Fatal Voyage (24 page)

 The road was damp from yesterday’s rain, and our feet made soft popping
sounds on the muddy gravel. Boyd panted and his tags jingled. Jays and sparrows were the only
other creatures breaking the stillness.

 The view was another Impressionist tableau, an endless expanse of
valleys and hills polished and buffed by a brilliant morning sun. But the wind had shifted
overnight and now carried an edge. Each time we moved into shadow, I sensed winter and shortening
days.

 The exercise calmed me, but not much. As I climbed the stairs to
Magnolia, my chest tightened at the memory of Monday’s intrusion. Today my door was closed, my
belongings intact.

 I showered and put on fresh clothes. As I turned on the phone it rang
in my hand. I answered with rigid fingers. Another journalist. I hung up and dialed Pete.

 As usual, a machine took the call. Though I was anxious for an opinion
on my legal situation, I knew it was useless to try his other numbers.

 Pete had both car and cell phones, but rarely recharged either. If he
did progress that far, he’d forget to turn the unit on, or he’d leave it on a dashboard or
bedroom dresser.

 Frustrated, I dug out Mcmahon’s fax, stuffed it in my purse, and headed
downstairs.

 I was making an egg salad sandwich when Ruby backed through the
swinging door into the kitchen, a blue plastic laundry basket in her arms. She wore a white
blouse, fake pearls, sweatpants, socks, and slippers, and her hair roll looked freshly lacquered.
Her appearance suggested a morning outing, followed by a change from the waist down.

 “Can I do that for you?” she asked.

 “I’m fine.”

 She set down the basket and walked to the sink, slippers flapping
against her heels.

 “I’m real sorry about your room.”

 “I had nothing of value up there.”

 “Someone must have come in while I was to market.” She picked up a
dish

 towel, sniffed it. “Sometimes I wonder what the world’s coming to.
The

 Lord “

 “These things happen.”

 “We’ve never had stealing in this house.” She turned to me, the towel
twisted between her hands. “I don’t blame you for being angry.”

 “I’m not angry at you.”

 She took a quick breath, opened her mouth, closed it. I had the
impression she was about to say something, changed her mind, wary of how the telling might impact
her life. Good. I was too strung out for sympathetic listening.

 “Can I get you a drink?”

 “Do you have lemonade?”

 She tossed the towel into her basket and crossed to the
refrigerator.

 Withdrawing a plastic pitcher, she filled a glass and set it next to my
sandwich.

 “And that television business and all.”

 “All through school, I was never once voted most popular.” I smiled,
not wanting Ruby to see how agitated I was. The gesture must have looked as strained as it
felt.

 “It isn’t funny. You shouldn’t let them do this.”

 “I can’t control the press, Ruby.”

 She got a paper plate, placed my sandwich on it.

 “Cookies?”

 “Sure.”

 She added three sugar cookies, then looked straight into my eyes.

 “”Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and
shall say all manner of evil against you falsely.“”

 “The people who matter know these accusations are false.” Keep
cool.

 “Then maybe you need to be controlling someone else.”

 She hoisted the basket onto her hip and left without a backward
glance.

 Hoping for more rational conversation, I went outside to lunch with
Boyd. I was not disappointed. The chow inhaled the cookies, then watched without comment as I ate
the sandwich and considered my options.

 Arriving at the garage, I learned that the problem with my car was
minor, but a pump was required. The absent letter, either P or T, was in Asheville, and would try
to obtain the part. Assuming that mission went well, repairs could be finished the next
afternoon.

 Could be. I noticed that the Chevy, Pinto, and pickups remained exactly
where they’d been the day before.

 I checked the time. Two-thirty. Crowe wouldn’t be back yet.

 Now what?

 I requested a phone directory and was handed a 1996 edition, dogeared
and reeking of petroleum products. Two hands were required to part the pages.

