TOBY RASMUSSEN

The Methodists changed the bell-tower lock at noon after Louella Fenwick rang it fifty times at two in the morning for Verle. Left the key on a nail by the door. Well, hell. You can buy hardware; you can't buy suspicion.

By half past midnight Toby Rasmussen was up there. Twenty-four, dirty-blond, sale-barn hand. He'd spent the day chasing the cow, same as Jason Kimbrough, with the same damn results everybody got. Came to the Nail at ten and heard about Louella.

He rang eleven times.

"Eleven?" Deputy Stotts stood at the top of the stairs, out of breath again. Those steps hadn't got any shorter since her last trip.

"I've had eleven beers."

"That's not what she was doing, Toby."

"I know what she was doing." He rang again. Twelve. "That's for Verle. The other eleven were for me."

Stotts sat on the step, the second deputy today to park there. Reckon she could spare him a little time. She let him get to fifteen.

"That's plenty, hon."

He agreed. Coming down, he asked whether Louella was still in. Yes. Could he be put in with her?

"It's one cell, Toby. Everybody's in with her. Ain't a goddamn hotel."

He's startled in the Polaroid, lips parted, cream tee, looking like nobody mentioned the flash. Louella patted the bench. He sat. Neither said a word. The bell's got a new lock. Key's on the nail.