to help her, he’d shoot me where I stood. I sat down and waited. He got to one knee, then pressed himself on Lori, and I just blurted out all of a sudden, I’m not even sure I’d said it, but I must have. I told him to come on with me first. I told him I’d let him have me first, not cry about it. I told Lori to go on, leave us alone. He didn’t say anything, but she wouldn’t leave us. She didn’t go ten feet, just standing there with arms across her chest, crying, watching as that son of a bitch ripped off my jeans and underwear with a pocketknife and did what he wanted to me. He smelled like pure garbage, grunting and calling me filthy names the whole time, gun in his right hand until he finished up. Yes, it hurt like hell. I bled down there for weeks.”

“You gave a pretty good description to my uncle,” Quinn said. “You said he had burn marks on his face. A lot of scarring.”

“On the right side,” she said. “And some white scarring across his head where the hair didn’t grow back normal. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a lot of weight and muscle about him. Real compact. I’d never seen him before. When he got going, he spoke in biblical passages about whores and harlots. He told me he hated me.”

Quinn nodded. Hondo looped back to him, tongue lolling, waiting for orders on more roundups.

“When he finished, he buckled up his pants and told me to get my ass up and to stand next to my friend,” Diane said, hands in the pockets of a Sherpa jean coat, gray strand of hair falling across her eyes. “I pulled up my things, which were ripped and trashed, and walked over to Lori, putting my arm around her. I remember doing that much, telling her that as soon as we could we just needed to start running. She nodded, shivering like she was cold, even though it was hot as hell that night. I held her hand as we walked, like when we were kids, and I would look back at the man, him trudging along with a grin on his face till we got near that old tree over there.”

She stood and pointed to the charred relic of what had maybe been a big oak.

“All of a sudden, he told us to run,” she said. “He said run, get gone, he was through with the whores, and we ran to that old house, even though the house might’ve been worse. I always wondered why we didn’t run to the road, away from this place, but the house was shelter and closer and I guess we were thinking he’d leave us and go back to his car.”

“How far did y’all get?”

“From here?”

Quinn nodded. Hondo had wandered over to Diane Tull and moved his head and shoulders up against her leg. She had her right hand draped at her side and was rubbing his ears. She did not seem to be sad or uncomfortable, simply stating a historical fact of that horrific night, laying it all out for the law as she’d promised Caddy Colson. Quinn stood and watched her as she looked across the pasture and thought, her finally saying, “Maybe thirty feet, and then he started shooting. I heard the shot and then Lori slumped and fell and there was blood on me because we were running so close. When I stopped to help her, I felt the tear in my back and the crack of the shot and then two more. He shot me twice in the back and then I fell. The moon was so bright then. I remember that. That bastard getting plenty of light to do his shit.”

Stagg had gotten the key to the hunt lodge from one of Vardaman’s people, the senator providing the space, with Stagg bringing the booze and the women to the party. He employed a sixteen-year-old black kid named Willie James Jones, who carried in the crates of whiskey, while Ringold drove the Rebel Truck Stop van with eight girls from the Booby Trap. Before they’d come out, he made it absolutely clear this was in no way related to their duties, but if they wanted a shitload of tips, they were welcome to come along. Only problem with the offer was turning down a dozen girls. He decided to choose a couple young black girls, a Vietnamese, a Mexican, and four white girls. One of the white girls had the best goddamn tatas he’d seen in his life—natural, too—that she could wrap around a man’s head like a hat.

“Where you want this, sir?” asked Willie James.

“Back bar underneath them ducks,” Stagg said. “You see the ducks?”

Willie James nodded and kept walking through the open lodge over to the big fireplace and long bar. The walls were decorated with all manner of dead animals, stuffed ducks and deer and bobcat, Mississippi creatures. But the senator was also fond of going on over to Africa, and a game preserve in Texas, where he’d killed a rhino, a lion, and some wild animals Stagg couldn’t name. All the animals looked as dumb and glass-eyed as the girls who wandered in with Ringold, mouths hanging open since this was a good bit nicer than any of the trailers they’d been raised in out in Ackerman or Pontotoc.

“Please refrain from drinking unless y’all are asked,” Stagg said. “These are fine men. They don’t care for sloppy women.”

The women nodded, the girl with the big tatas popping purple bubble gum as she listened. The two black girls wore identical pink kimonos, while the rest wore terry cloth robes over their bikinis and lingerie, already dressed for work.

“How about some music?” asked one of the black girls. Her name was Jaquita or Janiqua or some kind of crazy name. “Ain’t a party with no music. Shit . . .”

“Sure,” Stagg said. “As long as it’s either country or western.”

The girls sighed and Stagg walked out of the room back to the big kitchen where Willie James had laid out the cheese-and-sausage trays from Piggly Wiggly with some plates of cold fried chicken brought down special from Gus’s in Memphis. Like always, the men could come into the kitchen, grab a plate of chow, and wander on out to the big room by the big stone fireplace to mingle with the ladies. The ladies were being paid by the hour, but the men knew it was customary to leave a tip, although there was this flunky from Jackson who gave a girl only two bits after intercourse. Stagg would never forget the low class of that fella or his people.

“Mr. Stagg?”

Stagg turned to see a little white girl, whose name he couldn’t quite recall, come into the kitchen and ask if they might talk. She eyed the buffet of food and licked her lips and Stagg told her it was fine, go ahead and grab something to eat. “There might not be time later,” he said. “While you tend to the business.”

She didn’t hesitate, grabbing an Ole Miss paper plate, and started to gather chicken legs, cheese, and sausage. “I ain’t eaten all day, Mr. Stagg. Thank you.”

Stagg smiled at her and waved a hand over the feast.

She inhaled the food so fast that Stagg worried she might choke, waiting for her to take a breath. “You had something you wanted to ask?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “But I don’t rightly know how to say it.”

Willie James peered up at Stagg from the long counter, where he was slicing up fruits and vegetables with as much skill as any Jap chef he’d seen on television.

“It’s OK,” Stagg said. “You want to whisper it?”

“Well,” said the girl. “Last time, one of those men, a fat man from Tupelo who owns all those car dealerships . . .”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stagg said, knowing his name and knowing the girl did, too. His big, florid face plastered on every billboard from Jericho to Batesville. No Money Down. Bad Credit? No Problem.