"What did he do, Ms. Nolan?"

She brought her gaze back to Jackson. "He stepped past me, went through the kitchen, and out the back door, the same way he'd come in."

"When you frantically asked him, 'What are you going to do?' did he offer a reply?"

She dampened her dry lips and looked toward the twelve people who would decide Willard Strong's guilt or innocence. "He said, 'I'm going to find them, and when I do, I'm going to kill them.'"

Lemuel Jackson was seasoned enough to know to quit when he was ahead. He told the judge that he had no further questions for Ms. Nolan.

The judge consulted both attorneys. Cross-examination was likely to take a while. Considering how late in the day it was, and the approach of the holiday weekend, they agreed that court should be adjourned until after Labor Day. The judge told Ms. Nolan that she could step down. A bailiff escorted her out through a side door.

The judge said, "Defense counsel will be ready to cross-examine Ms. Nolan when we reconvene at nine o'clock next Tuesday morning. Enjoy your holiday."

She banged the gavel. Dawson was the first one out of the courtroom.

A few minutes earlier, his phone had vibrated, signaling a text message. He claimed a relatively private place in the corridor and accessed the text. It was from Glenda, the researcher, asking him to call her. He wasted no time punching in her number, wanting to take advantage of her help while she was in a generous mood.

As soon as she answered, he said, "Have you finally decided to marry me? Please say you're calling to accept my many proposals."

Crossly she said, "Kiss my skinny ass, Dawson."

"You name the time and place."

She snorted, but he could sense that one of her rare smiles was behind it. "You ready?"

"Lay it on me."

"Amelia Wesson nee Nolan is the daughter of the late US Congressman Beekman Davis Nolan-he went by Davis-who represented his district for thirty-two years."

"Huh."

"If you'd've been paying attention, you would've heard of him. He served on too many committees and advisory boards to list, presided over one congressional hearing in 1994 and another in '98. A public safety bill that was voted into law bears his name, because he wrote it and introduced it. He was well liked and admired on both sides of the aisle."

"Which side was he on?"

"He hailed from a state that usually goes red, but he didn't always toe the party line. He was a flag waver, for sure, but he was often outspoken against diehard conservatives, especially when it came to personal-liberty issues. Abortion. Gay marriage. Like that."

"Made enemies?"

"He had his critics. But his more liberal outlook also won him admirers on the other side. Basically, he was that rare bird that's almost extinct in politics-a man of integrity. Even the people who disagreed with him admired him. Couldn't be influenced by lobbyists, never backed down from what he believed in. His hero was Jefferson, and he quoted him a lot. By the way, do you want Harriet the Harridan in on any of this?"

"Not yet."

"I didn't think so. She's cussing you over something."

"Must have been that crack about her extra ten pounds."

Glenda cackled. "Watch yourself. I've heard rumors that she's into voodoo. Know what she did today? The portrait of her predecessor that hung in the lobby? She had it taken down. Said he was gone and that a new regime had taken over. Like we needed reminding. The bitch."

Dawson shared her sentiment, but the less said about Harriet the better for his frame of mind. He redirected the conversation back to Nolan. "What about the congressman's personal life?"

"Squeaky clean. Widowed in the midnineties. They'd been married since The Flood, and he never remarried. No scandals. Not one nekkid girl caught sneaking out of his office, no little boys in his shower. Social drinker, nonsmoker. On paper, he was a saint."

"Find anything on the daughter?"

"Amelia. Middle name Ware. These southern names just kill me," she mumbled as an aside. "Born May 1981, which makes her-"

"Thirty-two."

"I can subtract," she snapped. "Attended Vanderbilt. Active in various campus organizations. Took it upon herself to launch a food-and-clothing drive to help hurricane victims in Alabama and went herself to see that the goods got where they were supposed to go. Made national news. Yada yada.

"Graduated summa cum laude with a degree in history. Earned a master's while working at a museum in Boston. Then she spent two years working at another in Baltimore. But when her father retired from public office-"

"Do you know why he retired?"

"No specific reason given. He made an announcement that he wasn't going to seek reelection. Nothing noteworthy or suspicious. Just tired of it, I guess. He was nearing seventy."

