Ryan popped the new beer.
“It may be a long shot, but we have to consider it. Not forgetting our local resources, of course.”
“Local resources?” I asked.
“Two country preachers who live near here. The Reverend Isaiah Claiborne swears the Reverend Luke Bowman shot the plane down.” Another pop. “They're rival snake handlers.”
“Snake handlers?”
I ignored Ryan's question. “Claiborne witnessed something?”
“He insists he saw a white streak shoot from behind Bowman's house, followed by an explosion.”
“Is the FBI taking him seriously?”
McMahon shrugged. “The time tallies. The location would be right with regard to the flight path.”
“What snakes?” Ryan persisted.
“Any word on the voice tapes?” I segued to another subject, not wanting further commentary on the spiritual fervor of our mountain neighbors.
“The calls were made by a white American male with no distinguishable accent.”
“That narrows the field to how many million?”
I caught movement in McMahon's eyes, as though he were seriously considering the question.
“A few.”
McMahon drained his beer, crumpled the can, and added it to his collection. Rising, he wished us both a good evening, and headed for the door. The bell jangled, and moments later a light went on in an upstairs window.
Save for the creak of Ruby's planters, the porch was totally quiet. Ryan lit a cigarette, then, “Did you do coyote patrol?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“No coyotes. No exposed coffins.”
“Did you find anything interesting?”
“A house.”
“Who lives there?”
“Hansel and Gretel and the cannibal witch.” I stood. “How the hell should I know?”
“Was anyone home?”
“No one rushed out to offer me tea.”
“Is the place abandoned?”
I slung my pack over one shoulder and considered the question.
“I'm not sure. There were gardens once, but those have gone to hell. The house is so well built it's hard to know if it's being maintained or if it's just impervious to damage.”
He waited.
“There is one peculiar thing. From the front, the place is just another unpainted mountain lodge. But around back it has a walled enclosure and a courtyard.”
Ryan's face went apricot, receded into the darkness.
“Tell me about these snake handlers. You have snake handlers in North Carolina?”
I was about to decline when the bell tinkled again. I looked, expecting to see McMahon, but no one appeared.
“Another time.”
Opening the outer screen, I found the heavy wooden door ajar. Once inside, I pushed it tight and tested the handle, hoping Ryan would do the same. Then I trudged to Magnolia, intent on a shower and bed. I was barely in the room when someone tapped softly.
Thinking it was Ryan, I set my face in the hard stare and cracked the door.
Ruby stood in the hall, her features looking solemn and deeply creased. She wore a gray flannel robe, pink socks, and brown slippers shaped like paws. Her hands were clasped at chest level, fingers tightly interlaced.
“I'm about to turn in.” I smiled.
She gazed at me gravely.
“I've had dinner,” I added.
One hand rose, as if to pluck something from the air. It trembled slightly.
“What is it, Ruby?”
“The devil assumes many forms.”
