CHAPTER THREE

Paul woke up at 9 on Saturday night and he couldn’t ever remember having been so tired. He lay in bed for several minutes before sitting up and looking around his room. He blinked his eyes over and over; it took several seconds for them to get used to the dark. He got up from his bed and started toward the bathroom. He flipped on the light, which was much brighter than it needed to be, and started the shower. He shed his clothing slowly, leaving it piled in the bathroom behind the door. He showered gingerly, his limbs sore and fatigued from the work he had done the past week. Tomorrow morning was church and he was certain since Pastor Willie had just worked from sunup to sundown for five straight days, he would take Sunday off, and than meant he would get a day off too. And that was something to be grateful for. But that Saturday night, as he stood under the warm stream of the shower, Paul was thinking of little else.

The week had been a blur. On Tuesday morning, he woke up at 6, not unusually early for him, and met Pastor Willie just outside his room. Paul was wide-awake and ready to go, still feeling fortunate at having found work so soon. They stopped at the same little dive they had eaten at the day before and had breakfast and Paul had forgone the coffee Pastor Willie was drinking. Less than twenty minutes passed before they headed to a home of a church member to dig up a bad gas line. There was a spot in the back yard, discolored and hard, that had stopped growing grass as early as two years before. A gas leak had been diagnosed and they were going to fix it.

Within a half hour, two more men showed up to help. They were dirty and unkempt and Paul couldn’t tell if it was just because they had awakened early and threw their work clothes on, or if they were guys like him, with no work and no money. He suspected a little of both. Paul held out his hand as introductions were made. He was used to shaking hands but he wasn’t used to meeting handshakes that were as strong and as meaningful as the ones he had taken so far in this little town. He was usually the one who had the stronger grip. But these, every one, seemed to carry the same blue-collar quality to them Paul respected. And since he thought of himself as a workman, and since that respect was something he wanted to be reciprocated, when he took a strong handshake, he gave in kind.

Paul had met many men over the last two years who could work, really work, and in that time, he had developed a work ethic that could match any of them. He had a level of pride that refused to allow him to not earn the pay, food or otherwise, that the work was affording him. But more than that, he refused to be outworked. It didn’t matter who or what or where, no one was going to outwork Paul McGovern.

But that Tuesday morning in an old woman’s back yard, Paul found out something different. Every man worked as hard as he did, or harder. And there was one man in particular who just seemed to have the endurance none of them did. It should have been the career ditch-digger, or the guy who showed up with his own shovel. It should have been the biggest, hardest man in the bunch, but it wasn’t. It was the softy. It was the guy whose knees spent most of their time on the floor, and whose hands spent most of their time clasped together. It was the guy who was supposed to be the meek and humble, the one who made his living as teacher of men. The hardest worker in the bunch wasn’t the roughneck; it was the shepherd.

Just before 7:30, Pastor Willie gathered the men in a circle and began to pray. The other two men bowed their heads and closed their eyes; Paul did the same only out of respect for Pastor Willie, who prayed for their safety and for a quick and efficient workday. He prayed for only a minute or two and the four were digging by 7:30.

They started fast and never let up, digging up the rancid, rotten ground and slinging the foul earth from the ditch to the top for five hours without stopping. When they finally got to the gas line, they not only found a leak, but also that the old gas pipeline was rusty and brittle. Its entire length had to be replaced from the house to the alley.

They broke for lunch around 1:00 in the afternoon. They sat in the shade of the old woman’s pecan tree and inhaled the sandwiches she had made for them. By 1:30, Pastor Willie was standing back in the ditch, shovel in hand. Paul was close behind. The first couple of hours, the four men managed to keep up their first half pace, but as the afternoon wore on, it was clear the two men could not keep up with Paul, who in turn, was having a time matching Pastor Willie’s breakneck tempo. When the others took five for water, Pastor Willie and Paul kept on digging.

“If you’re working, I’m working,” Paul thought to himself, and he pushed his shovel deeper into the ground to bring up a fuller load than before.

“If he wants to work, then we’ll work,” thought Pastor Willie, and he beat himself nearly to death just so he would still be working when Paul had stopped.

But Paul didn’t stop. And neither did Pastor Willie.

They worked through the afternoon and into the darkness, and the other two men worked alongside them if for no other reason than from the fear of asking either of them when quitting time would be. It turned out to be the old woman whose resolve neither of them could match. After several invitations from her for them to stop for the night, she finally came out, Bible in hand, scolding Pastor Willie for working the men too hard. Paul silently laughed, his smirk cloaked in darkness, but he kept digging, refusing to relinquish his shovel until Pastor Willie had.

“Did you hear me young man? Paul froze in mid-lift and stared at her, eyes wide. “I saw that feisty grin of yours. I said put that shovel down and I meant it.” She pointed her Bible in the direction of the other two. “That goes for you, too.” It was wasted breath. Both men had already dropped their shovels and were sitting on the top ground, their legs dangling over the side of the ditch. They both had water bottles to their lips.

“Good,” she said. “Now you listen to me. I don’t know what you think you’re trying to accomplish, but this isn’t going to get done tonight, so you boys get yourselves right out of that ditch and get home.” She turned back towards the Pastor and pointed her Bible at him. She was so close it was nearly touching his face. “Now I know I’m not the only little old lady in your church; if you really want something to do, take care of someone else.”

The men just stood there without moving, their jaws still hanging, flabbergasted at her rebuke.“You heard me, get on. I won’t say it again.”

At that, the men dropped their shovels, leaving them lay where they were until they should return the next morning.

“And don’t come through the house, you’re all filthy and the last thing I need is that stink inside the house.”

But it didn’t matter; they were already trudging around the side of the house to the side gate. They came around the front and headed for the truck. They were almost in when they heard a voice.

“Oh, Pastor.” The little old woman was leaning out the front door, her left hand on the handle of the screen door.

“Yes, Ivy?”

“You boys sleep well tonight and come a little early; I’ll have breakfast for you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” returned Pastor Willie. He hopped in the truck, where the other three were already waiting. As they drove off, Paul looked toward the house where she was raising a hand in farewell and in the light of the porch, Paul could see the sweetest smile on her face that he’d ever seen. Afraid not to, he slowly raised his hand to half-mast in an unenthusiastic good-by and thought to himself that he was going to do exactly what she said and be there early for breakfast. The next morning they did as they were told and true to her word, she had bacon, eggs and pancakes waiting for them. Paul thought it would be enough to feed twice as many men, but the four of them managed to eat every bite. By 7:30, they were back hard at it and by 8:30, the two men who had come with them were beginning to wonder if they were needed at all. The lion’s share of the work was clearly being done by the two crazy men who would hardly stop for lunch. They were, however, smart enough not to provoke the temper of that little old woman by missing a meal.

