I looked up to see a man approaching my car from the highway side. He was small, maybe five foot three, with dark hair combed straight back. He wore a black suit, perfectly fitted, but probably new in the early sixties.
Drawing close, the man raised knuckles to tap the glass, but pulled back as Boyd erupted again.
“Easy, boy.”
I could see an old pickup angled onto the shoulder across the road, the driver's door open. The truck looked empty.
“Let's see what the gentleman has to say.”
I cracked my window.
“Are you ill, ma'am?” The voice was rich and resonant, seeming to come from deeper inside than the small stature allowed. The man had a hooked nose and intense dark eyes, and reminded me of someone, though I couldn't recall whom. From his tone I could tell Boyd was thinking Caligula.
“I may have thrown a rod.” I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed like an engine noise sort of thing to say.
“May I offer assistance?”
Boyd growled suspiciously.
“I'm on my way into town. It would be no trouble to drop you at a repair shop, ma'am.”
Sudden synapse. The man looked and sounded like a miniature Johnny Cash.
“If there's a garage you can recommend, I'll call ahead and ask for a tow.”
“Yes, of course. There's one right up the road. I have the number in my glove compartment.”
Boyd was having none of it.
“Shh.” I reached back and stroked his head.
The man crossed to his truck, rummaged, then returned with a slip of thin yellow paper. Holding my cell phone in clear view, I lowered the window another few inches and accepted it.
The form looked like the carbon copy of a repair bill. The writing was almost illegible, but a header identified the garage as P & T Auto Repair, and gave an address and phone number in Bryson City. I tried to make out the customer signature, but the ink was too smeary.
When I turned on my cell, the screen told me I had missed eleven calls. Scrolling through, I recognized none of the numbers. I dialed the auto repair shop.
When the phone was answered I explained my situation and asked for towing.
How would I be paying?
Visa.
Where are you?
I gave the location.
Can you find transportation?
Yes.
Come on in and leave the car. They'd send a truck within the hour.
I told the voice at the other end that P & T had been recommended by a passerby, and that I would be riding to the garage with this man. Then I read off the bill number, hoping that P or T was writing it down.
With that call completed, I lowered the window, smiled at Johnny Cash, and dialed again. Speaking loudly, I left Lieutenant-Detective Ryan a message, detailing my intended whereabouts. Then I looked at Boyd. He was looking at the man in the dark suit.
Closing the window, I grabbed my purse and the grocery bag.
“How could things possibly get worse?”
Boyd did the eyebrow thing but said nothing.
* * *
Dropping the bag behind the seat, I took the middle position and gave Boyd the window. When our Samaritan slammed the door, the dog stuck his head out and tracked his movement to the driver's side. Then a pickup truck whizzed by with a pair of weimaraners in the bed, and Boyd's interest shifted. When he tried to rise, I pushed down on his haunches.
“That's a fine dog, ma'am.”
“Yes.”
“No one's going to bother you with that big fella around.”
“He can be vicious when he's being protective.”
We drove in silence. The phone rang. I checked the number, ignored the call. After a while, my rescuer spoke.
“I saw you on TV, didn't I?”
“Did you?”
“I've got trouble with stillness, turn the set on when I'm home alone. I don't pay it much mind, just look up now and again. It's kind of like having company.”
He grinned, acknowledging his own foolishness.
“But I do have a knack for faces. It's mighty useful in my line of work.”
He pointed in my direction. I noticed that the hand was gray and unnaturally smooth, as though the flesh had ballooned, then contracted with only a vague memory of its original form.
“I'm sure I saw you today.” The hand returned to the steering wheel. The hawk eyes shifted from the road to me and back again. “You're with the air crash investigation.”
I smiled. Either he hadn't listened to the story, or he was being polite.
The hand came toward me.
“Name's Bowman.”
We shook. His grip was steel.
“Temperance Brennan.”
“That's a powerful name, young lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you anti-saloon?”
“I'm sorry?”
