Stone bent down and, with improvised difficulty, mimicked Leroy's action.

The men all stared down at the ugly scar marching across the kneecap.

"Damn!" said Leroy. "No wonder he can't walk good."

The same FBI slicker motioned with his hand for Stone to roll his pants leg back down. "Okay, fine."

Stone never thought he'd be thankful for the old bayonet wound a North Vietnamese soldier had given him. It looked a lot worse than it actually was because the surgeon had had to fix Stone up on the floor of the jungle in the middle of an artillery barrage. Understandably the doctor's hands had not been at their steadiest.

Sheriff Virgil said, "Leroy and me grew up here together. He was the center and I was the quarterback on the high school football team that won the county championship forty years ago. He's not riding around killing anybody. And that feller there, easy to see he's not the sharpshooting type."

The FBI agent tossed back Leroy's license and looked at his fellow feds. "Clean," he muttered in a disappointed tone.

"Where you headed?" another slicker said as he glanced at the half-loaded truck.

"Same place I'm always headed this time of the morning this time of the year. We take us some wood down to folks who ain't got time to chop their own, and sell it before the cold weather sets in. Then we get down to the marina and work on the boat. Maybe take it out if the seas clear up."

"You got a boat?" one agent said sharply.

Leroy looked over at Virgil with a comical expression. "Yeah, got me a big-ass yacht." He pointed behind him. "We like to take us a ride in that there Chesapeake Bay and maybe catch us a few crabs. I hear tell they like that shit round these parts."

"Cut the crap, Leroy, before you get yourself in trouble," Virgil said quickly. "This is serious."

"I believe it is," Leroy shot back. "But if a man's dead, you best not waste any more time jawing with us. 'Cause we ain't know nuthin' 'bout nuthin'."