During that day and all through the next, they hid their competition, watching one another sideways, each stealing glimpses of the other’s progress during times when they believed they would not be seen. But it was in vain. Though each man managed to keep his own prying eyes hidden from the prying eyes of the other man, it was the eyes of the wise, old widow who caught every move from her catbird’s seat.

And just about the time the two men thought they would drop from exhaustion, the job was done. It took three days working from daylight to dark, feet and feet of new PVC pipe, a work crew with some special equipment and several gallons of drinking water, but they got it done.

On Thursday morning, Paul was waiting outside again for Pastor Willie. The two men ate donuts and drank coffee on their way to the old woman’s house where they would spend a couple of hours cleaning up her yard. When they arrived, both men stayed in the truck a moment longer than usual, their sore bodies bludgeoned by the torture they had inflicted upon themselves.

But too proud to admit weakness, they reached for the door handles and let themselves down from the truck.

They cleaned the yard and knocked on the back door to let the old woman know the job was done. She invited them into her house and served them each a glass of iced water. She thanked them and tried to pay them. They told her they were happy to do the work and refused to take the money. Pastor Willie knew it would show up in the plate on Sunday, but that was between her and God. His not taking the money was between him and God. And that was how Pastor Willie liked things. He liked them in God’s hands so He could bless whom He chose, and through whom He chose.

As they were leaving, the old woman opened the door and thanked them again with a light kiss on each of their cheeks. And then she said something to Paul he wouldn’t forget.

“You know, son, I only saw one man who could work as hard as Willie.” She turned her head and looked at a photograph that hung on the wall near the door. It was a wedding picture and Paul believed he could see the resemblance. “His Uncle Samuel would be very proud of you.”

“Uncle Samuel?”

“He’s the one who taught Pastor Willie how to work?”

“He sure did,” she answered. She gazed silently at the photo for a moment and Paul could see the longing for him. “Well, you boys get along,” she said and gripped Paul’s hand. “Very proud,” she said again and touched him on the same cheek she had kissed. Her hand was soft and cool, like his grandmother’s.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it. If it wasn’t the best compliment he’d ever been given, it certainly meant the most to him.

Friday morning they were supposed to help a man move from one house to the other. What Pastor Willie thought would be a short, two-location move, turned out to be a two-day affair, covering three homes, four storage units, two sisters and a kennel. And over those two days, despite Aunt Ivy’s attempt to absolve him of the need to outwork Pastor Willie, Paul held on to his pride and tore into the work at the same frenetic pace he had ended with; and Pastor Willie was up to the challenge. They pushed one another, as well as their own agendas. Paul drove himself to keep from being outworked by a soft-handed preacher. But Pastor Willie drove himself because he knew iron sharpened iron. After a while, he just wasn’t sure which piece of iron he was.

When the week was done, both men were mentally, physically and spiritually exhausted. And that is how, at 6:30 on Saturday night, Paul fell headlong onto the bed in his new apartment and was soon fast sleep. When he woke up again, it was 9:00 pm., but he thought it was morning. He had showered and eaten breakfast before he started to wonder why it was still dark out. He sat on the corner of his bed, his limbs heavy with fatigue, thankful that tomorrow, there would be no work, only church.

He hadn’t been to church since he was a kid, but it was one of the conditions of his “employment”, if it could be called that. He thought about what church would be like and started wondering if he might not rather go to work tomorrow; at least work was something he knew.

Ten minutes later, he was back asleep, not caring that in only a few hours, he would once again both shower and eat breakfast and that regardless of his insecurity, he would be sitting in church once again for the first time in more than fifteen years.

CHAPTER FOUR

When Paul woke up the next morning, it was with a pleasant, if not surprising, sense of renewal. He lay in his bed, arms behind his head, staring up at the white ceiling, slowly growing aware of a deep undercurrent of peace flowing through him. It was subtle, but it was there. He sat up and brought his knees, still covered by blankets, to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, clasping his hands together. He groaned. He still ached; that was apparent when he had reached over to turn off his alarm ten minutes before, but though the soreness in his body had not abated, his mind and his spirit were refreshed. That was a new feeling to Paul.

He had rested, but unlike most new places, here he had rested well. But it was more than that. He had met good people, found a place to stay and had worked an honest week and had earned an honest wage. But still, he thought, there was more to it; here was the first place he had ever really felt this way.

“What is it?” he thought.

It was a feeling he couldn’t quite define. But he knew what it looked like. It looked like the face he was staring at in the bathroom mirror just now. It was six-day shadow and bath-night hair, but beneath that was a half smile that wouldn’t go away, an almost mischievous, up-to-something grin that would telegraph his mood a mile away, and everyone would see it. They may not be able to define it, but they would know what it looked like. And today, it would look like Paul McGovern.

He went about the business of taking another shower; it was always easier to shave if his beard was wet and the whiskers were soft. And that was his next step towards Godliness. Once his morning bathroom routine, if it can be called that—one is hardly able to develop a routine on five mornings a month, but such as it was, Paul followed it—was complete, he put on his only pair of clean pants, the newest pair of Levi’s he had, and a clean shirt, just a t-shirt, but it was clean and also nearly new. And then he put on his athletic shoes, the ones he hadn’t worked in all week, and though they hadn’t been put through the rancor of gas and sewage, they were still old and tired, all but spent from hours of pushing their wearer onward over miles of pavement.

Paul stepped up onto his bed and faced the bathroom so he could see a full-length image of himself in the mirror. He tucked in his t-shirt. He cocked his head to one side and since he didn’t like the way it looked without a belt, he untucked the t-shirt. He took another look. He

still didn’t like the way it looked, but it was the best he could do. He actually looked fine, he thought, except for the shoes; they just didn’t seem to . . .

“Belong,” he thought.

Was that really how he felt—like he belonged? He hadn’t felt that way since high school, since he had played ball. And even now, he had only had limited contact with Kevin and his friends and with the church, but because of the rapport he had created with Pastor Willie, he was already starting to feel a part of something.

He threw on his jacket, started toward the door and put his hand on the knob. He stopped and furrowed his brow. There was a part of him that didn’t want to belong; he liked being on his own, a rogue of sorts, and he didn’t want to just give that up. On the other hand, alone was nothing new to him, but it had only been in the last few months that he had truly begun to feel lonely, and he had to be honest with himself—he knew he was alone, but he also knew the only reason he was starting to feel lonely was because something was telling him it was time to stop being alone.

He had taken that to mean it was time to go home, and he still believed it was. After all, you never really belonged to something until it belonged to you, and just because Kevin and Pastor had both gone out of their way to give him a place here, that didn’t mean he belonged here. If he ever did come to the point that he really belonged here, he would have to have a say in it too, and he just wasn’t ready to take ownership in anything but the work of his own hands, and right now, that was just temporary.