“I am among those who see intoxicating liquor as the main cause of crime, poverty, and violence in this great nation. Fermented liquor is the greatest threat to the nuclear family ever spawned by Lucifer.” He pronounced it nucular.
The name Bowman suddenly clicked.
“Are you Luke Bowman?”
“I am.”
“The Reverend Luke Bowman?”
“You've heard of me?”
“I'm staying with Ruby McCready at High Ridge House.” It was irrelevant but seemed safe.
“Sister McCready is not one of my flock, but she's a good woman. Keeps a fine Christian house.”
“Is there a Mr. McCready?” I'd been curious for some time but had never asked.
Now the eyes remained on the road. Seconds passed. I thought he wasn't going to answer.
“I'm gonna leave that question alone, ma'am. Best to let Sister McCready tell the tale as she sees fit.”
Ruby had a tale?
“What's the name of your church?”
“The Eternal Light Holiness-Pentecostal House of God.”
The southern Appalachians are home to a fundamentalist Christian sect known as the Church of God with Signs Following, or the Holiness Church. Inspired by biblical passages, adherents seek the power of the Holy Ghost by repenting their sins and leading godly lives. Only thus is one anointed, and thereby able to follow the signs. These signs include speaking in tongues, casting out demons, healing the sick, handling serpents, and ingesting toxic substances.
In more populated areas preachers establish permanent congregations. Elsewhere, they work a circuit. Services last hours, the centerpiece sometimes being the drinking of strychnine and the handling of poisonous snakes. Preachers accumulate fame and followers based on their oratorical skills and immunity to venom. Each year someone dies.
The distorted hand now made sense. Bowman had been bitten more than once.
Bowman turned left a few blocks past the supermarket where I'd made my purchases, then right onto a rutted side street. P & T Auto Repair was situated between businesses offering glass replacement and small-appliance repair. The reverend pulled in and cut the engine.
The garage was a blue aluminum-sided rectangle with an office at one end. Through the open door I made out a cash register, counter, and trio of heads in dozer caps.
The other end of the building held a work bay in which a battered Chevy station wagon was pedestaled on a hydraulic lift, its doors flung wide. The car looked as though it were taking flight.
An old Pinto and two pickups were parked outside the office. I did not see a tow truck.
As Bowman got out, Boyd began what I knew was not a Pinto growl. Following his line of vision I spotted a 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,” h
e 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.
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 investigat
ion could get me arrested.
“My car broke down. Bowman gave me a lift. Don't ask me why that inspired the baring of his soul.”
I unsheathed a straw and jammed it into my tea.
“Do you want to hear this?”
“Go ahead.”
“It seems the reverends Bowman and Claiborne have been slugging it out over ministerial boundaries for some time. The Holiness movement isn't what it once was, and the parsons are forced to compete for followers from a dwindling pool. This takes showmanship.”
“Could we back up? We're talking snakes here, right?” Ryan asked.
I nodded.
“What do snakes have to do with holiness?”
This time I did not ignore Ryan's question.
“Holiness followers interpret the Bible literally, and cite specific passages that mandate the handling of snakes.”
“What passages?” Ryan's voice dripped with scorn.
“‘In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.’ The Gospel of Mark, chapter sixteen, verses seventeen and eighteen.”
Ryan and I stared at McMahon.
“‘Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing by any means shall hurt you.’ Luke, chapter ten, verse nineteen,” McMahon continued.
“How do you know that?” Ryan said.
“We all carry baggage.”
“I thought you trained in engineering.”
“I did.”
Ryan circled back to the reptiles.
“Are the snakes tamed in some way? Are they accustomed to being handled, or have their fangs been pulled, or their venom milked?”
“Apparently not,” McMahon said. “They use diamondbacks and water moccasins caught in the hills. Quite a few handlers have died.”
“Isn't it illegal?”
“Yes,” said McMahon. “But in North Carolina snake handling is merely a misdemeanor, and rarely enforced.”
Cynthia arrived with our meals, left. Ryan and I shook salt and pepper. McMahon covered everything on his plate with gravy.
“Go on, Tempe,” he said.
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