An old Pinto and two pickups were parked outside the office. I did not see a tow truck.

As Bowman got out, Boyd began what I knew was not a Pinto growl. Following his line of vision I spotted a black-and-brown dog lying inside the office door. It looked pure pit bull.

The flesh on Boyd's snout compressed against his gums. His body tensed. The growl deepened.

Damn. Why hadn't I brought the leash?

Wrapping my fingers around Boyd's collar, I opened the door and we both jumped down. Bowman met us with a length of rope.

"Had this in back," he said. "Flush can be peevish."

I thanked him and tied the rope to Boyd's collar. Boyd remained focused on the other dog.

"I'd be glad to hold him while you talk with the mechanic."

I looked at Boyd. He was staring fixedly at Flush, thinking flank steak.

"Thanks. That might be wise."

Crossing the lot, I stepped through the door and circled Flush. An ear twitched, but he didn't look up. Maybe pit bulls are calm because they are secure in the belief that they can kill anyone or anything that provokes them. I hoped Boyd would keep quiet and keep his distance.

The office had the usual tasteful garage appointments. A calendar with a photo of the Grand Canyon and tear-off sheets for each month. A cigarette machine. A glass case containing flashlights, maps, and an assortment of automotive paraphernalia. Three kitchen chairs. A pit bull.

A pair of geezers occupied two of the chairs. In the third sat a middle-aged man in an oil-stained work shirt and pants. The men stopped talking when I entered, but no one rose.

Assuming the younger man was either P or T, I introduced myself and asked about the tow.

He answered that the wrecker was on its way, should be back in twenty minutes. He'd look at my car as soon as he finished the Chevy.

How long would that be?

He couldn't say, but offered me the chair if I wanted to wait.

The air inside was packed tight with smells. Gas, oil, cigarette smoke, geezers, dog. I elected to wait outside.

Returning to Luke Bowman, I thanked him for his kindness and reclaimed my dog. Boyd was straining at his collar, every fiber focused on the pit bull. Flush was either sleeping or playing possum, waiting for the chow to approach.

"You'll be all right by yourself?"

"My car will be here any minute. And there's a detective on his way over. If it's going to take long he can give me a lift back to High Ridge House. But thank you again. You've been a lifesaver."

My phone rang again. I checked the number, ignored the call. Bowman watched. He seemed reluctant to leave.

"Sister McCready is housing quite a few crash investigation folks up there, i'n't she?"

"Some are there."

"That air crash is nasty business." He pinched his nostrils then shook his head.

I said nothing.

"Do they have any idea what brought that plane down?"

He must have seen something in my face.

"You didn't hear my name from Ruby McCready, did you, Miss Temperance?"

"It came up in a briefing."

"Lord God Almighty."

The dark eyes seemed to grow darker for an instant. Then he dropped his chin, reached up, and massaged his temples.

"I've sinned, and my Savior wants confession."

Oh boy.

When Bowman looked back up his eyes were moist. His voice cracked as he spoke the next sentence.

"And the Lord God sent you to bear witness."

BACK IN THE TRUCK, IT TOOK L LUKE B BOWMAN A FULL HALF HOUR to unburden his soul. During that time I had four calls from the media. I finally turned the unit off. to unburden his soul. During that time I had four calls from the media. I finally turned the unit off.

As Bowman talked, the phrase "obstruction of justice" floated through my mind. The rain started again. I watched fat drops wriggle through the windshield film and pockmark puddles in the lot. Boyd lay curled at my feet, persuaded at last that leaving Flush undisturbed was a better plan.

My car arrived, rolling behind the wrecker like sea salvage. Bowman continued his strange narrative.

The station wagon was lowered and moved to join the Pinto and pickups. The man in the oil-stained clothing opened a door and steerpushed my Mazda into the bay. Then he raised the hood and peered under.

Bowman talked on, seeking absolution.

Finally the reverend stopped, his tale finished, a place near his god reestablished. It was then that Ryan swung into the lot.

When Ryan got out of his car, I lowered my window and called out. Crossing to the truck, he leaned down and spread his forearms on my window ledge.

I introduced Bowman.

"We've met." Moisture glistened like a halo around the perimeter of Ryan's hair.

"The reverend has just relayed an interesting story."

