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whole body relaxed. He gave a knowing smile. ‘Yes, sir, there are times when it can get a little frustrating.’
    ‘Okay, so how about for the rest of the flight you fly this plane like it belongs to you?’
    ‘I can’t do that.’
    ‘Of course you can. What’s more, I’m betting that every time you take the controls you dream of doing just that. Compared to flying fighter jets this has got to be so boring.’
    ‘How did you know I flew fighter jets?’
    ‘Call it a gift.’
    I smiled conspiratorially. The pilot stared at me for a moment, then a slow smile spread over his face.
    ‘Get back to your seat and get buckled in. Give me a holler when you’re ready.’
    I jogged back to my seat, strapped myself in, grinned at Taylor.
    ‘You’ve no idea how many times I wanted to do this when I was with the FBI.’
    ‘What the hell are you up to, Winter?’ Taylor was tugging at his safety belt, pulling it as tight as it would go.
    ‘You’ll see. Okay,’ I shouted up to the pilot. ‘We’re good to go back here.’
    The first barrel roll took my breath away.

5
    The pilot did a low pass from the north so I could see Dayton Parish in all its glory. We came in over the Arkansas–Louisiana border at three thousand feet. Low enough to get an impression of what lay below us, but without the fine detail you get at a thousand feet. There were forests and lakes and farms, hills that would never be mistaken for mountains, and a scattering of small towns connected by winding two-lane roads. Lots of space, not very many people.
    Every state claims to be unique, but some are more unique than others, and Louisiana was right up there in the top three. The state wears its differences like a badge of honour. For a start, it’s the only state divided into parishes rather than counties. Louisiana was formed from a mix of Spanish and French colonies, and the carve-up into parishes reflects those Roman Catholic roots.
    The French and Spanish influence stretches way beyond the geographical borders, though. It can be seen in the architecture and the food, and in a hundred other ways both big and small that make Louisiana stand out from the other forty-nine states.
    The first thing that struck me about Dayton was the lack of swampland. Think of Louisiana and you think of swamps and alligators and Cajun food and Mardi Gras. You don’t think of farms, yet that’s what was below us, a patchwork of fields in various shades of green and brown.
    Dayton was two hundred feet above sea level, whereas parts of New Orleans were six feet below, and that simple fact separated north from south. To all intents and purposes we could have been in a completely different state from the Louisiana that everyone thought they knew.
    Eagle Creek was at the bottom end of Dayton, sitting ten miles to the north of I-20, a six-lane interstate that cuts across the top end of the state from east to west. The town was laid out like thousands of other small towns. Offices and factories and a shopping mall on the outer ring where land was cheap. Move to the middle ring and that’s where you found the people. Apartments and houses, school buildings and community centres, parks and a Little League field. Move on to the centre and there were the municipal buildings.
    On the south side of the interstate was the sprawling expanse of an abandoned oil refinery. Grey concrete and scorched earth and tons of steel. The refinery shimmered in the summer sun, a confusion of pipework and tanks and tall metal. A railroad ran parallel to I-20 and split the town neatly in two, and a disused branch line led out to the refinery.
    The big fancy houses were clustered in their own perfect sea of green to the north-west. Well out of earshot of the interstate, and well out of eyesight of the old refinery, and just a short drive from the golf course.
    We banked sharply to the right and made our final approach into Eagle Creek’s tiny airfield. For a few seconds we were flying so low over