on who shot who. Let?s hit it fresh in the morning.”
We paid the check; the Stick said good night and left. Dutch and I drove the ten minutes back to the
hotel in silence.
The black limo was still parked under the marquee of the Ponce when we got back. As I got out of the
car I noticed the tag:
Shit. I told Dutch I would check my messages and meet him in the bar for a nightcap.
There was a phone call from Cisco and a hotel envelope, sealed, with my name printed meticulously
across the front.
I called Cisco, gave him the latest body count, and told him I?d give him the details over breakfast.
As I started toward the bar I finally saw him, the first of several spectres from the past. 1 was tired and
getting irritable and I wasn?t ready to face up yet, but there he was in his three-piece dark blue suit
and a gray homburg, leaning on a gold-handled ebony cane, his snowy hair clipped neatly above the
ears, his sapphire eyes twinkling fiercely under thick white brows.
Stonewall Titan, sheriff and kingmaker of Oglethorpe County, Mr. Stoney to everything that walked
on two feet in the town, was standing under the marquee wiggling a short, thick finger under the nose
of a tall and uncomfortable-looking guy in a tweed jacket and gray flannels. Titan had made or
destroyed more than one political dream with a wave of that finger. The man in tweeds went back into
the bar.
Finished, Titan turned and, leaning on the cane, limped toward his car, where a tall and ugly bird in a
tan and black county policeman?s uniform held the door for him. As he was about to enter the car, he
saw me and hesitated for an instant. His bright blue eyes glittered in brief recognition, then his hard
law tightened and he climbed into the limousine and was gone.
Then I saw her.
I moved behind a fern, watching her through its slender leaves, like a high school swain eyeing his
first crush. I don?t know what made me think I could have avoided seeing her. It had to happen sooner
or later. Later would have been better.
Doe Findley still looked eighteen, still had the long blond silky hair, the caramel tan, eyes as gray as
ever. A flash of memories tumbled through my mind: Doe on water skis, her silken hair twisting in
the wind; roaring across the beach in a dune buggy; playfully wrestling on the boat dock with Teddy
and pushing him into the bay in his best sports coat and pants, then chasing me across the wide lawn
down to the edge of the bay.
Doe watching the sun set off the point at Windsong, an image as soft and fragile as a Degas painting.
Time had erased a lot of images from my mind, but those were as clear as a painting on the wall, even