He turned the knob and headed out the door, unaware the up-to-something grin, though slight, was still hanging around. He was also unaware that, high above him, in the realm where only angels and spirits tread, Someone Else was up to something too.

“Mornin‘.” Paul looked up to see Pastor Willie standing on the steps of the back porch of the church. It was only a few steps from the front door of the little apartment to the back door of the church, but somewhere between Paul’s leaving and arriving, Pastor Willie had come out the door.

“Morning, Pastor Willingham.” A smile spread across Paul’s face and his hand instinctively reached out for a handshake. It was a brief, but once again, very strong exchange between the two men.

“You know, you’re gonna have to start calling me Pastor Willie. If you keep calling me Willingham, no one’s gonna know who you’re talkin’ to.”

“Sure. Pastor Willie. I’ll try.”

“’Better.”

He gave Paul a wink. There was something different about Pastor Willie’s manner that morning. He seemed more carefree and talkative, and his accent seemed to take on somewhat of a drawl, more Texan than Paul had yet heard from him. Another member of the church stepped out the back door and gave Pastor the same kind of “pat” on the back that the man in the diner had, something more akin to a hard slap and the two shook hands and exchanged greetings.

The man was older, quite a few years Pastor’s senior, and slightly hunched, probably from years of hard work himself. His face was tight and worn, and dark from the sun, his mustache was bushy and mostly gray, as was the hair on his head. He didn’t wear a hat, but Paul could tell from the shape of his hair, he had worn one to church that morning, and he suspected it was a cowboy hat. The man probably never took it off unless he was at church; in fact, though Paul didn’t know it, he never wore his hats indoors at all, and he actually had one he kept just for church and other formal occasions, and another he wore every day.

The man leaned in and whispered something in Pastor Willie’s ear, the one farthest from Paul so that he did not hear what was said. It brought a laugh from both men, who, for a moment, seemed to forget the existence of Paul McGovern. Then together, as if following some private cue, the two men stopped laughing and turned to face Paul, who was standing one step below them. After two or three seconds, and without any move toward introduction from Pastor Willie, The man reached out his hand.

“Mike Dowd,” he said.

“Paul McGovern,” Paul said reaching out his hand out to meet the one outstretched toward him. Despite the man’s age, the grip was strong, and though it lacked the iron quality of the other men he’d shaken hands with the previous week, he could still feel the character there. He looked the man in the eye and could see the years in them. They were tired, but they were still full and happy, and the smile on his face was deepened by them.

“Nice to meet you, kiddo.” He turned to Pastor Willie. “This is the kid you hired?”

“This is the guy, and I think you’re the only man I know who can work harder than he can.”

“How quickly we forget.” It was a statement of resignation, but Paul thought to himself the old man’s demeanor belied a certain sense of loss

.The look on Pastor’s face turned somber as the smile dropped away.

“I…” He had taken a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak, but his friend cut him off.

“I’m sorry, Johnny. That was out of line.

“No, it’s fine. He was your best friend, I know you’re gonna miss him.”

“Not as much as you and your aunt. He was your uncle, Johnny, and I know you’ll never forget him. I just shouldn’t have said that.”

“You can say whatever’s on your mind and besides, you’re right, I never will. Heck, the man could leave the county and you’d still swear he was standing right there for that voice of his.” This brought a laugh from the men.

“It went before him and lagged behind,” said the old man. “He was the only man I was ever afraid of; I’m still afraid of him and he’s dead. First thing he’s gonna do when I get to heaven is tell me ‘You’re the one who smoked a pack a day for thirty years, and I’m the one who died’.” Both men laughed loudly. Paul stood there, wide-eyed and uncomfortable. He looked for a way to get around the men and into the church, but there was none. He looked back at his little apartment, ready to run if things got any more surreal.

“He’ll say that, and then he’ll spend the rest of eternity poking fun at you because he made it there first.” That brought another round of laughter and the old man had to take off his glasses to wipe his eyes. Paul wasn’t sure if the laughter was genuine or simply to cover the sadness; he’d never seen men react to death that way. And then, as quickly as it had begun, the laughter was gone.

“Man, I’m gonna miss him,” Pastor said with a slow shake of his head.

“Me too, Johnny. Me too.”

The men turned back to Paul, who had taken two steps back down away from the porch.

“Sorry, kid. One of these days you’ll have to get Johnny here to tell you about his Old Uncle Samuel.”

“Johnny?” Paul asked.

“Here we go,” said Pastor Willie.

“Yeah, he’s Johnny to me. I practically raised him.”

“That explains a lot,” Paul replied, rolling his eyes. The old man turned to the Pastor and raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah, he’s gonna fit right in around here.”

“You have no idea,” Pastor said. The old man turned back to Paul.

“C’mon kid, let’s go in.”

The back door of the church opened up into a large area filled with long tables, butted up against one another to form rows in a sort of makeshift dining area, and metal folding chairs around them. On the left wall was a bar with a coffee maker, some pastries and other snack and breakfast items. It separated the main room from the kitchen area. The door to the kitchen was open and several people were coming in and out. In the main room, several others were seated at

the tables over breakfast or a cup of coffee, most of them sharing conversation with someone else. Very few of them took notice of Paul or the two men with him, but as they walked through, they all turned as he came near, acknowledging him and his tag-along.

And for half an hour or more, Pastor Willie walked Paul through the church, that room, down the hallways, into classrooms and finally to the sanctuary, all the while introducing him to the people who had gradually began filling it up. Paul had been early and was feeling like coming to the church as soon as he was ready had been a mistake. A big one. He was a prisoner, bound to Pastor and his agenda. He was wishing he’d come quietly in, mere moments before service so he could have slipped into a back seat, virtually undetected.

But here he was, being escorted from one end of the church, shaking hands of men and women alike—it seemed everyone wanted to shake his hand—and charged with the task of remembering what he thought must have been a hundred names. And then with twenty minutes still remaining before service, Paul spotted a face he knew. It would be nice to shake a hand he had already shaken, to say a name for something other than the first time.

“And I believe you know this young man,” Pastor Willie commented.

“Hey, Paul,” Kevin said.

“Kevin.”

“How are you this morning?”

“Good. You?”

“Better than I deserve,” Kevin said, smiling from one side to the other. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it or not.”

“So, you made it,” Kevin said, turning to Paul.

“Yeah, I made it.”

“Well, you want to go sit down?”

“Sure.”

The sanctuary was small and crowded, and growing more so by the minute. In just a very short time, every pew was nearly full, including theirs. A group of people gathered on the stage was playing music.

“So, how was your week?” Kevin asked.

“It was good,” Paul said, not wanting to show Kevin anything that might lead him to believe the work had been hard on him in any way.

