We assured him that we were.

“Fixing to order lunch,” Sister said. “Why don’t you join us?”

As if he weren’t already sitting down.

“Fine. Thanks. How’s your cousin?”

“Seeing double. They’re doing some more tests.” Sister handed him a menu that was stuck between the salt and pepper and a bottle of pepper sauce. “Have you found out anything else?”

“We’ve identified the woman in the church. Monk Crawford’s daughter-in-law named Susan. Married to his son Ethan who died last year from a rattlesnake he was handling. They say it hung on and wouldn’t let go, emptied so much venom in him they couldn’t save him. His arm swelled up big as an elephant’s leg. Turned black.”

A waitress came up to take our order. The vegetable plate had looked good a few minutes before. Now I decided iced tea was all I wanted. Surprisingly, it was all Sister ordered, too. I glanced over at her. Definitely pale.

“What’s the matter?” Virgil asked. “I didn’t take your appetite away, did I?”

“A little bit,” Sister confessed, surprising me again.

“Well, I’m so sorry.” And to the waitress, “I’ll just have iced tea, too.”

“No, you go on and eat,” Sister said. “It’s fine.”

“You’re sure?’

We nodded.

He ordered practically everything on the menu. “I’ve got to head out for Pulaski in a little while, and I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to eat again.”

“Tell us about Susan Crawford,” I said.

He looked at Mary Alice for permission. She nodded.

“She was a handler, too. Big time. She and her husband used to go all over the mountains up here and even Georgia and Tennessee holding meetings, testifying, and handling.”

“Was she still doing it?” I asked.

“Far as I can tell. She had a couple of kids, though, little ones, so I guess after her husband died she didn’t have as much opportunity.”

And now those children were orphaned. Their father and mother were dead and so was their grandfather.

“Where are the children now?” Sister asked.

“We’re not sure.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said. And I didn’t. I couldn’t imagine the religious fervor, the letting go of one’s self that would allow someone to handle serpents to prove his faith.

“They claim they’re in a state of ecstasy while they’re handling and talking in tongues,” Virgil said.

No, I couldn’t understand it. But neither could I judge it. The passion that had twisted Susan Crawford’s neck all the way around, however, was a different matter.

“Do you know yet what happened to Monk Crawford?” I asked.

“Nope.” He was lying; his ears turned red.

“Oh, that must be Richard.” Sister reached in her purse and handed me a vibrating phone. “Answer it, Patricia Anne.”

“How?”

She mashed a button. “Just say hello.”

“Hello?”