black-and-brown dog lying inside the office door. It looked pure pit bull.
The flesh on Boyd's snout compressed against his gums. His body tensed. The growl deepened.
Damn. Why hadn't I brought the leash?
Wrapping my fingers around Boyd's collar, I opened the door and we both jumped down. Bowman met us with a length of rope.
“Had this in back,” he said. “Flush can be peevish.”
I thanked him and tied the rope to Boyd's collar. Boyd remained focused on the other dog.
“I'd be glad to hold him while you talk with the mechanic.”
I looked at Boyd. He was staring fixedly at Flush, thinking flank steak.
“Thanks. That might be wise.”
Crossing the lot, I stepped through the door and circled Flush. An ear twitched, but he didn't look up. Maybe pit bulls are calm because they are secure in the belief that they can kill anyone or anything that provokes them. I hoped Boyd would keep quiet and keep his distance.
The office had the usual tasteful garage appointments. A calendar with a photo of the Grand Canyon and tear-off sheets for each month. A cigarette machine. A glass case containing flashlights, maps, and an assortment of automotive paraphernalia. Three kitchen chairs. A pit bull.
A pair of geezers occupied two of the chairs. In the third sat a middle-aged man in an oil-stained work shirt and pants. The men stopped talking when I entered, but no one rose.
Assuming the younger man was either P or T, I introduced myself and asked about the tow.
He answered that the wrecker was on its way, should be back in twenty minutes. He'd look at my car as soon as he finished the Chevy.
How long would that be?
He couldn't say, but offered me the chair if I wanted to wait.
The air inside was packed tight with smells. Gas, oil, cigarette smoke, geezers, dog. I elected to wait outside.
Returning to Luke Bowman, I thanked him for his kindness and reclaimed my dog. Boyd was straining at his collar, every fiber focused on the pit bull. Flush was either sleeping or playing possum, waiting for the chow to approach.
“You'll be all right by yourself?”
“My car will be here any minute. And there's a detective on his way over. If it's going to take long he can give me a lift back to High Ridge House. But thank you again. You've been a lifesaver.”
My phone rang again. I checked the number, ignored the call. Bowman watched. He seemed reluctant to leave.
“Sister McCready is housing quite a few crash investigation folks up there, i'n't she?”
“Some are there.”
“That air crash is nasty business.” He pinched his nostrils then shook his head.
I said nothing.
“Do they have any idea what brought that plane down?”
He must have seen something in my face.
“You didn't hear my name from Ruby McCready, did you, Miss Temperance?”
“It came up in a briefing.”
“Lord God Almighty.”
The dark eyes seemed to grow darker for an instant. Then he dropped his chin, reached up, and massaged his temples.
“I've sinned, and my Savior wants confession.”
Oh boy.
When Bowman looked back up his eyes were moist. His voice cracked as he spoke the next sentence.
“And the Lord God sent you to bear witness.”
BACK IN THE TRUCK, IT TOOK LUKE BOWMAN A FULL HALF HOUR to unburden his soul. During that time I had four calls from the media. I finally turned the unit off.
As Bowman talked, the phrase “obstruction of justice” floated through my mind. The rain started again. I watched fat drops wriggle through the windshield film and pockmark puddles in the lot. Boyd lay curled at my feet, persuaded at last that leaving Flush undisturbed was a better plan.
My car arrived, rolling behind the wrecker like sea salvage. Bowman continued his strange narrative.
The station wagon was lowered and moved to join the Pinto and pickups. The man in the oil-stained clothing opened a door and steerpushed my Mazda into the bay. Then he raised the hood and peered under.
