"And thank you again for yesterday."

"I was glad to help. Peter and Timothy are the best mechanics in the county. I've taken my trucks to them for years."

"Reverend Mr. Bowman, you've lived here a long time, haven't you?"

"All my life."

"Do you know anything about a lodge house with a courtyard near the spot where the plane went down?"

"I remember my daddy talking about a camp out that way near Running Goat Branch, but never a lodge."

I had a sudden thought. Shifting the bag onto my left hip, I dug out McMahon's fax and handed it to Bowman.

"Are any of these names familiar to you?"

He unfolded and read the paper. I watched closely, but saw no change in his expression.

"Sorry."

He handed back the fax, and I returned it to my purse.

"Have you ever heard of a man named Victor Livingstone?"

Bowman shook his head.

"Edward Arthur?"

"I know an Edward Arthur lives over near Sylva. Used to be Holiness, but left the movement years ago. Brother Arthur used to claim he was led to the Holy Ghost by George Hensley himself."

"George Hensley?"

"The first man to take up serpents. Brother Arthur said they made acquaintance during Reverend Hensley's time in Grasshopper Valley."

"I see."

"Brother Arthur's got to be close to ninety by now."

"He's still alive?"

"As God's holy word."

"He was a member of your church?"

"He was one of my father's flock, as devoted a man as ever breathed God's air. Army changed him. Kept the faith for a few years after the war, then just stopped following the signs."

"When was that?"

"Around forty-seven or forty-eight. No. That's not right." He pointed a gnarled finger. "The last service Brother Arthur attended was for Sister Edna Farrell's passing. I recall that because Papa had been praying for the renewal of the man's faith. About a week after the funeral Papa paid Brother Arthur a visit, and found himself preaching down the barrel of a gun. After that, he give up."

"When did Edna Farrell die?"

"Nineteen forty-nine."

Edward Arthur had sold his land to the H&F Investment Group on April 10, 1949.

I FOUND FOUND E EDWARD A ARTHUR IN A VEGETABLE PATCH BEHIND HIS LOG cabin. He wore a wool plaid shirt over denim coveralls, rubber boots, and a ragged straw hat that might once have belonged to a gondolier. He paused when he saw me, then went back to turning dirt. cabin. He wore a wool plaid shirt over denim coveralls, rubber boots, and a ragged straw hat that might once have belonged to a gondolier. He paused when he saw me, then went back to turning dirt.

"Mr. Arthur?" I asked.

The old man continued jabbing a pitchfork at the ground, then pushing on it with a shaky foot. He had so little strength the prongs barely penetrated, but he repeated the movement again and again.

"Edward Arthur?" I spoke more loudly.

He didn't answer. The fork made a soft thud each time he thrust it at the soil.

"Mr. Arthur, I can see that you're busy, but I'd like to ask you a few questions."

I set my face in what I hoped was an encouraging smile.

Arthur straightened as best he could and walked to a wheelbarrow loaded with rocks and dead vegetation. When he removed his shirt I saw scrawny arms and hands covered with liver spots the size of lima beans. Exchanging the pitchfork for a hoe, he tottered back to the row where he'd been working.

"I'd like to ask you about a piece of property near Running Goat Branch."

For the first time Arthur looked at me. His eyes were rheumy, the rims red, the irises so pale they were almost colorless.

"I believe you used to own acreage in that vicinity?"

"Why you coming to me?" His breathing sounded wheezy, like air being sucked through a filter.

"I'm curious about who bought your land."

"Are you FBI?"

"No."

"You one of them crash people?"

"I was with the investigation, but I'm not any longer."

"Who sent you here?"

"No one sent me, Mr. Arthur. I found you through Luke Bowman."

"Whyn't you put your questions to Luke Bowman?"

"Reverend Bowman didn't know anything about your land, except that it might have been a campground at one time."

"That's what he said, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

Arthur pulled a parrot-green kerchief from a pocket and ran it across his face. Then he dropped the hoe and hobbled toward me, his back as rounded as a turkey vulture's. When he drew close I could see coarse white hair sprouting from his nostrils, neck, and ears.

"Can't say much about the son, but Thaddeus Bowman was as pesky a man as ever drew air. Ran a hallelujah house for forty years."

"You were one of Thaddeus Bowman's followers?"

"Till I learnt all that casting out o' demons and speaking in tongues was a heap of horseshit."

Arthur hawked up phlegm and spat into the dirt.

"I see. You sold your land after the war?"

He went on as if I hadn't spoken.

"Thaddeus Bowman kept hounding me to repent, but I was on to other things. The damned fool wouldn't accept my leavin' until I put it to him from the business end of a squirrel rifle."

"Mr. Arthur, I'm here to ask about the property you bought from Victor Livingstone."

"Didn't buy no property from Victor Livingstone."

"Records indicate Livingstone transferred title to you in 1933."

"I was nineteen in 1933. Got myself married."

This seemed to be going nowhere.

"Did you know Victor Livingstone?"

"Sarah Masham. She died in birthing."

His answers were so disjointed I wondered if he was senile.

"The seventeen acres was our weddin' present. They got a word for that."

The creases around his eyes deepened with concentration.

"Mr. Arthur, I'm sorry for taking you away from your garden, bu-"

"Dowry. That's the word. It was her dowry."

"What was her dowry?"

"Ain't you asking 'bout that land t' Running Goat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sarah's daddy give it to us. Then she died."

"Victor Livingstone was your wife's father?"

"Sarah Masham Livingstone. That was my first wife. We was married three years when she passed. Wasn't but eighteen. Her daddy was so tore up, he went and died, too."

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Arthur."

"That's when I lit outta here and threw in with George Hensley over t' Tennessee. He's the one got me to taking up serpents."

"What happened with the Running Goat property?"

"City fella asked if he could rent it, run a little camp. I wanted nothing to do with the place, so I said hell, yes. Seemed like easy money."

Again he cleared his throat and spat.

"It was a campground?"

"They came up for huntin' and fishin', but you ask me, it was mostly to hide from their womenfolk."

"Was there a house?"

"They stayed with tents and campfires and all, till I built the lodge." He shook his head. "Beats me what some fools consider fun."

"When did you build the lodge?"

"Before the war."

"Did it have a walled courtyard?"

"What the hell kinda question is that?"

"Did you build a stone wall and make a courtyard?"

"I wasn't puttin' up no friggin' Camelot."

"You sold the land in 1949?"

"Sounds right."

"The year you broke with Thaddeus Bowman."

"Eyeh."

"Luke Bowman remembered that you left his father's congregation right after Edna Farrell died."

Again the eyes creased.

"You implyin' something, young lady?"