She thought for a moment. "I've never had call to loan mine out, and I can't imagine why my father would. He won't admit it, but he likes the idea that nobody can get into the church without calling on him. He makes 'em wait, too, just so they won't forget it."

"How often is the building used?"

"Services on Sunday mornings and evenings, prayer meetings on Wednesday evenings. Weddings and funerals by reservation only." She looked at the front of the building, and then at the low gray clouds. "My father's hardly competing with Methuselah, but he's getting on in years. The most foolish things have become real important to him. Food has to be cooked just so, shoes have to be lined up on his closet floor, books have to go back on the shelf from the exact place they came from. Otherwise, if you'll excuse the expression, all hell breaks loose."

"Are you saying these satanists are just another of his obsessions?"

"Maybe," she said, shrugging. "Anyway, I don't see what you can do, unless you want to set up a cot in the office and sleep over every night. You can come to the house for breakfast. It wouldn't be any trouble to fix another serving of oatmeal. No coffee, though. We don't believe in artificial stimulants." Again, the faint smile. "I used to sneak into town and buy a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the machine at the gas station. When my father caught me, you'd have thought from the way he carried on that it was whiskey."

"We're not quite to that point in the investigation," I said. I took a small notebook out of my pocket and wrote down the telephone numbers of the PD and my apartment. "If you see any suspicious activity inside the church, call me. I can be here in less than twenty minutes."

She took the piece of paper, glanced incuriously at it, and folded it into a tiny rectangle. "Why don't you come to one of our services, Chief Hanks? You might find it interesting."

"If I get a chance," I said, then got back into my car before she could press me for a commitment. Martha was still standing next to her car, her hands in her pockets and her face tilted toward the sky, as I drove down the driveway to the county road. I supposed I might have been as impassive as she if I'd spent my life under the dour scrutiny of the Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred.

But I doubted it.

Brother Verber sat on the couch in the rectory, which, in spite of the fancy nomenclature, consisted of a mobile home parked in the yard of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall. He was marveling at the depth of depravity right there on the TV screen. Why in heaven's name a woman would go in front of a camera and tell the whole country how she'd had a lesbian affair with her husband's sister was beyond comprehension, he thought as he refilled his glass with sacramental wine and leaned forward to catch every last disgusting detail. Nothing like this had been covered in his correspondence course with the seminary in Las Vegas, and he figured sooner or later he'd be called upon to confront this particularly mystifying perversity. Surely he owed it to the Lord to be forewarned before he went into battle with of Satan hisself.

What was downright disturbing, he reflected as he idly scratched the tip of his nose, was that this woman looked so normal. Why, if he'd seen her at the SuperSaver, thumping melons or flipping through a tabloid at the checkout counter, he never would have suspected she was one of "Them." He'd heard tell of a book where a woman had been obliged to wear a scarlet A, so everybody'd know right off the bat that she was an adulteress. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. There were three or four high school girls who might think twice about lying buck naked with a boy on a blanket next to Boone Creek if they knew they might end up with a scarlet W nestled between their ripe, sassy breasts.

The idea was so intriguing that he found a pencil and piece of paper and started a list. "W is for whore," he murmured. "L is for liar, P is for pervert, S is for sinner, M is for Methodist…"

He was so engrossed in his work that he came close to spewing out a mouthful of wine when someone rapped on his front door. "Coming," he called, then slipped the paper under a cushion and made a quick pass through the kitchenette to stash the wine bottle and glass in a cabinet.

He was darn glad he had when he opened the door and saw Sister Barbara (aka Mrs. Jim Bob) on the stoop. "What a charming surprise," he said, hoping she wouldn't notice that he was still in his bathrobe and slippers nigh onto noon. He'd had to explain to her more than once how staying up half the night to pray for various members of the congregation left him tuckered out the next morning, but she never looked real convinced.

"I need you to go unlock the door to the basement of the Assembly Hall," she said. "I've been out since eight this morning collecting items for the rummage sale, and my trunk's full."

Clasping his hands together, he beamed down at her. "You're an inspiration to us all. 'The path of the just is as the shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day.' That's from Proverbs, chapter four, verse eighteen."

"You wouldn't think the day's so all-fired perfect if you'd been out in it. I stepped in a puddle in front of Millicent McIlhaney's house, and my feet are soaked. When I got out of my car at Fergie Biden's house, a brutish dog came charging from under the porch like it was bent on tearing out my throat. I barely escaped with my life. Furthermore, I had to pump gas, even though I must have told Jim Bob a half dozen times to fill the tank before he left town. I have a run in my stocking and I've lost a glove. There is a most unpleasant tickle in the back of my throat, and I won't be surprised if I have pneumonia by this evening. How long do I have to stand here in the cold before you put on your coat and go unlock the door for me?"

Brother Verber's eyes stung with unshed tears. "Why don't you come into the rectory and dry your feet, Sister Barbara? I'll make you some nice hot tea and you can rest up from all this trouble you've been going to on behalf of the heathen orphans in Africa. I'm surprised you ain't sporting a halo after what you've been through."

"Oh, all right," Mrs. Jim Bob said, "but only for a minute. There's more to do, and we both know the Devil finds work for idle hands." She cocked her head like a cute little of chickadee and gave him a piercing look. "Are you in your pajamas because you're working on your sermon?"

"I was scribbling so fast I must have lost track of the time," he said as he grabbed the remote control and turned off the TV. "You sit here on the couch and I'll fetch a towel. I'd consider it a blessing if you'd allow me to kneel in front of you and dry your feet."

She sat down, pulled off her shoes, and carefully inspected her toes for a hint of frostbite. Once she was satisfied that none of them required amputation, she looked up at Brother Verber, who was hovering in much the same fashion as a blimp over a football stadium. "So what's the topic of this Sunday's sermon?"

"I'll go get that towel." He scurried down the hallway to the bathroom, opened the linen cabinet, and spent several minutes trying to decide which color of towel she'd prefer. He finally grabbed an armful and went back out into the living room. "Where's Jim Bob off to?"

"He said he was going to the Municipal League meeting down in Hot Springs, but I'm not so sure that's where he is. He's been acting queer these last few weeks."

Brother Verber gasped. "He has?"

"For one thing, he made it home for lunch and dinner regular as clockwork, and he spent most every evening in front of the television. He only went back to the supermarket after dinner one time, and when I called, he answered the phone himself. I don't know what to make of it, Brother Verber."