“Let's see what the gentleman has to say.”
I cracked my window.
“Are you ill, ma'am?” The voice was rich and resonant, seeming to come from deeper inside than the small stature allowed. The man had a hooked nose and intense dark eyes, and reminded me of someone, though I couldn't recall whom. From his tone I could tell Boyd was thinking Caligula.
“I may have thrown a rod.” I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed like an engine noise sort of thing to say.
“May I offer assistance?”
Boyd growled suspiciously.
“I'm on my way into town. It would be no trouble to drop you at a repair shop, ma'am.”
Sudden synapse. The man looked and sounded like a miniature Johnny Cash.
“If there's a garage you can recommend, I'll call ahead and ask for a tow.”
“Yes, of course. There's one right up the road. I have the number in my glove compartment.”
Boyd was having none of it.
“Shh.” I reached back and stroked his head.
The man crossed to his truck, rummaged, then returned with a slip of thin yellow paper. Holding my cell phone in clear view, I lowered the window another few inches and accepted it.
The form looked like the carbon copy of a repair bill. The writing was almost illegible, but a header identified the garage as P & T Auto Repair, and gave an address and phone number in Bryson City. I tried to make out the customer signature, but the ink was too smeary.
When I turned on my cell, the screen told me I had missed eleven calls. Scrolling through, I recognized none of the numbers. I dialed the auto repair shop.
When the phone was answered I explained my situation and asked for towing.
How would I be paying?
Visa.
Where are you?
I gave the location.
Can you find transportation?
Yes.
Come on in and leave the car. They'd send a truck within the hour.
I told the voice at the other end that P & T had been recommended by a passerby, and that I would be riding to the garage with this man. Then I read off the bill number, hoping that P or T was writing it down.
With that call completed, I lowered the window, smiled at Johnny Cash, and dialed again. Speaking loudly, I left Lieutenant-Detective Ryan a message, detailing my intended whereabouts. Then I looked at Boyd. He was looking at the man in the dark suit.
Closing the window, I grabbed my purse and the grocery bag.
“How could things possibly get worse?”
Boyd did the eyebrow thing but said nothing.
* * *
Dropping the bag behind the seat, I took the middle position and gave Boyd the window. When our Samaritan slammed the door, the dog stuck his head out and tracked his movement to the driver's side. Then a pickup truck whizzed by with a pair of weimaraners in the bed, and Boyd's interest shifted. When he tried to rise, I pushed down on his haunches.
“That's a fine dog, ma'am.”
“Yes.”
“No one's going to bother you with that big fella around.”
“He can be vicious when he's being protective.”
We drove in silence. The phone rang. I checked the number, ignored the call. After a while, my rescuer spoke.
“I saw you on TV, didn't I?”
“Did you?”
“I've got trouble with stillness, turn the set on when I'm home alone. I don't pay it much mind, just look up now and again. It's kind of like having company.”
He grinned, acknowledging his own foolishness.
“But I do have a knack for faces. It's mighty useful in my line of work.”
He pointed in my direction. I noticed that the hand was gray and unnaturally smooth, as though the flesh had ballooned, then contracted with only a vague memory of its original form.
“I'm sure I saw you today.” The hand returned to the steering wheel. The hawk eyes shifted from the road to me and back again. “You're with the air crash investigation.”
I smiled. Either he hadn't listened to the story, or he was being polite.
The hand came toward me.
“Name's Bowman.”
We shook. His grip was steel.
“Temperance Brennan.”
“That's a powerful name, young lady.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you anti-saloon?”
“I'm sorry?”
“I am among those who see intoxicating liquor as the main cause of crime, poverty, and violence in this great nation. Fermented liquor is the greatest threat to the nuclear family ever spawned by Lucifer.” He pronounced it nucular.
The name Bowman suddenly clicked.
“Are you Luke Bowman?”
“I am.”
“The Reverend Luke Bowman?”
“You've heard of me?”
“I'm staying with Ruby McCready at High Ridge House.” It was irrelevant but seemed safe.
“Sister McCready is not one of my flock, but she's a good woman. Keeps a fine Christian house.”
“Is there a Mr. McCready?” I'd been curious for some time but had never asked.
Now the eyes remained on the road. Seconds passed. I thought he wasn't going to answer.
“I'm gonna leave that question alone, ma'am. Best to let Sister McCready tell the tale as she sees fit.”
Ruby had a tale?
“What's the name of your church?”
“The Eternal Light Holiness-Pentecostal House of God.”
The southern Appalachians are home to a fundamentalist Christian sect known as the Church of God with Signs Following, or the Holiness Church. Inspired by biblical passages, adherents seek the power of the Holy Ghost by repenting their sins and leading godly lives. Only thus is one anointed, and thereby able to follow the signs. These signs include speaking in tongues, casting out demons, healing the sick, handling serpents, and ingesting toxic substances.
In more populated areas preachers establish permanent congregations. Elsewhere, they work a circuit. Services last hours, the centerpiece sometimes being the drinking of strychnine and the handling of poisonous snakes. Preachers accumulate fame and followers based on their oratorical skills and immunity to venom. Each year someone dies.
The distorted hand now made sense. Bowman had been bitten more than once.
Bowman turned left a few blocks past the supermarket where I'd made my purchases, then right onto a rutted side street. P & T Auto Repair was situated between businesses offering glass replacement and small-appliance repair. The reverend pulled in and cut the engine.
The garage was a blue aluminum-sided rectangle with an office at one end. Through the open door I made out a cash register, counter, and trio of heads in dozer caps.
The other end of the building held a work bay in which a battered Chevy station wagon was pedestaled on a hydraulic lift, its doors flung wide. The car looked as though it were taking flight.
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.