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fists. When he came back inside he silently showed it to her. Tears streamed down her face and she rose and went to the bedroom and came back with her own. Then we heard a car drive up.
    Estelle Simpson came up to the door. Her husband followed carrying a small suitcase. The two women hugged, wept, then Estelle led Maria to the sofa. Hugh Simpson removed his Stetson and held it across his chest. Large wet patches stained the underarms of his pearl-buttoned shirt. His oversized mustache drooped unevenly in the hot room and his tall body seemed too close to the ceiling. Deep pouches under his red-rimmed eyes said more about the depth of his grief than his mumbled “sorry for your loss.”
    Estelle and Maria couldn’t stop crying.
    Hugh fidgeted and moved from one foot to the other. “Well, goodbye. Need to get some shut-eye. Got a big day tomorrow.” Then embarrassed by the crassness of words he couldn’t take back, tears stung his eyes. “Shit.”
    Estelle rose and gave him a quick hug. “Go on now. Try to get a couple hours sleep. We’ll be just fine.”
    â€œThis never should have happened,” he mumbled.
    Keith and I said goodbye and drove back to the feedyard. I leaned my head against the headrest. Keith kept his eyes on the road and I tried to recall what I’d heard about Victor’s great-grandmother, Francesca Diaz. The legendary Francesca Diaz.
    So Victor came from that family.
    ***
    Sam waved to us when we drove up to the feedyard. Dwayne’s pickup was no longer there. Sam wore latex gloves. I wondered what evidence he had found to collect. Our tiny county didn’t have a team of criminalists on duty. Nor would we ever have the population necessary to sustain an effective crime laboratory. A couple of years ago, I would have said that was not a problem because there was so little crime. But our murder rate per capita has risen dramatically. We now compensate for our inadequacies by calling in the KBI right at the beginning.
    In fact, I was thinking of putting them on speed dial.
    â€œSomething?” Keith asked.
    Sam jerked his head toward a heel ridge in the dirt. “Maybe. I’ll know when I compare it to Victor’s boots.”
    The print was slanted to one side. The stride was wide and veered from side to side.
    Keith knelt and examined the prints. “There’s blood here. Just a trace.”
    Sam nodded.
    â€œYou saw something, Sam. When they removed Victor’s body. That’s why you had him sent directly to the district coroner. What did you see?”
    â€œHis throat. Someone tried to cut his throat. He didn’t just drown in the shit pit. He ran for it and dove in to keep someone from killing him.”
    â€œMy God.” I pressed my hand against my mouth to quell the sudden surge of nausea.
    â€œJesus. Can’t imagine anyone following him into it,” Keith stared at the filthy lagoon.
    â€˜No, but I’m willing to bet they find a couple of bullets in his body, because he had to come up for air.”
    â€œThere’s no way to trace other footprints or tire marks or anything else,” Keith said. “Not after everyone came to gawk.”
    â€œOnly reason I noticed those footprints is because they were made by a running man and ended at the edge of the pit.”
    â€œAnd the throat.”
    â€œI saw that when we turned him over, and covered his head right off before we put him in the body bag so no one else would see it. No one will look at him again until we get him to Hays and the KBI is there to observe.”
    Exhausted, I stared toward the east and the bloody gauze of rainless clouds highlighted by the first rays of dawn. Soon the merciless copper sun would explode from the horizon, and beat down on our brave, struggling county filled with good people who knew how to outlast the devil.
    We had always outwitted the damned sun bent on burning us up alive.
    We were getting good at ferreting