“What for?”
“So I can observe the two of you together. The chemistry, the starry eyes, all that shit. OK?”
Skink went outside and crawled under the station wagon, where he curled up and began to snore. Max coughed himself to sleep in the barn.
Bonnie Lamb awoke in Augustine’s arms. Her guilt was diluted by the observation that he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She didn’t remember him dressing during the night, but obviously he had. She was reasonably sure that no sex had occurred; plenty of tears, yes, but no sex.
Bonnie wanted to pull away without waking him. Otherwise there might be an awkward moment, the two of them lying there embraced. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d know exactly what not to say. Clearly he was experienced with crying women, because he was exceptionally good at hugging and whispering. When she found herself thinking about how nice he smelled, Bonnie knew it was time to sneak out of bed.
As she’d hoped, Augustine had the good manners to pretend to stay asleep until she was safely in the kitchen, making coffee.
When he walked in, she felt herself blush. “I’m so sorry,” she blurted, “for last night.”
“Why? Did you take advantage of me?” He went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of eggs. “I’m a heavy sleeper,” he said. “Easy prey for sex-crazed babes.”
“Especially newlyweds.”
“Oh, they’re the worst,” said Augustine. “Ravenous harlots. You want scrambled or fried?”
“Fried.” She sat at the table. She tore open a packet of NutraSweet and managed to miss the coffee cup entirely. “Please believe me. I don’t usually sleep with strange men.”
“Sleeping is fine. It’s the screwing you want to watch out for.” He was peeling an orange at the sink. “Relax, OK? Nothing happened.”
Bonnie smiled. “Can I at least say thanks, for being a friend.”
“You’re very welcome, Mrs Lamb.” He glanced over his shoulder. “What’s so funny?”
“The jeans.”
“Don’t tell me there’s a hole.”
“No. It’s just-well, you got up in the middle of the night to put them on. It was a sweet gesture.”
“Actually, it was more of a precaution.” The eggs sizzled when Augustine dropped them into the hot pan. “I’m surprised you even noticed,” he said, causing Bonnie to redden once more.
In the middle of breakfast, the phone rang. It was the Medical Examiner’s Office-another John Doe was being hauled to the county morgue. The coroner on duty wanted Bonnie to stop by for a look. Augustine said she’d call him back. He put the phone down and told her.
“Can they make me go?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because it’s not Max,” Bonnie said. “Max is too busy talking to Rodale and Burns.”
“A white male is all they said. Apparent homicide.”
The last word hung in the air like sulfur. Bonnie put down her fork. “It can’t be him.”
“Probably not,” Augustine agreed. “We don’t have to go.”
She got up and went to the bathroom. Soon Augustine heard the shower running. He was washing the dishes when she came out. She was dressed. Her wet hair was brushed back, and she’d found the intern’s rose lipstick in the medicine chest.
“I guess I need to be sure,” she said.
Augustine nodded. “You’ll feel better.”
Snapper’s real name was Lester Maddox Parsons. His mother named him after a Georgia politician best known for scaring off black restaurant customers with an ax handle. Snapper’s mother believed Lester Maddox should be President of the United States and the whole white world; Snapper’s father leaned toward James Earl Ray. When Snapper was barely seven years old, his parents took him to his first Ku Klux Klan rally; for the occasion, Mrs Parsons dressed her son in a costume sewn from white muslin pillowcases; she was especially proud of the pointy little hood. The other Klansmen and their wives fawned over Lester, remarking on the youngster’s handsome Southern features-baffling praise, because all that was visible of young Lester were his beady brown eyes, peeping through the slits of his sheet. He thought: I could be a Negro, for all they know!
Still, the boy enjoyed Klan rallies because there was great barbecue and towering bonfires. He was disappointed when his family stopped attending, but he couldn’t argue with his parents’ reason for quitting. They referred to it as The Accident, and Lester would never forget the night. His father had gotten customarily shitfaced and, when the climactic moment came to light the cross, accidentally ignited the local Grand Kleagle instead. In the absence of a fire hose, the frantic Klansmen were forced to save their blazing comrade by spritzing him with well-shaken cans of Schlitz beer. Once the fire was extinguished, they placed the charred Kleagle in the bed of Lester’s father’s pickup and drove to the hospital. Although the man survived, his precious anonymity was lost forever. A local television crew happened to be outside the emergency room when the