"Okay."

"Anyhow...Where was I?"

"When her father retired..."

"Right. She moved back to Savannah and became his assistant. She served as his hostess, social secretary, Girl Friday. Together they sponsored fund-raisers for numerous charities."

"Was she married to Jeremy Wesson during this same time?"

"Let's see...yeah, there was an overlap of a few years. The congressman died in early 2010. Mrs. Wesson now works-"

"She goes by Nolan."

"-as a curator at the-"

"Collier War Museum. Specializes in-"

"Look, if you're so freakin' smart, why'd you have me look up all this crap? Which, if we're splitting hairs, you could've looked up yourself."

"But I'm clumsy at it and you're adroit."

"Adroit, my ass. You just don't want to take the time."

"I just don't want to take the time," he admitted.

"Your time's more valuable than mine?"

"No, you're priceless, and I couldn't do without you. You know that."

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "I've got photos of Ms. Nolan. She's at least an eight."

"Closer to a nine. And a half."

"I swear to God, Dawson, you had better not have me doing all this work just 'cause you've got the hots for the lady. I'm not running a dating service here."

"I swear, it's vital background information for a story."

"One you don't want Harriet to know about."

"Not yet." He glanced around and realized that the corridor had virtually cleared. He needed to hurry, but he had a few more questions for Glenda and was afraid that if he didn't ask them while she was being moderately agreeable, he'd be left wanting. "Do you have a current address for her?"

"Last one that surfaced was Jones Street in Savannah."

Considering what had happened, he doubted she was still living there. "Where did the congressman live?"

Glenda told him. "One website had photos. Oak trees with Spanish moss. White columns. Deep veranda. Your basic Tara."

"Is anyone living there now?"

"Don't know."

"See if you can find out. And work on getting a current address for her."

"We're looking at a holiday weekend, you know."

"But you love me. You know you do."

"In your dreams."

Grinning, he started toward the elevator bank. "Anything else you can dig up will be greatly appreciated. Text, call, or e-mail me. Any hour."

"I've got a life, too, you know. Never mind that it sucks."

"One more thing. How did Congressman Nolan die?"

"Well, finally! I've been itching for you to ask."

"Why's that?"

"Because I saved the best for last."

Diary of Flora Stimel-January 23, 1978 Today was awful, the reason being that Carl got furious at me.

I should have known better than to cross him. He's been out of sorts lately, and I know it's because of the guns that we were supposed to get, but didn't. Some Cuban drug dealers waved their money around (I guess they have a lot of it, because everybody in Miami seems to be stoned on something!), and the guy that was supposed to sell us the guns sold them to the Cubans instead. That pissed Carl off, and for the three days since then, he's been in a terrible mood.

He wanted to go after the Cubans, kill them, and take the guns, but Quirty (I still don't know his real name) talked him out of it. He said it was crazy to f-with the Cubans, who had just as soon cut your throat as look at you. Carl said if you shot them first, they wouldn't have a chance at cutting your throat. He was on a rampage.

But Quirty got some good smoke (probably bought off those same Cubans) and that calmed Carl down some. At least me and Quirty were able to talk sense to him about getting revenge.

I didn't want to get into a war with those Cubans or anybody. I'm always afraid for Jeremy's safety. Anytime I say that to Carl, he laughs and says nobody would dare lay a hand on his kid. But I don't think the Cubans would be afraid of Carl, and maybe Carl knows that deep down because he didn't shoot anybody.

Which could also be why he's cross. He's bored, is all. Since that bank job in Louisiana when Jim got shot, we've been laying low. On the news they said the robber had died at the scene, killed by police. But Carl doesn't trust the news people to be telling the truth. He calls them puppets who only repeat what the cops and politicians want got across to the stupid public.

Carl says that if Jim lived even for a little while after he was shot, he could have talked, told them something about us. So we holed up in a trailer park in MS with a guy that Jim didn't know. That way, even if he had ratted us out, we were still safe from capture.

I was glad not to be on the move, because Jeremy and I both got sick with runny noses. His cough was worse than mine. What my grandma used to call croupy. Taking him to a doctor was out of the question. I didn't even ask Carl if we could, knowing what he'd say.