“Really?” Kevin asked, giving Paul a look of mild surprise. “Because I heard Pastor put you through the wringer.”

“Well, do I look wrung out?”

“Actually, you look a lot better than a week ago.”

“It’s the shave. Works every time.”

As they waited for service to start, Paul told him about their meeting the previous Monday and their subsequent five days of work. He also told him about his encounter with Aunt Ivy. Kevin nodded his head slowly and started to tell Paul about Pastor Willie and his Uncle Samuel and Aunt Ivy, but before he could even begin, he broke off his story and looked up at something else, something behind Paul.

“Right on time as always, sis.”

Paul turned and looked up to see a young woman sliding her way toward them between the bent knees of everyone on their bench and the back of the bench in front of them. Without thinking, Paul scooted himself to his left just a little, closer to Kevin. She managed to fit her small frame into the space he had just vacated and leaned across him to speak to her brother.

“Well, little brother, right on time isn’t late, now is it?” she replied, rolling her eyes, and then without skipping a beat, moved right into a conversation about the church, and the work they were going to be doing the following week.

That was when he smelled her. It was a soft scent, light and airy, not like the smell of a perfume, but natural and sweet. Paul took another breath, this time deeper, with the sole intent of inhaling the sweet aroma of this woman next to him. And then she made a slight nod of her head, not a substantial one; it was the sort of move a girl might make in the course of an animated conversation with her brother, but it was enough so that her hair just grazed his face, and from that point forward, Paul failed to hear anything said between them. All went silent in a swirl of sight and smell.

He watched her as she spoke, as she moved, and he saw everything. Her hair was dark brown, long and straight, with a hint of red. Her face was round but not plump, as were her chin and nose, and her mouth took the shape of her slight overbite, giving her an almost little girl quality. The skin on her face and arms was white and lustrous as pearl, but covered top to bottom with freckles.

And then, as she raised her hand to pull her wayward hair behind her ear, he saw her hand. From the time he was old enough to appreciate, really appreciate the simple qualities of a girl, Paul had appreciated hands the most. Hands move so individually and independent of the rest of a person, and yet such an extension of everything they do and say; everything about a person is in their hands, in the smallest mannerisms, from how they stand to how they speak. By the way a person moves their hands, you can understand the way they see the world around them, you can see

their quirks and when they’re nervous. And the simple way a person touches another can tell you everything you need to know about the emotions behind it—if you know how to look. Paul had always known how to look.

This young woman’s hands were no different, except that they were. He followed them as she spoke, watched them as they flowed, fluid and graceful, not wasting a single movement. Then her left hand moved up to the back of the bench so that it rested right behind him, and her body moved, ever so slightly toward him. There was no will behind it on her part, only a simple motion to lean against something, but still he felt his heart race a little faster. She was still leaning over him, even closer now. He could see her, smell her, feel her presence; it was next to him, all over him. As much as any one human being can move another, this girl was moving him.

“Shouldn’t he?”

He looked up and her green eyes were looking at him, holding him. Some part of him could see her mouth moving, but he still could not hear her voice. The part that could comprehend the movement of her lips, was not communicating with the parts that could see her eyes, or the part that could hear her voice. He wasn’t staring, he just couldn’t look away.

“Shouldn’t he?” she said again. The awareness was growing, but still there was no connection.

“Paul.” Kevin’s voice he could hear. “Earth to Paul. We’re talking to you.”

“Uh, what?’ he asked. He felt a light touch on his knee, and when he looked down, he saw her small, fair hand resting there. He watched it move from its place to wave in front of him. They were face to face, eye to eye.

“Shouldn’t he?”

“Sure.”

“Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said?” she asked him. Paul just sat there, blank in both thought and expression. “You haven’t, have you? Well, you’re of no use to me.” She leaned back in the bench, removing her hand from behind him. She reached into her purse for a compact and busied herself with the task of touching up her makeup.

“Paul, this is my sister, Traci. Traci, this is Paul, the guy I told you about,” Kevin said. Paul turned to look at her again. “It’s nice to meet you, Paul,” she said. She put her compact away and reached her hand out to him. It was the first time he remembered actually hearing her voice, and it was as tender as the rest of her, not too high, but somewhat lilty and sing-songy.

“You, too.”

“Kevin tells me you’re going to be working for the church for a few weeks?”

“Um, yeah, that’s the plan. I’m going to stay here until the winter passes, save some money and then make my way home sometime early next spring.”

“Home?”

“Still West Texas, but a lot further south.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Sure, I’ll be around.”

As their conversation subsided, the music began and, without warning, everyone around him stood. And just like that, the moment passed, if there had been a moment at all. She was lovely, exceptional even, and he had felt a chemistry that was nothing if not genuine, but Paul knew more than to think a brief encounter between two people could be anything but arbitrary. Physical attraction is universal but true compatibility between two people lies in greater measure in a deeper knowledge of each one to the other; and that, he had learned, is a rare thing. Beautiful girls are everywhere, a dime a dozen; they’re nothing special. But someone to know, someone to really love, is an almost impossible thing to find, or to be. Still, there had been something there, something to build upon, and he wondered if she felt it too. If she had, she wasn’t letting on.

When the worship began, Paul joined in, less from a desire to sing along than from a self-consciousness of not doing as the others, and did his best to sing, but in his utter ignorance about church music or anything resembling it, he could do nothing more than stumble along. After a few failed attempts, he gave up and just started listening, actually gleaning more from the music as a bystander rather than as a participant. The music was rich and well orchestrated, giving it a soothing quality, and at times, he closed his eyes, letting it envelope him with its fullness.

And as the tempo slowed, and the music turned to a more worshipful tone, Paul continued to surrender to it, not knowing its life was given by a Spirit, and it was that Spirit he was surrendering to. Had he known, he would have resisted to his very core, but in his deep state of spiritual need, he simply let go and gave himself over to its drawing. After the service was over, Paul could not explain his abiding sense of fulfillment.

When Pastor Willie rose to speak, Paul had a hard time at first seeing him as the pastor. He still saw the filth-slinging ditch digger who had raged through the ground in the dark like a madman. Within minutes, though, Paul’s mind had latched firmly onto the sermon he was presenting. He was familiar with the stories the pastor was using, but he had never made the connection like Pastor Willie.

He told a story of four young Israelite men whose country had been attacked and who had been captured and put to work in a foreign kingdom because of their noble upbringing. He told how Daniel, the boldest of the boys, had refused to eat the food and drink the wine they were served

because it was not blessed and therefore defiled. The pastor spoke of how Daniel had convinced their overseer, despite his contention the boys would starve, to allow them to eat only vegetables and drink water for ten days, as a test to see how they would fare. At the end of the ten days, the boys were healthier and stronger than all their counterparts. The point of the story, a point Pastor Willie had made clearly, was this: Daniel’s friends had not spoken up, but he had spoken for them, and they had simply followed his lead.

