the breeze.
“I'll get your things.”
He disappeared and a door opened, allowing the muted voices, bongs, and applause of a television game show to drift out. I looked around.
The room was devoid of personal items. There were no wedding or graduation pictures. Not one snapshot of the kids at the beach or the dog in a party hat. The only images were of haloed persons. I recognized Jesus, and a chap I thought might be John the Baptist.
After several minutes, Bowman returned. The plastic slipcover crackled as I rose.
“Thank you.”
“It was a pleasure, Miss Temperance.”
“And thank you again for yesterday.”
“I was glad to help. Peter and Timothy are the best mechanics in the county. I've taken my trucks to them for years.”
“Reverend Mr. Bowman, you've lived here a long time, haven't you?”
“All my life.”
“Do you know anything about a lodge house with a courtyard near the spot where the plane went down?”
“I remember my daddy talking about a camp out that way near Running Goat Branch, but never a lodge.”
I had a sudden thought. Shifting the bag onto my left hip, I dug out McMahon's fax and handed it to Bowman.
“Are any of these names familiar to you?”
He unfolded and read the paper. I watched closely, but saw no change in his expression.
“Sorry.”
He handed back the fax, and I returned it to my purse.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Victor Livingstone?”
Bowman shook his head.
“Edward Arthur?”
“I know an Edward Arthur lives over near Sylva. Used to be Holiness, but left the movement years ago. Brother Arthur used to claim he was led to the Holy Ghost by George Hensley himself.”
“George Hensley?”
“The first man to take up serpents. Brother Arthur said they made acquaintance during Reverend Hensley's time in Grasshopper Valley.”
“I see.”
“Brother Arthur's got to be close to ninety by now.”
“He's still alive?”
“As God's holy word.”
“He was a member of your church?”
“He was one of my father's flock, as devoted a man as ever breathed God's air. Army changed him. Kept the faith for a few years after the war, then just stopped following the signs.”
“When was that?”
“Around forty-seven or forty-eight. No. That's not right.” He pointed a gnarled finger. “The last service Brother Arthur attended was for Sister Edna Farrell's passing. I recall that because Papa had been praying for the renewal of the man's faith. About a week after the funeral Papa paid Brother Arthur a visit, and found himself preaching down the barrel of a gun. After that, he give up.”
“When did Edna Farrell die?”
“Nineteen forty-nine.”
Edward Arthur had sold his land to the H&F Investment Group on April 10, 1949.
I FOUND EDWARD ARTHUR IN A VEGETABLE PATCH BEHIND HIS LOG cabin. He wore a wool plaid shirt over denim coveralls, rubber boots, and a ragged straw hat that might once have belonged to a gondolier. He paused when he saw me, then went back to turning dirt.
“Mr. Arthur?” I asked.
The old man continued jabbing a pitchfork at the ground, then pushing on it with a shaky foot. He had so little strength the prongs barely penetrated, but he repeated the movement again and again.
“Edward Arthur?” I spoke more loudly.
He didn't answer. The fork made a soft thud each time he thrust it at the soil.
“Mr. Arthur, I can see that you're busy, but I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
