“Lord, please grant our nation’s leaders, in particular our president, some sense of wisdom and Christian values,” McDougal said. “To represent this great God-fearing nation in the ways of our forefathers and not just immigrants.”

Lord, if that boy was dumb as dirt, Stagg thought, he’d cover a few acres.

Stagg watched the Bundren girl lean into Quinn, whisper something, and Colson smile. He couldn’t blame them. McDougal was a Grade A moron.

“Any comments or questions should be held until the end of the agenda,” Stagg said. “We got lots to cover and a packed house. So y’all please bear with us tonight. We’ll go as quickly and efficiently as always.”

There were grading projects, cell phone towers, and a new subdivision plot needed approving. All of them decided on weeks ago, kickbacks already divvied up. There were improvements requested to the old bridge over the Big Black. The Fire Department needed two new vehicles because of those damaged in the storm, and there was a reimbursement needed for the town clerk for prep and copying of tax rolls.

“And we got some property to remove?” Stagg said. “From the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Colson?”

Quinn approached the dais, ramrod straight, and read off a request to remove a Vertex handheld radio, whatever that was, and a 2007 Ford Crown Vic. Both would be headed to salvage.

“We’re also having issues at the SO building,” Colson said. “The roof repairs were patch jobs and have started to leak. We need to look to a permanent solution, along with the damage to two of our holding cells.”

“Fine by me,” Stagg said. “Does the board have any questions?”

Stagg leaned back, stifling a yawn. This was the part of the show that he enjoyed. Colson had his hands flat on the lectern, not showing any emotion in that buzz-cut head of his.

McDougal cleared his throat and leaned forward into his microphone. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I got a few things to discuss that ain’t on this matter but having to deal with sheriff’s business.”

Stagg covered a slight grin with his hand.

“I’ve spent a lot of time out in my district, as I always do, speaking with my constituents who are concerned about this ongoing legal matter with you and Chief Deputy Virgil,” he said, coughing more into his hand. “Have you heard any new information when this inquiry will be done? I’d like to pass on some comfort to my people up in the hills.”

Quinn did not shuffle or move. His eyes just shifted from Stagg to McDougal’s puffy face and reddened cheeks.

“We’ve met with investigators from the DA’s office,” Quinn said. “We’ve answered all their questions.”

McDougal smiled wide. He puckered his mouth and shifted his eyes over at Dupuy’s midnight-black ass. Dupuy dressed tonight like he was on his way to a Sunday fish fry, with a five-button green silk suit with yellow hankie in the pocket. “Mmm-hmm,” McDougal said. “I guess we’re getting some conflicting information. I just spoke to the DA’s office and they said you and Chief Deputy Virgil have been combative and unhelpful.”

“That’s a lie,” Colson said.

“Excuse me?” McDougal said. “Excuse me?”

“I said that’s a lie,” Colson said. “We have been cooperative in what was a justified shooting. If someone says different, they’re either uninformed or stupid.”

Dupuy jerked forward in his chair, eyes wide, Stagg enjoying a fine bit of old-time theater. “Come again, Sheriff? Come again? You don’t think y’all being investigated for killing Police Chief Chappell is important? You think this is some kind of joke? My people take it real serious. Mr. McDougal’s folks, too. I imagine you should know your place around here, Mr. Colson.”

As expected, Sam Bishop, Jr., and Bobby Pickens were silent. They were told to steer clear of things and that was exactly what they’d do if they wanted their projects to go through.

“Sheriff Colson?” Bobby Pickens said.

Stagg turned quick to look at that red-faced peckerhead. Pickens had his hands over his mouth, contemplating this dumb-shit move.

Colson stood there.

“Some on this board feel this investigation into the shooting last April is complicating your sheriff’s duties,” he said. “What do you say?”

“I can do my job the same,” Quinn said. “I stand behind my actions.”

“Yes, sir,” Pickens said.

That goddamn son of a bitch.

“At what point would you step down?” McDougal asked. “If you was arrested?”

From the crowd in the pews, Stagg saw that old drunk Sonny Stevens rise and walk down the aisle to stand with Quinn. God damn, this was fun. The only disappointment was Stevens seemed to be walking in a straight line. And when he started to speak, he didn’t slur his words. “This line of questioning is improper,” Stevens said, “and could and might be slanderous. Sheriff Colson has not been accused of a crime.”

McDougal leaned back into his padded leather seat and belched. Dupuy looked down at his cell phone, starting to text. Stagg nodded and nodded, knowing he was going to have to get through to the whole town, and county, what exactly was at stake. “We’re concerned, Sheriff,” Stagg said. “We are worried about how this affects our people and the county you serve. We’re not saying it has to be permanent, but perhaps until the investigation is completed, you and Deputy Virgil should step down.”

“And when will that be?” Quinn said.

“I guess nobody knows that.”

“Seems to me,” Quinn said, “you know a lot of things before they happen or before they can be found.”

“Sir?”

“I got a busted radio and a patrol car that need to be junked,” Quinn said. “There’s been two burglaries in the county, nine drug arrests, eighteen speeding tickets, and fourteen cases of assault since we last met. That information has been printed and handed out, as always. Are we finished?”

There was a mood in the room, a shifting nervous energy that Stagg could sense and feel and hoped Colson could as well. Lots of whispering and glares among the business owners, the players, and the busybodies in Tibbehah life. No one seemed satisfied with Colson’s answer. He was being put on notice and everyone knew it.

Old Sonny Stevens leaned into Quinn, whispered into his ear. The young man and the old man walked out together. His girlfriend remained alone in the center seat, giving Stagg an Eat shit and die look. Damn, she had a fine little red mouth.

•   •   •

It was early night, darkness at 1930, as Quinn stepped out into the parking lot and saw the Big Green Machine parked sideways and off toward the main road. He and Sonny had parted at the back door, Sonny wanting him to come to his office first thing and work on some strategies to keep the coyotes at bay. “Best thing is to stay focused on the job,” Sonny had said. “That way, when the shitstorm is over, you can hold your head high and stroll through the cannon smoke.”

Boom had done a fine job on the used F-250, Quinn making damn sure to furnish his own vehicle rather than take the tricked-out truck Stagg and the Board of Supervisors had offered when he first took office. This one had a big engine, dually pipes, a roll bar, KC lights, and no strings attached. The Army-green paint gleamed in the fluorescent light from a recent waxing. He hit the unlock button in his coat pocket, his breath coming out in cloud bursts, and got halfway there when he spotted Stagg’s man standing close to his vehicle.

“Cold night, ain’t it?” the man called Ringold said.

Quinn nodded, maintaining eye contact, and opened the door. Hondo was inside, sleeping in the back on a horse blanket. Hondo stirred, yawned, and got to his feet.

“Mr. Stagg would like you and him to meet,” Ringold said.

“What’d you call that in there?”

“In private.”

“If Stagg wants a meet,” Quinn said, “tell him to call Mary Alice at the SO. I’m off duty.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a fresh La Gloria Cubana. He punched the bottom, lit the end, and propped a boot on the truck’s running board.