Pastor Willie then took a leap into the future, to a time when Daniel would be thrown into the lion’s den for his determination to pray to his God. Daniel’s competitors had tricked the King into issuing an edict that would prohibit anyone from praying to any sovereignty but the King; if anyone did, they would be fed to the lions. Well, pray Daniel did. And before his knees were off the floor, his enemies were at the King’s door.

Under duress and with great regret, the King was compelled to follow through with what he had decreed, and he threw Daniel into the den of lions. Ironically, in a manner of prayer himself, the King told Daniel his hope was that Daniel’s God would rescue him. And that is what he did. Through the night and in the midst of hungry lions, God sent his Angel to protect Daniel and he awoke alive and well.

The connection between the stories was that Daniel had stood firm, even when the stakes weren’t high, and that had given him the strength of resolve to stand when the stakes were. And in both instances, God took care of Daniel and he emerged a better man for his faith.

But Pastor Willie wasn’t done. He took another leap, to a scene in which a King had built an idol, a giant of a thing, around ninety feet tall. The King issued a decree that when music was played, everyone should bow down and worship it. But there were three young men who refused to bow down to the idol, even while the multitudes fell to their knees. Immediately they were whisked off to a furnace so hot, even the men who threw them in died just from the heat. But as had happened with Daniel, an Angel stood in their midst and protected them.

And then the Pastor made the same connection he had previously made, that these three were able to stand in the face of the greatest danger because they had stood before. Paul opened his Bible, unaware these three boys were the same three from the earlier story, but as he was turning the pages, Pastor Willie made a statement that caught Paul’s attention.

“You see,” he said, “when Daniel spoke up and asked the overseer to feed them only vegetables and water, when he spoke up for his friends and brought them along with him, by simply being faithful in the very smallest things, he was teaching them to stand.” He paused and looked over his congregation. “Who knows, everything might have been the same for Daniel; he still might have gone on to do great things in that kingdom. He still might have fallen to his knees and prayed to his God, still been thrown into that den of lions, still been protected by the very angels of God. But what about his friends? What about those three young men who were there with him. Would they have had the strength they would need to stand and not kneel to that idol?

“More importantly for us now, though, is this: You may not be living for the Lord right now, or you may be living for him in private, taking your stands when you can, but not when it will rock

the boat you’re in. And who knows, you may do this for the rest of your life and make it to heaven by the skin of your teeth. But how many of those around you will be left behind because you didn’t take them with you, because you did not teach them how to stand.

“Stand. Stand today. Stand tomorrow. Stand in the small things, so when something big comes your way, you’ll know how to look it in the face and stare it down. Let those around you see you do it; you may just be saving someone’s life. Don’t just go to heaven; take someone with you.”

Pastor stood there, having stepped out from behind his pulpit, Bible in hand, red-faced and staring daggers into his congregation. It was all very theatrical, Paul thought, but when you stripped away the performance, beneath the “good ole boy” charisma, what remained had real depth and substance. Paul sat there, admiring the way in which Pastor Willie held the entire room at rapt attention and at the power of the Word itself. There was something deeper than “Jesus loves you” and “Jesus saves”. It was a message of hope and challenge.

Faith comes by hearing…, he thought, remembering words he’d read in the Bible at some earlier time. And he realized it was the first time he had ever heard the Word of God, really heard it, and not simply read it. There was more experience to hearing the Word; it was almost interactive. And he was definitely experiencing it. It was starting to settle on him, as worship had, that same Spirit he could not identify, and He was coming through words Paul already knew. They hadn’t changed, but they were definitely different.

During the closing prayer, several people made their way to the front to give their lives or just renew their vows to the Lord. Paul was not among them. He sat on his bench, trying to lasso his swirling emotions, to put things back in their place so his world would make sense to him once again. He had completely forgotten about Traci; she could have been a million miles away. He just sat there, his head down like the rest of them, wrestling with the voice in his head telling him to go down there, even though he had no idea why he should. When the prayer was over, he looked up to catch Pastor’s eyes on his. And then they passed on. Paul couldn’t tell if it was by chance or design, but a thought lodged itself in his mind. He began to wonder if it wasn’t the look, but possibly the message itself, which was the design. Maybe he was nothing more than a potential convert to Pastor, and maybe Kevin, as well. The thought passed as quickly as it had come, but it wasn’t gone, just filed away.

His thoughts were interrupted as everyone started getting up and people began saying their farewells. The next few minutes were a barrage of more names and handshakes, followed by several exchanged ideas for a lunch meeting place. Paul had planned to head back to his room and spend his afternoon alone, but Kevin had insisted.

He ended up at a restaurant in Amarillo, at a long table with Pastor Willie, Aunt Ivy, Mike Dowd and his wife and stepdaughter, Amanda Sims, two other families he had met at least once and Kevin, who sat next to Paul, and Traci Peak, whose scent he would not have the pleasure of, as she was seated at the other end of the table with Amanda.

He sat silent at the table during most of the meal, not really involved, but not excluded, just listening to everyone else’s conversations. Every so often, someone would ask him a question, usually something about his home and when he was going back there, and he would give the polite, but evasive, answer. And then the conversation would move on, and Paul would watch, the entire table a buzz of people speaking back and forth, mostly all at the same time. But they all seemed to understand one another, each exchange overlapping the other as the participants seamlessly moved from one conversation to another. And then someone would ask him another question and he would answer. And with each question, Paul shared a little more information.

He began to tell them of some of his times on the road and the route he had taken to get there and even that he felt something leading him home, which brought a look between Kevin and Pastor Willie. And gradually, as he became more a part of the conversation, he became less aware of his own presence and more aware of his place there. And all the time he spoke, he couldn’t stop looking in Traci’s direction, and each time, those sweet, green eyes would hold his too long. This carried on for two hours, through the meal and dessert, trailing off only as the lazy Sunday afternoon began taking its toll. Around the table they sat, and what had previously been a largely energetic group, had now become a slightly larger, lethargic mass of post-meal drowse.

The women had slowed considerably. They leaned forward on their crossed arms and spoke in softer tones, but continued engaging one another, unwilling to abandon the final remnants of their communion. The men had simply given up. They leaned back in their chairs and nursed the toothpicks in their mouths, held mute from the ache of overindulgence men are often prone to.

And still, Paul mostly watched. He wasn’t used to being around people and it was difficult for him to just allow himself to feel like he belonged.

A half an hour later, he dozed in the front seat of Kevin’s car. He was tired from the meal and he was tired from the work. When Kevin pulled up to his little room, Paul dragged himself out of the car and sleepwalked his way in through the front door and to his bed. He didn’t take off his clothes, and he didn’t wake up until the phone rang. Kevin wanted to know if he wanted to go out after church again that night.

