Past the cemetery, Crater Road stretched away from Petersburg in a long row of strip malls and parking lots until it hit the Wal-Mart. Beyond that thick woods lined the road all the way out into the county. The last bus stop was at Outlaws—a country bar and grill whose sign boasted line dancing on singles’ night, Outlaws sat right across the street from Wal-Mart and wasn’t the type of place Stacy would be caught dead at. His clubs were downtown, blaring hip-hop and the occasional gunshot into the night: no boot-scootin’ for him.
At Outlaws the bus turned and headed back into Petersburg. Once Stacy had tried to talk the driver into swinging through the Wal-Mart parking lot…“Just let me off at the door,” he suggested. “What d’ya say?”
“I say no,” the driver replied. He was a humorless man,