 While there was no entry for the Eternal Light Holiness-Pentecostal
House of God, I did find a listing for L. Bowman on Swayney Creek Road.

 P/T knew the intersection but could provide nothing more. I thanked him
and returned to Ryan’s car.

 Following P/T’s instructions, I headed out of town. As he’d predicted,
Swayney Creek dead-ended into Highway 19 between Ela and Bryson City. I stopped at a filling
station to ask directions to Bowman’s house.

 The attendant was a kid of about sixteen with greasy black hair,
separated down the crown and tucked behind the ears. White flecks littered his part like
snowflakes along a muddy creek.

 The kid put down his comic and glanced at me, his eyes scrunched as
though sensitive to light. Picking a cigarette from a scalloped metal dish, he drew deeply, then
jerked his chin in the direction of Swayney Creek.

 “It’s about two miles north.” Smoke billowed out with his answer.

 “Which side?”

 “Look for a green mailbox.”

 Walking out, I felt squinty eyes on my back.

 Swayney Creek was a thin black tongue that dropped sharply after
leaving the highway. The road descended for the next half mile, then leveled off and passed
through a long stretch of mixed-conifer forest. A creek ran along one side, the water so clear I
could see individual pebbles littering the bottom.

 Driving north, I passed few signs of habitation. Then the road
curved

 east, climbed slightly, and I spotted an opening in the trees, a
rusty

 green mailbox to its right. Drawing close, I saw the name “Bowman”

 carved on a plaque hung below the box with two short segments of
chain.

 I turned onto the dirt lane and crept forward, hoping I had the right
Bowman. Pine, spruce, and hemlock towered above, choking off all but a few shoots of sunlight.
Fifty yards up, Luke Bowman’s house squatted like a solitary sentinel guarding the forest
road.

 The reverend lived in a weathered frame bungalow, with a porch at one
end and a shed at the other. Together they were stacked with enough firewood to heat a medieval
castle. Bright turquoise awnings angled over windows to either side of the front door, looking as
out of place in the gloom as the Golden Arches on a synagogue.

 The “front yard” was black with shade and carpeted with a thick mat of
leaves and pine needles. A gravel path crossed it, leading from the door to a rectangle of gravel
at the road’s end.

 I pulled next to Bowman’s pickup, cut the engine, and turned on my
phone. Before I could get out, the front door opened and the reverend appeared on the stoop.
Again, he was dressed in black, as though wanting to remind even himself of the soberness of his
calling.

 Bowman didn’t smile, but his face relaxed when he recognized me. I
climbed out of the car and walked up the path. Small brown mushrooms bordered each side.

 “I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Mr. Bowman. I left a shopping bag
in your truck.”

 “You surely did. It’s in the kitchen.” He stepped back. “Please, come
inside.”

 I brushed past him into a dim interior heavy with the odor of burned
bacon.

 “Would you like something to drink?”

 “No, thank you. I can’t stay.”

 “Please, have a seat.”

 He gestured into a small living room crammed with furniture. The pieces
looked as though they’d been purchased by the roomful, then placed exactly as on the showroom
floor. Only closer together.

 “Thanks.”

 I sat on a brown velour sectional, the centerpiece of a three-piece
grouping still covered in plastic. Though the weather was cool the windows were open, and the
perfectly matched brown plaid curtains billowed inward with the breeze.

 “I’ll get your things.”

 He disappeared and a door opened, allowing the muted voices, bongs, and
applause of a television game show to drift out. I looked around.

 The room was devoid of personal items. There were no wedding or
graduation pictures. Not one snapshot of the kids at the beach or the dog in a party hat. The
only images were of haloed persons. I recognized Jesus, and a chap I thought might be John the
Baptist.

 After several minutes, Bowman returned. The plastic slipcover crackled
as I rose.

 “Thank you.”

 “It was a pleasure, Miss. Temperance.”

 “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 EDWARD 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.

 “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 horse shit.”

 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.”