They listened without expression to the story told by Noah. The part-story. He did not tell them of the bass or of the mind-pictures he had about Matthew’s dying.

The telling was brief, said in only a few words, ending with Noah mumbling, “I’m sure sorry about it.” He paused, added, “I feel like I’m the cause of it.”

No one in the room moved or spoke.

“I’m sure sorry,” Noah said again.

Howard lifted his face to Noah. “Weren’t your fault. Me and my wife know it. The boy had a good time knowing you. You can’t fault a man for things he can’t help.”

Noah bowed his head.

“Why don’t we go get a cup of coffee?” Taylor said gently to Noah.

“There’s some biscuits and sausage in the kitchen,” Eleanor said. “You need to eat something.”

“We will,” Taylor told her. He leaned toward Howard. “Howard, we’ll be around here if you need us.”

Howard dipped his head once, looked at his hands resting on his thighs. He did not seem to have the power to move them. He said, “Where’s Whitlow? I wanted to thank him for bringing over his dogs.”

“He went on home,” Taylor answered. “He didn’t sleep much last night, and he was pretty tired.”

Again, Howard dipped his head. “I expect he’s got some memories of his own to deal with.”

“I’d say you’re right,” Taylor said.

In the yard, where Taylor and Noah took their coffee and biscuits and where the men gathered, the low-spoken talk replayed the search for Matthew Reynolds and his drowning in the Lake of Grief. Maybe Whitlow Mayfield was right, some of the men concluded. Maybe they should take some sticks of dynamite and blow the dam. If they did, it would at least prevent another drowning. But there was a quarrelsome problem with taking such matters into their own hands, they admitted: the land and the lake did not belong to any of them, and it would not be fair to Arch Wheeler’s boy, even if he had traded in his farm clothes for cowboy boots and a Texas Stetson. Someday, the boy would sell the place, the men guessed, and the lake was the best part of it.

Wasn’t like there was a curse put on the lake, the men added, even if three people had died there—Arch in his sleep, Boyd Cunningham by his own hand, and now Matthew Reynolds, who was mostly helpless—and even if there were stories about ghosts. Nobody had ever seen one for certain. It was mostly talk.

There were other places nearby that had had as many deaths, even more, and nobody had got queasy over the thought that any of those places had been cursed.

Farther up in the mountains, a half-dozen people had fallen to their death over the years by taking chances mountain-hiking. At least a half-dozen, maybe more.

And there was the Cater place above Hayesville. One winter, five people from the same family had died in five weeks, died one after the other. Got so bad, people couldn’t remember the name of the dead when they went to the funerals, and the gravediggers complained they were running out of room in the family plot.