“Yes, sir, my granddaughter. Run off and ain’t been heard from since. Sixteen years old. Her name is Mary Beth, but she’s such a tiny thing we always called her Chigger. ”

“Does the sheriff know this? Are your granddaughter and the other girls on a missing persons list?”

“I don’t know what the sheriff is aware of, but no, I doubt they are on any list. Each one of the girls said they had found a job in Savannah, and just eventually fell out of contact with their family,” he stated.

“Had they been sending money home after they left?” I asked.

“For a while,” he replied.

“Your granddaughter, too?”

“Yes,” he responded.

“And when did this all start?” I queried.

“About a year ago.”

About a year ago, I thought. Around the same time Tonya went away.

“Truman, can you tell me what kind of a girl Tonya was—what she was like?”

Rainwater hesitated before speaking, as though searching his mind, or searching for the right words.

“She was a sweet girl,” he said in a low voice. “Sweet, and trusting, and burdened with an inner pain. She never believed she had much worth as a human being. Her spirit was lonely, and she felt small.”

She felt small, I thought, small and alone in the world. And now she is gone. How many other vulnerable human beings does that describe on this planet? How many other troubled souls?

“Truman, do you know if she had a boyfriend, or perhaps a special friend who might have known where she went?”

He shook his head. “Boys, I can’t say—I don’t know. She was good friends with Sandy Willis. But Sandy doesn’t come here anymore, not since Tonya disappeared.”

“And the other girls, were they members here?”

He shook his head again. “No, just girls from this county. Little country girls.”

“Were they all about the same age?” I asked.

“Pretty close,” he said. “Between fifteen and twenty, near as I can recall.”

There has to be a connection here, I thought. I don’t know what it is, but something links those girls. Something ties them to a common fate. Find out about one and you find out about them all.

I handed Rainwater a card. “Would you call me if, later, something else comes to mind? And could I get your phone number so I can call you if I have some other questions?”

“Certainly,” he said as he gave me his number.

“Truman, I’m glad to have met you,” I said as I took his hand. “And I’m sorry to hear about your granddaughter.”

He held my forearm with his other hand and looked me in the eye as we shook.

“Thank you. I believe you’re a good man, Kennesaw Tanner. And I think you’re on the right side—on the Lord’s side.”

“I hope so. Good night, Brother Truman.”