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studio backlot.
    A wide, cement driveway curved in front with a split on the right that ended in a two-car garage. Luther’s Cadillac was parked in front of a closed garage door.
    â€œHe’s home,” Wakefield said.
    â€œMaybe. Or maybe he’s with one of his children if they drove from Atlanta or DC.”
    â€œOnly one way to find out.” Wakefield stepped up on the veranda and headed for the front door.
    â€œWait a minute,” I said. “Let me be the first person he sees. I’ve spent more time with him over the past few days.”
    â€œRight.” Wakefield retreated a few yards to the left. “And this way he can’t get both of us with one shot.” He winked at me. “Don’t worry, Barry. If he shoots you, I’ll shoot him.”
    I wiped my perspiring hands on my pants and rang the bell. “Thanks.”
    Somewhere inside a heavy chime sounded. Behind me I heard Wakefield unsnap the holster strap securing his pistol. He wanted no impediment should he need to draw it.
    A few minutes passed. I rang the bell again.
    â€œComing.” A tired, gravelly voice trailed the echo of the chime.
    The bolt clicked, the door swung inward, and Luther Cransford squinted as the morning sun struck him full in the face. Dark bags puffed beneath his eyes. Gray stubble covered his jaw. He seemed to have aged ten years and shrunk ten inches.
    â€œBarry?” His confusion grew when he saw Wakefield.
    â€œHello, Luther. Is it OK if we come in for a few minutes?”
    He pondered the question like I’d asked him to name the capital of Lithuania.
    I pressed with an explanation that sounded innocent. “We want to talk to you about the feather you received. The one Sandra mentioned Saturday.”
    The vacuous look in his eyes hardened into a flinty glare. He stepped back. “Yes. Come in. Maybe you can find a fingerprint or something to nail the bastard.”
    We followed him through the foyer and into a living room decorated by someone who never met a knickknack she didn’t like. I took a floral-upholstered armchair, Wakefield sat on a beige chintz sofa, and Luther hovered by a hardwood rocker, uncertain whether to sit or stand.
    â€œI would offer you some coffee, but I haven’t brewed any this morning.” He looked away. “I don’t like going in the kitchen.”
    â€œWe’re fine,” I said. “Have you been able to get any sleep?”
    He shook his head. “I’m exhausted, but when I lie down, my mind just races.”
    I started fishing. “Have you been able to leave the house?”
    â€œYeah. Darren, Sandra, and I went to the club for lunch yesterday. But we could hardly eat for people coming up to pay their condolences. And they all brought up the fight with the Indians and how they didn’t blame me for losing control.”
    â€œAre your children still here?”
    â€œNo. They left yesterday afternoon.”
    â€œDid they fly out of Asheville?”
    â€œThey drove. Sandra’s trip wasn’t so bad to Atlanta, but Darren had a good eight hours to DC. I tried to get him to stay over, but he said he had to be at work this morning. He’s a junior account exec in a PR firm and it’s all about billable hours.”
    â€œSo, you were here by yourself last night?”
    â€œYeah.” His eyes filled and again he looked away. “Last night. I guess every night from now on.”
    I backed off the questions. Luther didn’t seem suspicious that we were there for more than I’d claimed. “I’d like to see that letter you got.”
    Luther jerked his head around. “Right. Sorry. I’ll be right back.” He went to the foyer and ascended the stairs.
    Wakefield leaned forward. “Man, if he killed that Indian, he’s giving a hell of a performance.”
    I touched my forefinger to my lips. Air vents and corridors could carry sound in unexpected patterns. But