He hugged Charley, then warmly greeted Dave, whom he recognized instantly, and the couple, whom Charley introduced as Carl and Lori Throneberry.

“Pastor Jack,” Charley began, “Carl and Lori are from Los Angeles. They barely got out of the horror that hit the West Coast last night. They told me they wanted to learn more about the Bible and what’s going to happen next. So that’s why Dave and I brought them up here to you.”

“Well, that’s quite a story, Charley,” their host said. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“But before we go any further, Jack, we’ve also brought you twenty barrels of diesel fuel for your dozers and your generator. Do you want us to unload them?”

“Charley, you’re top drawer,” John Edwards said warmly. “We can sure use it. Carlos and my fellows here will take care of the diesel in a bit. But you folks come on inside and let me get you something cold to drink.”

When they were seated in the large, open living area, Lori whispered something to Carl. Their host reappeared a few minutes later with a large tray on which there were glasses and a pitcher of iced tea. He put the tray down on a large coffee table and began pouring the amber liquid into glasses for each of them. Then Lori addressed the question she had shared with Carl to their host. “Pastor Jack, I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

He smiled. “Well, maybe you do, after all. Lori, a few years ago, the church I started on the East Coast became one of the biggest in America. I was on television, and from time to time my picture appeared in various newspapers and magazines. That’s probably why you think you know me.”

“That’s right,” Lori said.

“John Edwards,” said Carl. “Of course. I know that name. You’re the big-time minister who made all that money—some kind of investment, wasn’t it? What happened? You didn’t lose it all, did you?”

John Edwards let out a booming laugh. “No, Carl. I didn’t lose it all. I guess you might say I lost and I gained. It all started about ten years ago. My wife, Charlotte, was coming home from a weekend visit to her sister. Our twenty-seven-year-old son was driving. It was late and it was dark, and he was passing a slow-moving truck on a hill when his car was hit by a speeding tanker truck coming in the opposite direction. The car was torn up pretty badly, and—well, there were no survivors.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”