By the yellow light her eyes were depthless and opaque. He had never known what she was thinking.

What do you think we ought to do? she asked.

Do? Put his sorry ass away. Tell the law and let them open the graves themselves. Put him away forever in some crazyhouse. They’d have to.

You think they would?

I know they would. What would you do with him? There’s supposed to be respect for the dead. It’s the way we evolved or something. It’s genetic. This man here…he wouldn’t cull anything. He’d do anything.

He’s rich.

I don’t care how rich he is. Rich is no good here. All these dead people’s folks…we just opened up a few of the graves. There’s still worse covered up. Somebody’s husband or son would kill the sorry son of a bitch. It’s more than the craziness. The sick stuff. It’s contempt, just emptying the trashcan into somebody’s casket before you close it and haul it to the graveyard. It’s beneath contempt. Somebody’ll kill him.

He’ll hire a team of sharp Nashville lawyers, she said. There’ll be some publicity about it. He might even lose his license or whatever you have to have to operate. They’ll send him to talk to some psychiatrist for a while; then they’ll say he’s cured, and he’ll be back at the same old stand. We’ve got to get him ourselves. We’ve got to get more evidence.

He thought she’d taken leave of her senses. More? What more do we need? There’s enough now for a lynch mob and enough left over to tar and feather him. Anyway, what’s all this we mess? It’s not our job. Let the law or somebody dig up a few more graves. There’s your more.

The law. Seems like we never had much luck with the law. Daddy never did.

Bootleggers hardly ever do.