"Has he?" The iceberg eyes studied Bowman.

"It may translate into something helpful to you, Detective. It may not. But it's God's honest truth."

"Feeling the devil's riding crop, brother?"

Bowman looked at his watch.

"I'll let this fine lady tell it to you."

He turned the key and Boyd raised his head. When Ryan stepped back and opened my door, the chow stretched and hopped out, looking slightly annoyed.

"Thank you, again."

"It was my pleasure." He looked at Ryan. "You know where to find me."

I watched the pickup lurch across the lot, its tires shooting spray from the water-filled ruts.

I'd never known Bowman's brand of faith. Why had he told me what he had? Fear? Guilt? A desire to cover his ass? Where were his thoughts now? On eternity? On repentance? On the pork chops he'd defrosted for tonight's dinner?

"What's the status of your car?" Ryan's question brought me back.

"Hold on to Boyd while I go check."

I ran to the work bay, where P/T was still under my hood. He thought the problem might be a water pump, would know tomorrow. I gave him my cell phone number and told him I was staying with Ruby McCready.

When I returned to the car, Ryan and Boyd were already inside. I joined them, brushing rain from my hair.

"Would a broken water pump make a loud noise?" I asked.

Ryan shrugged.

"How come you're back from Asheville so early?"

"Something else came up. Listen, I'm meeting McMahon for dinner. You can entertain us both with Bowman's parable."

"Let's drop Rinty off first."

I hoped we weren't going to Injun Joe's.

We didn't.

After settling Boyd at High Ridge House, we drove to the Bryson City Diner. The place was long and narrow like a railroad car. Chrome booths jutted from one side, each with its own condiment tray, napkin holder, and miniature jukebox. A chrome counter ran the length of the other, faced by stools bolted to the floor at precise intervals. Red vinyl upholstery. Plastic-domed cake bins. Coat rack at the door. Rest rooms in back.

I liked the place. No promise of a mountain view or ethnic experience. No confusing acronym. No misspelling for alliterative cuteness. It was a diner and the name said that.

We were early for the dinner crowd, even in the mountains. A few customers sat at the counter, grumbling over the weather or talking about their problems at work. When we entered, most glanced up.

Or were they talking about me? As we moved to the corner booth I felt eyes on my back, sensed nudges directing attention toward me. Was it my imagination?

We'd no sooner sat than a middle-aged woman in a white apron and pink dress approached and issued handwritten menus sheathed in plastic. The name "Cynthia" was embroidered over her left breast.

I chose pot roast. Ryan and McMahon went for meat loaf.

"Drinks?"

"Iced tea, please. Unsweetened."

"Same here." McMahon.

"Lemonade." Ryan stayed deadpan, but I knew what he was thinking.

Cynthia looked at me a long time after jotting our order, then tucked the pencil above her ear. Circling the counter, she tore off the sheet and pinned it to a wire above the service window.

"Two sixes and a four," she bellowed, then turned to look at me again.

The paranoia flared anew.

Ryan waited until Cynthia brought drinks, then told McMahon I had a statement from Luke Bowman.

"What the hell were you doing with Bowman?" There was concern in his voice. I wondered if it was there out of worry for my safety, or out of knowledge that meddling in the investigation could get me arrested.

"My car broke down. Bowman gave me a lift. Don't ask me why that inspired the baring of his soul."

I unsheathed a straw and jammed it into my tea.

"Do you want to hear this?"

"Go ahead."

"It seems the reverends Bowman and Claiborne have been slugging it out over ministerial boundaries for some time. The Holiness movement isn't what it once was, and the parsons are forced to compete for followers from a dwindling pool. This takes showmanship."

"Could we back up? We're talking snakes here, right?" Ryan asked.

I nodded.

"What do snakes have to do with holiness?"

This time I did not ignore Ryan's question.

"Holiness followers interpret the Bible literally, and cite specific passages that mandate the handling of snakes."

"What passages?" Ryan's voice dripped with scorn.

"'In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them.' The Gospel of Mark, chapter sixteen, verses seventeen and eighteen."

Ryan and I stared at McMahon.

"'Behold I give unto you the power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; and nothing by any means shall hurt you.' Luke, chapter ten, verse nineteen," McMahon continued.

"How do you know that?" Ryan said.