Bowman talked on, seeking absolution.
Finally the reverend stopped, his tale finished, a place near his god reestablished. It was then that Ryan swung into the lot.
When Ryan got out of his car, I lowered my window and called out. Crossing to the truck, he leaned down and spread his forearms on my window ledge.
I introduced Bowman.
“We've met.” Moisture glistened like a halo around the perimeter of Ryan's hair.
“The reverend has just relayed an interesting story.”
“Has he?” The iceberg eyes studied Bowman.
“It may translate into something helpful to you, Detective. It may not. But it's God's honest truth.”
“Feeling the devil's riding crop, brother?”
Bowman looked at his watch.
“I'll let this fine lady tell it to you.”
He turned the key and Boyd raised his head. When Ryan stepped back and opened my door, the chow stretched and hopped out, looking slightly annoyed.
“Thank you, again.”
“It was my pleasure.” He looked at Ryan. “You know where to find me.”
I watched the pickup lurch across the lot, its tires shooting spray from the water-filled ruts.
I'd never known Bowman's brand of faith. Why had he told me what he had? Fear? Guilt? A desire to cover his ass? Where were his thoughts now? On eternity? On repentance? On the pork chops he'd defrosted for tonight's dinner?
“What's the status of your car?” Ryan's question brought me back.
“Hold on to Boyd while I go check.”
I ran to the work bay, where P/T was still under my hood. He thought the problem might be a water pump, would know tomorrow. I gave him my cell phone number and told him I was staying with Ruby McCready.
When I returned to the car, Ryan and Boyd were already inside. I joined them, brushing rain from my hair.
“Would a broken water pump make a loud noise?” I asked.
Ryan shrugged.
“How come you're back from Asheville so early?”
“Something else came up. Listen, I'm meeting McMahon for dinner. You can entertain us both with Bowman's parable.”
“Let's drop Rinty off first.”
I hoped we weren't going to Injun Joe's.
We didn't.
After settling Boyd at High Ridge House, we drove to the Bryson City Diner. The place was long and narrow like a railroad car. Chrome booths jutted from one side, each with its own condiment tray, napkin holder, and miniature jukebox. A chrome counter ran the length of the other, faced by stools bolted to the floor at precise intervals. Red vinyl upholstery. Plastic-domed cake bins. Coat rack at the door. Rest rooms in back.
I liked the place. No promise of a mountain view or ethnic experience. No confusing acronym. No misspelling for alliterative cuteness. It was a diner and the name said that.
We were early for the dinner crowd, even in the mountains. A few customers sat at the counter, grumbling over the weather or talking about their problems at work. When we entered, most glanced up.
Or were they talking about me? As we moved to the corner booth I felt eyes on my back, sensed nudges directing attention toward me. Was it my imagination?
We'd no sooner sat than a middle-aged woman in a white apron and pink dress approached and issued handwritten menus sheathed in plastic. The name “Cynthia” was embroidered over her left breast.
I chose pot roast. Ryan and McMahon went for meat loaf.
“Drinks?”
“Iced tea, please. Unsweetened.”
“Same here.” McMahon.
“Lemonade.” Ryan stayed deadpan, but I knew what he was thinking.
Cynthia looked at me a long time after jotting our order, then tucked the pencil above her ear. Circling the counter, she tore off the sheet and pinned it to a wire above the service window.
“Two sixes and a four,” she bellowed, then turned to look at me again.
The paranoia flared anew.
Ryan waited until Cynthia brought drinks, then told McMahon I had a statement from Luke Bowman.
“What the hell were you doing with Bowman?” There was concern in his voice. I wondered if it was there out of worry for my safety, or out of knowledge that meddling in the investigation could get me arrested.