The man who put us up in his mobile home, Randy, thinks the world of Carl. Carl is his hero. He was nice to us even though Jeremy's coughing must've kept him up all night like it did Carl and me. It might have been that, instead of kindness, that caused Randy to buy a bottle of cough syrup for Jeremy without me even asking.

After a few days, Jeremy got better. He stopped being so puny and whiny and started eating. Which was good because Carl had decided that it was time to move on. We drove into FL and kept going until we got here. Carl's sixth sense told him the heat was off and it was safe for us to stay put for a while.

Miami is okay, I guess, but I don't like this house. The mice seem to be making fun of me for even bothering to set traps. I hear them snapping shut all night long. I hate that sound! Come morning I'll have to empty the traps of those limp little bodies. Much as I hate their scurrying around in the dark, I hate to see them dead. But no matter how many I catch, there's ten more to take their place. The roaches are about as big as the mice.

I don't like Quirty's girlfriend, either. She's sneaky and sly. She reminds me of a cat we had when I was little. He'd had one of his eyes scratched out, which scared me already. But he'd come up on me before I knew it, and that gave me the willies. I was glad the day he crawled under the house and died.

Anyhow, this gal of Quirty's prances around and shows off, especially in front of Carl. The worst thing happened yesterday when Jeremy tipped over a bottle of red nail polish while she was painting her toenails. Barely a drop spilled on the floor and I got it right up. But she pinched Jeremy's arm, twisting the skin so it hurt him really bad. I lit into her, and before it was over, the men had to break us apart. I think I would have killed her if Carl hadn't stopped me.

The pinch left a dark bruise on Jeremy's arm, and that riled Carl, too. His mood went from bad to worse, so that today, when he saw me with the camera, he blew his stack.

It was an old Polaroid I found in a cabinet when I was setting a mousetrap. Quirty said I could use it to take some pictures of Jeremy. Carl's never allowed any pictures of us, but I wanted at least one baby picture of Jeremy.

I think it was the smell that gave me away. The chemicals inside the camera make the pictures stink when you peel them off and coat them with that stuff. Carl came storming in and caught me red-handed. He grabbed the camera and banged it against the edge of the kitchen table over and over again till it broke apart.

Jeremy got scared on account of all the racket and started crying. Carl ripped up the picture I'd taken and told me never ever to take any pictures.

After the blow-up, Quirty said maybe we'd worn out our welcome.

It's decided that we'll pull out tomorrow. I won't be sorry to leave this mousy house and that sneaky slut. But at least here in south FL the weather is warm. We spent all last winter in MN and I nearly froze. But I won't complain no matter where we go, so long as Carl keeps us together.

I haven't let myself wonder about what will happen when Jeremy is old enough to understand that we're outlaws and don't live like other people. I daydream about us having a normal life and being like other families. But it will never happen, so I had just as well stop daydreaming about it.

Carl's been saying things that scare me, things like our lifestyle being hard on kids, like Jeremy will be needing to go to school in a few more years. When Carl starts talking about the future-and I know how he is once he gets an idea into his head-I get petrified that he'll leave Jeremy behind somewhere.

I think back to Golden Branch. That horrible day. The worst day of my life so far. The labor was bad. I thought for sure I'd die of that. Then all that shooting! Lord, I was scared!

When Carl bent over me and told me that the others were dead and that he had to go right that second, I couldn't believe he meant it. I was bleeding. Hurting something awful. But he was serious as serious can be. He said if he stayed, he'd be killed or caught. Did I want that?

The whole rest of my life was decided in that moment. Because, truth be told, I didn't want to be killed or captured, either. Which I guess makes me the worst kind of coward, the worst kind of person.

It was cold and rainy. I remember running through those wet woods to where Carl had hid the car. I was holding Jeremy against me so tight, afraid I'd trip and fall with him, or that he'd cry and give us away. I was still sorta scared that Carl would go off and leave us if we didn't keep up. I should count my lucky stars that he took us at all.

Even after we got away, I couldn't stop crying over it. To this day, every time I think back on that morning, I cry buckets.

Chapter 4.