Not this time, Paul protested. But, in the early darkness of the evening, shortly after church, he found himself in a little diner, sharing burgers and ice cream. Only this time, the group consisted of the younger churchgoers. Most of them were college age but, like he and Traci, some were a little older. And he recognized some of the faces from the group that had been with Kevin in the Student Center the first night they had met.

And this time, he found himself right next to Traci.

At first, it was no different than lunch had been: everyone talking to everyone, and no one talking to him. And that suited him just fine. An afternoon nap had not dulled his burgeoning fascination with Traci, and sitting next to her, listening to her speak was all he needed for a pleasant evening. But the evening took a sudden turn when one of Kevin’s friends asked Paul a question.

“So, Paul, where are you from?” And the table went silent. No one said a word, including Traci. He gave the short answer, but as they continued to ask him questions, first about the superficial things, like how long he would be there, and where home was, and then deeper questions, like why he had been on the road for two years, his answers grew longer and more thorough. He lost himself in their questions, glad in a way for the company and attention. But though he let his guard down for the most part, there were still answers he was vague about and some he had even managed to elude.

And then, one by one, they all turned back to more familiar conversation—all but Traci. As they abandoned their curiosity, Traci turned her attention to him. They spoke softly, below the volume of the rest and leaned into one another to hear. Paul liked the closeness, and the more they spoke, the more he suspected Traci did too. He was certain there was more to her interest in him than just interest.

But Paul had never been very good at reading women, so he didn’t try. He just enjoyed the time. As the evening wore on, their conversation deepened and they grew oblivious to the others. For the most part, the others were oblivious to them. But Kevin saw. He saw the way they saw one another. And it made him smile, because he had a stake in both of them.

When it came to Paul, Kevin was the reason he was here in the first place, and Kevin liked that. He knew Paul had plans to leave eventually, but he could already see Paul belonged. In his heart, Kevin knew there was a reason for Paul’s presence here; no, not just a reason—a deep spiritual significance. There was something happening, a new dynamic taking place and Kevin was feeling Paul had brought it with him.

And then there was Traci. His big sister. His best friend. She was closer to God than anyone he had ever known. And the conversation she was having with Paul was deep, he could tell. The only time Traci ever got those “angry brows” was when she was deep in thought. That was a good thing. Whatever Paul was sharing with her was important to him, and to her. Kevin didn’t really know Paul’s story, his real story, but if anyone could affect another life, even the tough ones, it was Traci. At some point, Paul and Traci broke off their conversation and returned to the living world. The rest of the evening was a mixture of ice cream, laughter and general loudness. Soon, however, conversations began to wane and their numbers started to thin.

It was sometime after eleven before Kevin, Traci and Paul, along with the few who remained of their group, decided it was time to knock off. They would all be tired in the morning. Kevin had an early class. After he dropped Paul off, he headed straight for the dorm. He was out before his head hit the pillow.

Traci had to be at work at eight, but sleep wasn’t coming as easily for her as it was for her brother. The day had been a whirlwind. Paul was special, she could tell, and she felt an immediate attraction to him, but he had a reluctance toward the things of God. He was cynical and smug, though with her his manner was more engaging. Paul was all the things she wasn’t looking for, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The bottom line, though, was that Paul

just didn’t love God. He was intelligent and articulate, and when it came to the Bible, he knew his stuff. But to her the Bible wasn’t just the Bible, it was The Word, and it just wasn’t that much to Paul. That was obvious. Their differences were just too great for her to even consider anything beyond a spiritual relationship. But there was something else happening, something unrelated to her feelings for Paul. God was doing something; she could feel it, and that excited her more than any boy ever could.

Paul stopped trying to get to sleep shortly after midnight, laying in bed, his fingers locked behind his head. He’d been here little more than a week and already, more had happened than in any other town he’d been. He had a job; not just a quickie moneymaker to get him some cash and then moving again. It was a good enough job to get him settled somewhere, and that wasn’t something he had been expecting, or wanting.

Pastor Willie was a good guy and so was Kevin, but there was something about their good will that made Paul a little suspicious. The fact that the message seemed to target him did not sit well with him at first, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed almost comical. Paul laughed a little, amused at their transparent efforts. Christians had tried to convert him before, but Paul knew he was a tough nut to crack. Most Christians couldn’t believe his understanding of the Bible did not translate to Christianity; in fact, Paul felt it did just the opposite. He knew the good and the bad, the inconsistencies and the relevancies, and, ironically, he believed it all happened, that there really was a Jesus and that he really was crucified. Paul didn’t even rule out Christ could have performed miracles and might really have been raised from the dead; but he didn’t necessarily subscribe to it, either. It was good information, inspirational, but he knew too much about it to place any real stock in its significance to the modern world.

He really did like those people though. They tried hard, and though their efforts were a little misguided, they were genuine none-the-less. Pastor Willie had preached to him. It was a nice gesture. But deeper, in a place he was still refusing to acknowledge, he could sense what both Kevin and Traci were sensing, but he felt it in a completely different way; different, because of that little grave out there and his connection to it; but also different because it was happening to him. He wasn’t ready to admit it, though. He just couldn’t grasp the thought that maybe the message wasn’t there for him, but that he was there for the message.

But Traci, she had thrown a wrench in the whole works. She was beautiful and truly amazing. He could already see that. But he had other plans. He was only here for a short time and then he was going home. There wasn’t even any evidence she felt the same way, or that she ever would. But that was irrelevant. He wasn’t here to get involved with a girl; he was here for the winter, no more. He wasn’t staying; no matter what happened, he wasn’t staying.

But she was amazing. And she had a way about her, a way that got through to him. It wouldn’t hurt anything to be her friend; she seemed to be able to see him better than anyone had since Nathan. A lot had happened in only a week. He lay there in his bed staring at the ceiling, wondering how much more would happen before he would have a chance to once again feel the pavement under his boots.

One week. So much had happened. And he hadn’t even been back out to Amy’s grave.

CHAPTER FIVE

Paul woke up around nine Monday morning. As Pastor Willie had promised, it was a welcome and well-deserved day off for him. When he awoke, there were no thoughts of Traci, no thoughts of work or Kevin or Pastor Willie. On that morning, as he went about the business of getting ready, his only thoughts were of that little girl. This was the day he had set aside to go back there and visit her grave and though he had not thought of her even once in the past week, she was all he could think of that morning. He felt rushed, unable to take his time getting ready. His shower was quick; getting dressed was quicker. At nine-thirty, he put his boots on and headed out the door, forgetting his jacket. He walked through the parking lot and back towards 23rd street. He started the walk back through town, and even then, it would be almost another mile out to the cemetery. He was still tired and sore in his body from the work he had done that week, but in a way, the walk would be more a relaxation than a chore, and a couple of miles was virtually no distance at all for him. The air was cool, but there was no wind that morning, and he was glad he didn’t have the burden of his jacket. The sky was overcast, as it had perpetually seemed to be the last week, but there was really no fear of rain; it was simply autumn.

