“I might move to town,” Quinn said, “let Caddy and Jason have the farm until they get situated. She talked about using that old trailer at The River. But I don’t want Jason out there. She’ll get settled, but I don’t want her to rush.”

“Where will you go?”

“I had an invite to move in with Ophelia,” Quinn said.

Jean smiled. “I wondered how long that would take.”

“No lectures on me living in sin?”

“Not from me,” Jean said. “Sin can sometimes be fun. But some people may not approve. Just don’t make a quick decision, with that election coming up.”

Quinn laughed and shook his head. “Hell, that doesn’t matter,” he said. “That thing’s lost. People around here think Lillie and I are guilty of murder. The DA in Oxford won’t dismiss charges or take things to the grand jury. They’re gonna hold things long enough to make sure my name means nothing.”

“Lots of folks believe in you,” Jean said. “Do you know how many people stop me on the street to thank me for all you’ve done? Or at church? Or the Rexall?”

“How many folks are going to walk up to my momma and tell her the worst?”

“Think about Ophelia,” she said. “That’s a nice thing for Caddy. But once I’ve moved out, she and Jason can take the whole upstairs till they get settled.”

Quinn nodded. He put his arm around his mother, light creeping into the front windows and across the new floors. He patted her back and she let out a long breath, smiling and settling into the thought of coming back home after nearly a near.

“Caddy told me you’re getting a lot of pressure to solve what happened to Diane Tull,” Jean said. “And that mess that came after.”

“Yep.”

“That’s why you wanted to know about your father and that gang.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Quinn said. “I know how hard it was to raise me and Caddy. You tried your best to keep him out of our lives and do the best you could for us. To bring him up was wrong.”

“No it wasn’t.”

“He’s a dishonorable man,” Quinn said. “Let’s not talk about him again.”

Jean stared up at Quinn. “If you could talk to him, what would you ask?”

“Just one thing,” Quinn said. “What did he see the night that man was lynched?”

“It won’t bother you to see him, not knowing why he left us?” Jean said. “I’m worried about you more than him if y’all came face-to-face.”

“Shit,” Quinn said, “I don’t give a damn. Lots of men leave their families. I was lucky to have you and Uncle Hamp. Y’all raised me. He doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

“But it could help you,” Jean said, “with the DA’s office and the mess they got you in. If he’d tell you the truth.”

Quinn didn’t say anything. The morning light had crept over the floor and was moving up the walls. Jean stepped away from Quinn for a moment and walked the new hardwood. She put her arms around her waist and stared down as she paced. “I never wanted you to speak to him,” Jean said, “but I guess that’s my own selfishness.”

“What does it matter?” Quinn said. “He could be dead, for all we know.”

This time, Jean was silent. She met her son’s eye and tilted her head. “He’s not dead,” she said. “Not yet.”

Quinn nodded. “How do you know?”

“Because your Uncle Van goes to see him a few times a year,” Jean said. “He comes back and runs his mouth to me as if I give a shit.”

“Van lied to me, then.”

“He’s just protectin’ you.”

Quinn nodded, not buying it. “How’s Van afford to get out west?”

“Your father hasn’t been out west for almost ten years,” she said. “He’s been working at some horse farm in Hinds County, getting himself clean. Some little town called Pocahontas.”

Quinn put his right hand into his Levi’s front pocket, waiting, thoughts rushing through his head fast. He tried to breathe, slow it all down the best he could, the same way you did when aiming a rifle. Jean walked to her son and put a hand on Quinn’s face and said, “Don’t let the bastard get to you,” she said. “Get your questions answered and then get gone.”

Quinn nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

Quinn took the Trace down to Highway 82 and then followed the interstate over into Hinds County. He’d been driving straight for about three hours before he found Pocahontas Road, which ran right past an old restaurant shaped like a teepee called, rightly so, Big Teepee Barbecue. He slowed, circled back, and drove into the gravel lot, finding a small building set apart from the teepee, a combo restaurant and convenience store. A sign on the door promised church services in the teepee every Sunday at ten a.m. A bald man with a short white beard came from a back office, wiping his hands on his apron, when he heard the bell. He came on up to the counter with a big smile on his face. “Yes, sir?”

“I’m looking for a man named Jason Colson,” Quinn said, wearing official shirt, badge, and gun on his hip. “Lives somewhere around here.”

The man’s smile dropped. He shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s not wanted,” Quinn said.

“Why you looking for him, then?”

“It’s a personal matter.”

The man shook his head some more. “Sorry,” he said. “Cain’t help you.”

Quinn looked around the store, at the little red-and-white oilcloths over the tables and the rows and rows of bubble gum, snack cakes, pork rinds, and cleaning supplies. A big cooler lining a back wall filled with cold drinks, ice cream, and live bait. Behind the register was a fairly decent-sized model of Noah’s Ark.

“You put that together?” Quinn asked.

The man craned his neck and scratched his cheek. “Took me three years,” he said. “It’s completely made of Popsicle sticks. Had me a guy come in last year and offer me five hundred dollars for it. You believe that? I told him I couldn’t take it. It brings too many people pleasure to see it and get to thinking about the wicked ways of the world. God could take our asses out again.”

“You bet.”

“I’m a preacher, too,” the man said. “We got services on Sunday. Figured the teepee would make people think on things. I became fully ordained through a course on the Internet. Only cost me fifty dollars.”

“Yes, sir.” Quinn nodded. “Worth every penny.”

The man wore a T-shirt had a big fishing hook printed on it and reading Hooked on Jesus. He had a large belly, with the shirt riding up above his blue jeans several inches and stained with barbecue sauce. “You from Jackson?”

“Jericho.”

“Where the hell’s that?”

Quinn jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the northeast. The man nodded back at him as if he knew exactly where Quinn was talking about.

“Now, who’s this guy again?”

“White man in his sixties, a little shorter than me,” Quinn said. “Other than that, I can’t tell you much. He might’ve told you that at one time he worked in Hollywood.”

“The stunt fella?” the man asked. “You’re looking for that old stunt fella? Hell, yeah. What’s his name?”

“Colson,” Quinn said. “Jason Colson.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know’d him,” the man said. “I think he rented a trailer from Mr. Birdsong. He’s got him some land down the road divided up in little lots. Ain’t much. But he don’t charge much, either.”

“Where?” Quinn asked.

“You say you’re some kind of kin?”

•   •   •

Quinn followed Pocahontas Road to a dirt road with the No Trespassing sign the good reverend had told him about. He followed the road for a quarter mile and soon found ten trailers huddled close together on a circular cut-in at the dead end. Quinn got out of his truck, chose the trailer that looked most promising out of ten trailers with little promise, and knocked on the door. The trailer was old and misshapen, with brittle wooden steps leading to it. Inside, a dog started to bark. No one came to the door. He knocked some more.