I puled next to Bowman's pickup, cut the engine, and turned on my phone. Before I could get out, the front door opened and the reverend appeared on the stoop. Again, he was dressed in black, as though wanting to remind even himself of the soberness of his caling.

Bowman didn't smile, but his face relaxed when he recognized me. I climbed out of the car and walked up the path. Smal brown mushrooms bordered each side.

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mr. Bowman. I left a shopping bag in your truck.'

'You surely did. It's in the kitchen.' He stepped back. 'Please, come inside.'

I brushed past him into a dim interior heavy with the odor of burned bacon.

'Would you like something to drink?'

'No, thank you. I can't stay.'

'Please, have a seat.'

He gestured into a smal living room crammed with furniture. The pieces looked as though they'd been purchased by the roomful, then placed exactly as on the showroom floor. Only closer together.

'Thanks.'

I sat on a brown velour sectional, the centerpiece of a three-piece grouping stil covered in plastic. Though the weather was cool the windows were open, and the perfectly matched brown plaid curtains bilowed inward with the breeze.

'I'l get your things.'

He disappeared and a door opened, alowing 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?'

'Al 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?'