“What was that all about?” Mr. Jim said.

“Bullshit.”

“That boy need an ass-whippin’?” Luther Varner said.

“For a long time,” Quinn said.

Varner stubbed out his cigarette and started to stand. Quinn grinned at the old Marine and told him to have another cup of coffee. “He’s not worth it.”

“What are you going to do about that lynching?” Mr. Jim said.

“It’s been heavily implied that I better find out just what happened,” Quinn said. “The DA in Oxford sees himself as the next attorney general. And this case would put his name in a lot of papers and on TV.”

“Do people ever do something just for the right of it?” Mr. Jim asked. He started to cough again, the hacking getting worse. Before Mr. Jim tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket, Quinn saw it had been spotted with blood.

Varner did, too, and he and Quinn exchanged glances.

“Did they ever?” Varner said. “I spent my whole life in Jericho and seen and heard about stuff that would’ve made Norman Rockwell shit his drawers.”

“Doing what’s right isn’t gonna work now,” Quinn said, spinning the mug in his hands. “I can only take on one thing at a time, even if it means some people keep clean.”

“You’re sounding more and more like your Uncle Hamp,” Mr. Jim said, smiling big. “He was a realistic man. Before things got real bad, he’d say he had to think tactically on things. Not with anger.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “I understand that. But I don’t want to be my Uncle Hamp.”

Mr. Jim started to cough some more and excused himself from the table. Luther watched him go, finished the cigarette, and stubbed it into the already overloaded tray. “Been smoking and drinking since I was twelve years old and still feel like I could fight and fuck my way around God’s Green Earth. My drill sergeant at Parris Island said heaven didn’t want a Marine and hell was afraid we’d take over. Maybe that’s why we stick around so long.”

“How bad?” Quinn said.

“Bad.”

“He tell you much?”

“No, sir,” Luther said. “Dying is pretty private to a man.”

•   •   •

When Quinn returned to the sheriff’s office, he found his door ajar and Mary Alice inside, talking to Johnny Stagg and his boy Ringold. She’d served them hot coffee and cold biscuits. Quinn wouldn’t have given Stagg the honor of licking his toilet bowl clean. Mary Alice scooted out of the office when she saw Quinn, raising her eyebrows in a look of What else could I do? and left the door wide open as she clacked back down the hall.

Quinn took a seat on top of his desk. He didn’t say a word.

“I get the feeling she don’t like me too much,” Stagg said. “Mary Alice told me three times to come back later. I said I’d rather wait.”

Quinn nodded.

“You think I could eat one of them biscuits? Or maybe she made ’em with rat poison . . .”

“I guess if you take a bite, we’ll find out.”

Ringold sat in the chair closest to the window. He’d nodded at Quinn when he’d walked in but remained seated, wearing a black ball cap with narrow sunglasses resting on the visor. He wore a tight-fitting jacket and dark jeans with field boots.

“What do you want, Johnny?” Quinn said. “I gave an inspirational speech this morning and now I’m running late on things. Miss Davis drove her car into a ditch again and some teenagers just stole a box of Slim Jims and prophylactics from the Pig.”

“Sorry I missed the speech,” Stagg said, “but I’m sure I’ve heard it in one form or another.”

“I heard you made deacon at First Baptist,” Quinn said. “Congrats, Johnny.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Stagg said. “They liked what I was doing for this town. Some people appreciate all I’ve done after the storm.”

“Amen.”

“I ain’t got time to sit around and square off over smart-ass remarks, son,” Stagg said. “We got some real trouble headed this way and I don’t think you got a complete grasp of the situation.”

“Born Losers are back.”

“That’s part of it,” Stagg said. “Their head man, Chains LeDoux, is also getting out of prison in twelve days. If y’all don’t find some reason he needs to be held, he’ll be riding back into Jericho bigger than shit. Don’t you see they’re preparing a hero’s welcome out at that sorry ole shack on Choctaw?”

“Lillie and I saw them last night,” Quinn said.

“You arrest them?”

“On what charges?”

“Be creative,” Stagg said. “Make some up.”

Quinn shook his head. The cold biscuits sat on a pink Fiesta plate, half covered with aluminum foil. Two mugs of coffee sat on the other side of Quinn’s desk, full, grown cold as they’d waited for Quinn to return.

Quinn scratched at his neck. He wasn’t caring for the familiarity of Stagg just stopping into the SO, something that he’d only done a handful of times before. And he sure as shit had never made himself comfortable in Quinn’s office. Quinn had made it clear from the first election that he in no way worked for the Board of Supervisors. He sure as hell ran no favors for Stagg.

“How’s that old case coming?” Stagg said.

Quinn looked over at Ringold. “You don’t say much.”

Ringold hadn’t moved an inch, shrugging in an offhand manner. The beard on his face was growing out longer than the receding black hairs on his head. He had clear blue eyes and slow, practiced movements. “Sure is a cold day,” Ringold said. “Lots of ice on those roads.”

Quinn grinned and just shook his head.

“I don’t want that man back in Tibbehah,” Stagg said. “If you got some kind of personal reasons for not following up on this disgusting act, you need to let me know. Maybe need to get some state people involved.”

“Why would this be personal, Johnny?”

Stagg gave that good old preacher grin and leaned forward in his seat. His hair slicked up tall on his head like a rockabilly star from the fifties, down to the ducktail he kept in back. He nodded and rubbed his chin. “What are you hearing about that lynching?”

“I can’t discuss a case with you,” Quinn said. “You know that.”

“I’m coming in here to help your ass out,” Stagg said. “I know that DA in Oxford got you and Lillie by the gosh-dang short hairs. What I’m hearing is that you make them look good and they could reevaluate the whole case against y’all.”

“Umm-hmm.”

“This LeDoux ain’t someone you fuck with,” Stagg said. “He aims to burn this whole town to the ground.”

“Little dramatic, aren’t you, Johnny?” Quinn said. “You’re making it sound like High Plains Drifter.”

“Paint the town red?”

Quinn laughed. Ringold hadn’t budged. He was still and frozen, flat and hard blue eyes looking to the photos Quinn kept of his time in the deep shit of Benning, the bare mountains of Afghanistan, and the framed flag given to him by a Colonel George Reynolds that had flown at Camp Spann. Ringold had surely been a lot of those places, if not all of them, not commenting or asking about it, maybe knowing his work with Stagg was dirty, soulless, and without a shred of honor. To bring up the connection would be to start on it all. Of course Quinn knew plenty of guys who had come out of the shit in Iraq or Afghanistan feeling like Uncle Sam was just as dirty as Johnny Stagg. Maybe it was better not to talk about it.

“There are living people who saw what that animal and his crew done,” Stagg said.

“And I’ll talk to them.”

“There ain’t much time.”

“You starting to sweat a little, Johnny?” Quinn said. “Sounds like this man Chains ain’t coming back to burn Jericho. He’s coming back to burn you.”

Stagg nodded. He looked over at Ringold and then back at Quinn. “He’ll surely try,” Stagg said. “But you really want that trash and filth coming back to our town? We’ve made a lot of progress since we nearly got swept away by the hand of God. These people are gonna piss on everything we’re trying to build here.”

“Spoken like a true church deacon.”