His pace was quick, quicker than normal, but he was unaware; it was his body’s way of responding to the subtle enthusiasm he was feeling. There would be moments he would become lost in thoughts of her, wondering what she was like, what she did—who she was. It was all very harmless, really. He was genuinely interested in the answers to those questions, but thought it nothing more than just a small distraction, a reason to get away and have time to himself. And since it seemed to him there was always someone around, alone-time may turn out to be something he would have very little of.

But he was alone now, and it was time he would definitely take advantage of.

And then there he was, standing over her little grave. In what seemed like only a few minutes, he had walked the entire distance, though he only seemed able to remember little of it. The hood of his sweatshirt hung loosely behind his head and he tucked his hands deep into the front pocket of his jeans, letting his weight rest on his right leg; it was a very comfortable stance and it seemed to fit him. He looked long, pondering the words written there. “Amy Hiatt,” he said. “How will your faith change the world?” It was rhetorical. She wouldn’t answer; no one would, but it was her epitaph now, and someone had believed it enough to leave it as the one statement that would identify her to a living world. Had they written it for her, or for themselves? Or for guys like him, who would come along and have the benefit of reading it? Regardless, he felt a need to know. And he felt a need to know how she died, and when she died. Now there were some questions with solid answers; he would just need to find them. And this was the place to start. He wouldn’t find them all here, but he wouldn’t find them without being here. He sat down at the foot of the plot and crossed his legs. He let his arms wrap around

his knees at the elbows and grasped his right wrist with his left hand. He sat quietly and closed his eyes. Just as he did, he heard the rustle of dry leaves as the wind picked up; it blew a wisp of hair across his face. He took slow, deep breaths and closed his eyes tighter. He had all day; time was his. She was long gone, but he knew he could still connect with her, with who she was, who she had been. So he waited, and he listened, knowing if he was ever to reach her, to connect with her, he would have to start here, where she lay, to get a sense of her, even in the very slightest way. And if there was one thing Paul could always get, it was a sense of the dead.

Paul didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits any more than he believed in divine intervention. He didn’t believe in curses and he didn’t believe people hung around on the earth after they died. The dead didn’t haunt us and they didn’t leave us messages. So as Paul sat there, he wasn’t trying to find her spirit, just her imprint. And that was the secret to Paul’s uncanny ability to know how to connect with those who have gone before us. He didn’t believe in any of that spiritual mumbo jumbo, but he certainly believed everyone who had ever lived left their imprint on this world. Like a river that cut a canyon from its constant flow, our lives left something behind. And the longer we flowed, the more beauty, or destruction, we left behind. Amy had only been here for ten years though, and that meant hers would just be harder to find. So as he sat there, motionless for over an hour, his best efforts to find that imprint went no further than that little grave stone and its ambiguous epitaph. He puzzled and tried harder, searching his mind for the remnants of that river, or creek, or whatever it was she had been, and for the little creek bed she had left behind. But like Eden, it appeared to be hidden and for all his wisdom and understanding, this little girl seemed out of reach of his grasp. And then he smiled as an image came to him.

He saw her, certain in his mind it was her, though not realizing a long ago seen photo of his grandmother provided the likeness for this little girl. She was dancing in front of him. Not dancing in some oblivious manner to a music only she could hear, but in a playfully taunting way, giggling and aloof. It took him a moment, but he soon realized she was teasing him, and once she knew the donning had set on him, she turned and ran away, in that straight-legged way little girls do when they’re up to something. And then she was gone, leaving him sitting there in the grass.

So maybe she wouldn’t speak to him, but her memory would. He took out his journal and turned past the daily entries to the last few pages; he began to write. He needed to find her memory, and he knew just where to start . . . with her death.

The library would have newspaper archives he could search. That would be the best place to find a record of her death—at very least there would be an obituary. It might not tell how she died, and it probably wouldn’t tell him why there was no date of death on her headstone, but it would cover some basic details. And maybe there was a related story if there were extenuating circumstances surrounding her death. In a small-town newspaper, anything at all about her death, or just about her or her family, would be easy to find. But there would be more, some specific information about her, stories, behaviors, and other things the newspaper just wouldn’t have. He

would need to find her family for that, if they were still around. If not, there should still be others who might remember; after all, it really wasn’t that long ago. Anyone he could find would be helpful, not only to help him understand her death, but that might be able to shine some light on her life, and Paul knew that would be the key.

But there was something else that bothered him; something told him there was more to this. It was like searching for a word that lingered right on the tip of his tongue; something nagged at him. He couldn’t grab onto it, but neither could he move past it. He closed his eyes again and immediately, he saw a vision of a golden thread weaving over itself, back and forth, over and under. It was a beautiful tapestry of myriad colors being woven by a single golden thread; and then it struck him.“Faith,” he said. From where he stood, it was the one thing he could tell that carried over from her life to her death. Of all the things someone could have remembered about her, they chose to chisel her faith into that headstone. The epitaph could have been nothing more than the promising words of a despondent parent wishing the best for a daughter. But maybe it was real; maybe it was her faith that chiseled out whatever her little life had left behind. Maybe her faith was the thread. It was the first question he had asked, but the longer he dwelt on it, the deeper it became rooted in him. It wasn’t the connection of their same day of birth, or the mystery of the day of her death, that tugged at Paul. He could find those answers himself; they were tangible, but it was the abstract, that which he could not see or touch, that was beginning to drive him. He didn’t merely want the kind of answers he would find from a newspaper clipping, he wanted to know the deeper story. He wanted to know the significance of her life. And that was something he might never find.

He turned to go, torn between the drive to find answers and the longing to stay out there with her. But she had gone, hadn’t she? He’d seen her. She had laughed at him, letting him know she was in control, and as soon as she had, she had run away. It was cute and he couldn’t help but smile once again.

Faith. It was abstract alright. He had only seen it from a distance, but he had always admired it. Guys like Pastor Willie; they had it. They believed in something, and Paul was even able to admit their belief lay not only in something, but in someone, and though he admired it, it was a concept very difficult for him to latch onto. Faith did have some redeeming value, but it was not the epitome of spiritual living. Faith wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t even always spiritual. It took faith to believe the light would turn on when you flipped the switch; that wasn’t spiritual. Everyone has some faith, but no one has perfect faith.

Real faith—perfect faith—manifests itself in silence. It works, as Pastor Willie did all week, in humility and diligence, not boasting its presence. And when Faith’s work is done, it leaves behind a residue, unmistakable evidence it was there, pointing to its origin, to the very entity that brought it there. And when it is gone, it works still, holding true, running its course. It does not change in midstream, or midsermon.

