“How do they live? Do preachers get pensions?”

“That’s a damn good question, Myrna. We need to find that out. Maybe Mrs. Jordan works. We’ll find out in the morning one way or another. So, what are you in the mood to eat?”

“Are we going on the cheap?”

“We need to keep it simple, or Stanley will flip us the bird. I had to beg for a hundred bucks.”

“I’m a big eater. You’d never know it by looking at me. It’s my metabolism. I guess we should go Chinese because they give you lots of food. I’ll spring for the candy and popcorn at the movie if you buy the tickets.”

“Deal,” Larry said, slapping out at the palm of her hand.

It was exactly six-thirty the following morning when Larry pounded on Asa and Agnes Jordan’s front door. He wasn’t disappointed when there was no response. “Let’s walk around to the back. We’re just going to bang on the door till someone opens it. No one in this neighborhood is going to pay attention. I doubt they’ll call the cops. Then again, I could be wrong. Shit, it’s starting to rain.”

The back door was half-wood and half-glass. The shade was rolled all the way up. He could see a man in a wheelchair sitting at the table, a coffee cup and newspaper in front of him. Standing at the stove, her back to him, was a tall, austere-looking woman. With no sign of a doorbell, Larry knocked on the pane of glass. The occupants of the kitchen turned and looked at him. He banged on the glass again and held up his press credentials.

“Go away,” Mrs. Jordan said as she pulled down the shade.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Jordan, I can’t do that. I came all the way from Indigo Valley, and I need to talk to you. I’m not going to go away, so please open the door.”

“Call the police, Agnes,” Asa Jordan ordered.

“They know I’m here,” Larry shouted. “It won’t do you any good to call them. All we want to do is talk to you for a few minutes. What harm can come of talking with me? Unless you’re hiding something.”

“We aren’t hiding anything,” the man bellowed. “Leave us in peace. We aren’t bothering anyone. When you report back to the woman who is my mother, tell her I have nothing to say.”

“Your mother didn’t send me here, Mr. Jordan. My paper sent me.”

“Let me try, Larry,” Myrna whispered.

“Mr. Jordan. My name is Myrna. I work for the paper, too. We want to do a human interest story on you and your mother. The way I heard it, you could have been the next Jerry Falwell. There’s a rumor going around that she didn’t like that idea and spoiled your chances to move ahead in your…your calling. Others are saying your daughter’s accident had something to do with it. We just want to talk.”

Larry looked at the girl standing next to him in awe. He almost jumped out of his skin when the door opened suddenly. “Ten minutes,” Mrs. Jordan said.