Jimmy Lee slumped into a deck chair and watched his cousin flounder around in the pool. “I didn’t shoot you, did I? I missed your pecker by a couple three inches.” Ramsey doggy-paddled to a ladder and pulled himself up. “How am I gonna explain this to the sheriff?” “You’ll think of somethin’.” Jimmy Lee rubbed his free hand over his stubbly beard. “Hell, just tell him it’s your sweat.” “Very funny.” “What’d you really come out here for?” Ramsey stood dripping in front of him. “Got a towel?” “In the pool house.” While Ramsey went to dry off, Jimmy Lee heard a voice in his head say, “Got a match?” He closed his eyes, and he was back at Mt. Zion ... “This place’ll go up like kindlin,” Michael’s saying. “One hundred percent old, holy wood. Got a match? Gimme a match, Jimmy Lee!” J is stirring. About time. “Please, Michael,”
