THIRTY-ONE
They sit atop the small ridge overlooking the valley. The air is cold, but the sun is bright and warm, painting the hills in lustrous hues of rust and gold.
‘Tell me about how it looked then, Mama.’
She tells the story as she knows it, of when the house was built, of how fine and strong it had stood, how level and true the ridge, how plumb the jambs. She tells about how there had been neighbors who had helped, and how the woods then were neither ragged nor sparse nor timbered flat. She tells about how the water in the creek once ran pure and cold, and how, every April, if you squinted your eyes, and gave rise to the belief, the mountains seemed to blush yellow with flowers.
The house is fallen now, the old church stands empty, home to only pigeons and beetles and vermin. She tells about going there as a very young girl, when the service was full of majesty and mystery and solace. There was comfort in the Word, yes, there was.
But when the Preacher came to her that night it all changed.
She looks at the old stead, takes out what she needs, leaves it behind. It won’t be long. She knows that she has a connection to the detective, one that transcends all the machines and test tubes and electronic equipment. One that lives in their two hearts.
‘Are they coming?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Very soon.’
There is one God, she thinks, but He is many things to many people. Hers is the God of vengeance, and at his right hand sits the last saint.
There are four more churches to go.