On the surface, human effort at bolstering another’s faith always seems appropriate, even divine, as Pastor Willie’s sermon had. But once examined, the motives of its messenger are revealed for what they are: a mere contrivance. Pastor Willie had used his faith to try and reach Paul, when he should have been letting his faith use him. Paul did not question Pastor’s motives, they were true, but they were also transparent, easy to read and judge. Regrettably, so was his faith.

Paul couldn’t say he had lost his own faith; life wasn’t all that dramatic. The truth is, he had never really had that opportunity to experience faith, not close up, and maybe he was searching for it. Maybe finding faith would answer questions for him; maybe it would pose even more. This little girl had had faith, and who has more faith than a child. Had she held to that faith, even in the face of death? It may be an answer he would never find. But he would try.

An hour later, his pack lay at his feet beneath a chair. The room was dark and the machine that ran newspaper stories across the screen in a strange negative image was lit. He was searching through the archives from September of 1985. This was a small town, and a small newspaper; it should be easy to track down an obituary.

"LOCAL GIRL MISSING"

The headline flashed in front of him. It was dated September 6th. He wasn't certain the story was about her, but the time frame was right, so he began to read:

On the morning of Friday September 5th, Police were called to the home of James and Eloise Hiatt when their daughter, Amy Frances Hiatt, 10, was discovered missing from her bedroom. Upon entering her daughter's room early that morning, Eloise Hiatt found her daughter was not in her bed. Thinking her daughter in another part of the house getting ready for school, she returned to preparing breakfast. It wasn't until later the family realized Amy was not in the house.

That was her, Amy Hiatt, and she had gone missing. Paul read the entire story, word for word, but there was very little information beyond the obvious details:

Eloise Hiatt says she was with her daughter as she went to bed that night and confirms the bed slept in, but no one in the family saw her after that time.

Paul read on:

Police did a thorough search of the house and surrounding areas but found no signs of the girl. "The possibility of kidnapping has not been ruled out," says Police Chief Donald Groves. "But at this time, we are treating the girl's disappearance as a missing person's case."

Local residents have joined with Police and Amarillo Rescue in search efforts.

As of this printing, Police have no leads regarding the location of the girl and continue to seek out anyone who might have information regarding her whereabouts.

That wasn't the whole story, but that was all it amounted to; a few facts intermixed between details of the Hiatt's morning routine: what time the family members had gotten up, how long it had taken to make breakfast, etc. Paul took note of the most important points and returned to his search of the newspaper archives. Only, there were no more archives.

There was no follow-up story, no obituary, no nothing. Paul spent the next two hours looking through the next three issues of the paper and found nothing related to the story of the missing girl at all.

It was all very strange, Paul thought. A little girl disappears and there is virtually no mention of it, just one small story in a small-town newspaper. But there had to be more; it just didn't make sense that this is all there was. So Paul decided to look bigger.

Over the course of the next few hours, he pored over all the old Amarillo newspapers from that time. He began with the issue the day of her disappearance and right away, found a similar write up to the one in the local paper, only this paper didn't drop the story. Both of the next two issues had stories

on the missing little girl. And from the tenor of the reporting, there wasn't a soul in either community not concerned with the recovery of the child.

In the stories, Amarillo Police Chief James Palmer was quoted several times, calling the girl's disappearance "an extraordinarily bizarre occurrence", coming just short of tagging it an abduction. He was quick to criticize the local police' handling of the case and it was clear from the articles, his own stream of suspicion flowed in the direction of the little girl's mother, Eloise Hiatt. He hinted she was the only one with direct access to the girl and that the coincidental nature of her testimony to police regarding having put her to bed was more than convenient.

The reporter outlined a scenario in which the little girl, the last to be put to bed that night, was not actually put to bed by her mother, but instead fell victim to some sort of plot concocted by her. What that plot was exactly, the reporter could not say and Groves, again, would not confirm or deny that the suspicions of authorities fell in line with that theory.

The reasons for, were largely this: that the mother was the only one who could confirm the girl was put to bed that night and it would have been an easy task to make the girl's bed appear to have been slept in. There also appeared to have been no sign of a break in of any kind.

The reasoning, however, seemed to have holes, the reporter admitted. There had never been any indication of discord in the family or any history of instability on the part of the girl's mother that would lead to that conclusion. Police searched the premises thoroughly, finding several small rooms in the old house, including a cubby under the stairs and both an attic and a basement. And in all, there appeared to be no clues the girl had been held, or worse, in any of them.

And all the girl's shoes were present and accounted for, two pair, along with a pair of house slippers.

And the fact that no sign of an intruder had been found almost worked to the benefit of the mother. All signs pointed to someone with access to the home and since any intelligent person attempting to perpetrate a fraud in that manner would almost certainly have staged a scene in which someone outside the home, however imaginary, had broken in and abducted the girl, it seemed implausible the mother had done it.

At any rate, both departments appeared to be handling the case very, very delicately considering its nature. But no mistake could be made by anyone that the feelings of most weighed very heavily in one direction.

"The girl has only been missing for two days," Palmer said, "The local authorities haven't even begun to scratch the surface of the various possibilities in this case. As of now, there are no signs pointing anywhere in particular. There are only suppositions, and suppositions are not evidence of a crime. But I am confident all will be done to continue to pursue this to its end, whatever the outcome. And our department will be here to help in any way we can."

The outcome, however, would only take one more day.

The headline touted the amazing return of Amy Frances Hiatt and the story that followed dominated the front page. And Paul was mesmerized by what he read.

Just after 7 p.m. on Sunday evening, the little girl had been found in her own bed, deceased. The irony was that the return of the little girl took place with the house full of witnesses, including the child's mother, several residents of the communities and other interested parties, including Police Chiefs Donald Groves and James Palmer.

When the little girl was found, she was wearing a white nightgown no one in her family had ever remembered having seen and her appearance was immaculate. She was perfectly groomed, down to the cleanliness of her nails and the shine of her hair. In fact, there was no sign of mistreatment whatsoever. Her skin was pristine and her feet looked as if they had never taken a step outside of the house. But police had already ruled out the possibility of the girl having been in the house. It made no sense and even the reporter could not hide his perplexity.

The story went on to quote both chiefs and the mother, but nothing more was revealed that might shed light on the fantastic events of the previous few days.

The next day, one more story, short and tucked away on page nine, informed readers that the girl would be buried the following Friday without an autopsy. Police would continue to investigate the case where warranted.

And that was all there was, or at least all Paul could find.

He left the library that day with a sense of awe at what he had found, not puzzled over an enigma for which there seemed no explanation, but captivated by a mystery he felt certain he could unravel.