I looked at Miz Best. Her eyes were worried.

“Sorry, Carson. Mr Mix-up doesn’t usually go to strangers. You’re the first person he’s run toward. Mr Mix-up’s running out of days and we can’t find him a home. He’s too odd-looking, I think. You know anyone who wants a dog?”

I looked at the star-crossed critter, whomping its feet into the sand while its tongue lolled, alternately squealing and roof-ing, wanting me to touch it or whatever they want.

“Sorry, Miz Best,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets. “He’ll have to take his chances like the rest of us.”

On the way in I stopped at my standard convenience store. Having been made more nutritionally aware by Fossie, I got a banana and a Clif’s bar. My eyes did the usual scan of the newspapers. A headline caught my eye:

Rumors of Scaler’s Mystery Meeting Before Death

The subhead read: Famous Preacher Seeing Woman?

I sat out in my truck, chomping and reading. The details were squishy: police suspected Scaler might have met someone at the cabin that night, odds were it was a woman. But the copy made no mention of a dominatrix and the rest of the sordid actuality. I imagined an enterprising reporter had gotten wind that a couple of detectives wanted to question a woman in conjunction with Scaler’s death, put two and two together.

Though I had no love for Scaler and his hard-line, uncompromising ilk, I hoped the story would go no further. It would be tough enough on his wife to have the suspicion of an affair out there, far worse if the reality was known.

Harry had to prepare for a court appearance on one of the murders we’d investigated a couple months back. I was feeling more energetic than I had in days, wondering if all I’d needed was sleep, vitamins and a better diet.

I decided to head up to Holman Prison and confront Donnie Kirkson, the guy in Ben Belker’s surreptitious photos, the one biker who had any interest in Terry Lee Bailes.

At Holman, a guard was assigned to accompany me. After passing through a series of barred doors and gates, I stopped and looked out a grated window to the yard. It was like recess in one of Dante’s circles of Hell: a couple hundred cons, their shadows extended in the late-afternoon sun. Most had self-segregated into the three primary tribes: white, black and Hispanic. They were hanging out on tables or flipping a basketball or spotting one another while pumping iron. A trio of black guys jogged the perimeter, brown dust flapping from their feet as they padded by below, cutting a hard right to give wide berth to a man on a chinning bar.

The guy weighed three hundred pounds and was chinning all of them easily, his biceps as round as phone poles. His body shone with sweat and his shaved head glowed in the sunlight. I saw a slight black guy mince to the monster. The little guy made some form of entreaty to the hulk swinging on the bar. Without breaking his fluid motion, the behemoth said something brief and the little guy clapped and skittered away.

“Who’s that on the chin bar?” I asked the guard.

“Thunderhead Wallace. An’ it looks like he’s got a date for later.”

“Thunderhead?”

The guard grinned and clenched his fist, letting his arm dangle between his legs for a second.

“Boy’s got a wang that’d shame Johnny Wadd. Likes to polish the internal plumbing of a whole stable of punks. ’Bout the only time he ain’t fucking something is out there in the yard.”

“What’s he in for?”

“Accomplice on a bank heist put him here, but he also has priors for indecent exposure and bestiality.” The guard chuckled. “If you can believe it, ol’ Thunderhead got caught at a cattle farm –”

I held up my hand. “I’ll pass on the details. You know much about Kirkson?”

“A nasty little shit who hangs with the Aryan Nation types, thinks he’s something. The girl he took to the motel and soaked with alcohol? Same age as my daughter. I’d like to get Thunderhead to take Kirkson to a motel.”

“You’re kidding, right?” I said to him, feeling an odd notion bubble to the top of my brain, a thought encircled with inspirational light.

The guard looked from side to side. Didn’t see any supervisors.

“I mean ever’ goddamn word, buddy.”

I thought for a few more moments as we walked, pulled the guard aside before we got to the block. We spoke briefly, me laying out my case, maybe embellishing a few points. He took me to an office, set me in the chair, said, “Third drawer on the left, in the file marked Transfer Directives.” He added the word, “Hurry,” and stepped outside, looking up and down the hall before closing the door.

I was out in under a minute, patting my pocket. The guard was looking the other direction; he said, “I never saw anything.”

“Of course,” I said, following him to a holding area, a gray-walled ten-by-ten cell with a table and three chairs waiting. I sat and drummed my fingers on the tabletop while Kirkson was fetched from his cage. He’d added a few pounds since the photos with Bailes; prison food does that, starch and carbs. But he’d kept the muscle def; under his dirty yellow mullet I could see hard shoulders and a thick neck. His arms were ropy and heavily inked. He preferred to lean against the wall rather than sit. He lit a Marlboro. I asked him about Terry Lee Bailes.

“I’m not sure I remember that name,” Kirkson smirked, true to form.

“Come on, Donnie. Let’s not start our relationship on a false note. I’ve got pictures of you two together. What was Bailes like?”

Kirkson blew out smoke and grinned at the ceiling. The smartass was thinking deal time. This was a guy who’d plied a confused fifteen-year-old runaway with alcohol and taken her to a motel for four days. Now he expected us to fix things so he got time off for talking about Bailes.

“What was who like?” Kirkson said.

When I said nothing, Kirkson sneered. “What’s in it for me? You better be talking time off. Big time off, you got that?”

“I can find others who knew Bailes,” I said.

“Sure,” Kirkson taunted. “That’s why you’re here. I’ll say it one last time: What’s in it for me?”

I pulled a trifolded page from my pocket, snapped it open. It was yellow, a page from a carbon duplicate form. It was a bogus transfer, a cell-reassignment form. I’d filled it out all by myself, signing the warden’s name with a big wardenly flourish.

“What’s that?” Kirkson grinned. “The deal that tells me I’m outta here in six months? It fuckin’ better be.”

I handed Kirkson the sheet. He was still grinning as he started reading, but was staring wide-eyed and gap-mouthed by the time he reached the warden’s sig at the bottom.

“You…can’t do this,” he stammered.

“It’s already done, Donnie,” I said, my turn to smirk. “Your new bed is being made as we speak.”

“My lawyer won’t let –”

I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. “You’re between lawyers, Donnie. Remember? One quit in disgust. Then you fired two in a row. It’ll take days for the court to appoint new counsel. Sleep tight.”

“It’s a fucking set-up. A lie!”

I shook the page in the air. “Official form, official signature.”

“No way. It’s like a death sentence!”

“Not if you play your cards right, Donnie-boy,” I crooned. “I suggest you shave your legs, practice your pucker, and invest heavily in Vaseline. Or maybe motor oil. Word has it Thunderhead Wallace likes to drive all night.”

“You filthy son of a bitch. You BASTARD!”

“Hey!” the guard outside yelled. “Keep it down, Kirkson. Or you’ll go back to your cell. I hear you’re getting a new one.”

“On your way to your new cell, Donnie…” I said, putting the page in my pocket like I was preparing to leave, “you might want to stop at the commissary and get that Vaseline. They sell it in fifty-gallon drums?”