Grumleys were handsomely paid for their efforts, which is why it was so strange for twelve of the youngest and the most promising to have been called from prosperous enterprises in this town or that city, and gathered, under the Reverend’s watchful eye, to this isolated chunk of Baptist Tennessee. Called for a caper that even they themselves didn’t fully understand, under the supervision of a strange fellow calling himself-or come to think of it, called by them, for he called himself nothing-Brother Richard. Who taught them not how to bust safes or short-wire alarm circuits or tap into computer data banks, but how to change truck tires at high speed. That was really all they knew-except for all the shooting practice, which, hot sweet mama, promised some fun!-and damnit, it was beneath them to do such manual labor under so cruel and arrogant a leader. But the Reverend insisted, and in the Grumley universe, his word was law. He sold obedience and loyalty and it was their job to offer obedience and loyalty.

And thus it was that two other Grumleys, two hard ones, named B.J. and Carmody, were assigned to stay with the damned girl’s daddy as he had adventures in Mountain City. What they saw was an old coot with a bristle of white-gray hair and a bad limp. They differed on what exactly he represented.

B.J.’s opinion was strong.

“Hell, he ain’t nothing but an old man. This here’s a waste of time. That coot can’t get nothing done. Blow in his ear, he’ll fall down.”

But Carmody, by trade an armed robber and occasional assassin, had a different opinion.

“Don’t know, brother. He looks old, he moves old, but first up, I don’t like how tan he is. Tan means he’s outdoors a lot and if he’s outdoors, he’s might to be all spry and peppy. I’d like to git a close-up look on that face and see how much age he wears. Maybe he ain’t all wrinkly. I just know gray hair and a limp makes a man look old and feeble, but looking ain’t being. He may have a jump or two might surprise us.”

“You are a fool, Carmody. I say we go on in there, brace him hard, tell him this ain’t his part of the country and he’d best return to the old folks home and watch him run. He will run scared like a rabbit, I guarantee.”

“He’s got some sly, I’m telling you. Some men have natural sly. They see into things, they git what they want, they ain’t got no need to show bull-strong like your lower-class white thug, them thick-necked fellas the eye-talians think are so tough. Man, wish I had a buck for each one of them I saw fall down and not get up-”

“You do have a buck for each one of them you saw fall down and not get up.”

“You know what, I do. Anyhow’s, I’m not at all convinced this fella ain’t your natural sly.”

They were parked in the parking lot of a Hardee’s across the street from the Mountain Empire Motel, where the old man had gone to ground. It was boring duty, in a one-horse hick town rimmed by mountains and fueled by fast food. No decent whores anywhere in sight, though maybe a fella could get his motor oils changed somewhere in the little burg’s Negro section. That may have had more to do with Grumley lore, out of Hot Springs’ colorful past, however, than anything real.

“Ho-hum,” said B.J. “Ho-fucking-hum.”

“Oh, wait. Lookie, brother, that’s him.”

It was. They saw the old guy hobble out of his room, lock it solid, and limp to his dumpy rental car. In a few seconds he had it fired up and headed back down the road, turned left onto the big, wide stretch that was 421. They followed. In just a bit, he pulled into the low, log-cabin structure that represented the Johnson County Welcome Center, just east of town.

B.J., driving, let him get into the building before pulling into the parking lot; it was Carmody who drew the duty of trying to get in close and get an overhear.

He entered the low old place, finding it a museum in one half and a travel office in the other, with racks of maps and tourist brochures for local attractions, such as they were, and an earnest crew behind desks servicing the visitors. Indeed, the girl’s dad was talking intently to an old lady, and Carmody boldly slipped near, reaching for a bed and breakfast brochure on the table, and listened.

“-so many Baptists around here, you wouldn’t notice if a new one came or an old one went, I swear.”

“Yes ma’am,” he heard the man say. “This one would be new, I’m guessing, not a church but some kind of prayer camp. Piney Ridge, I th-”

“Piney Ridge! Well, sir, why didn’t you say so! Piney Ridge is where Reverend Elmore Childress had his needy child’s camp in the ’70s, until the, er, unpleasantness. Since then that property has sat vacant. If this new fellow wanted a place for a prayer camp, that would be the place, and who’d notice, all the Baptists around. Now my people are Episcopalian and have been, and it’s nothing agin’ the Baptists, but there’s something a little Roman about their service if you get my drift and my sister Eula-”

And on and on the old blue-hair went, but Carmody was free of the politeness that required he listen. He snatched up the B &B brochure and, trying to keep the leap out of his steps, slid out the damned door.

“You see a ghost?”

“No sir. That bastard’s already onto Pap’s place.”

“What? How the hell.”

“Damn, I didn’t get a good look at him. Well, looks like Pap may be eyeballing him himself.”

He pulled out his cell, punched the Reverend’s number. Meanwhile B.J. set the car in motion, eased out of the space and lot, and buzzed a little down 321 toward 61, just to be less visible when he took up the tail on Old Man Swagger the next time he moved.

“Pap!”

“What is it, Carmody?”

“Pap, he knows!”

He explained what he had learned to hushed silence on the other end.

Finally his dad said, “Blasphemy! Blasphemy, damnation, and hellsmoke! That tricky bastard, what is he up to?”

“Pap, if he drops by-”

“He won’t see a damn thing, that I guarantee you. Now you boys, don’t you lose him. We will stay with this trickster hard and if we have to we will snuff him out. Do you hear me, boys?”

“I will tell B.J.”

“You boys load up and lock but keep your thumbs on them safeties. If it comes to it, you may have to shoot fast and put him down hard.”

Bob followed the old lady’s instructions, drove the rental up 421 another couple of miles and found 167, with signs pointing out an airport. He turned, headed through flat farmland, though ahead a ridge of mountains rose like some kind of black wave against the surface of the earth. He passed the airport-dinky toy planes, one-engine jobs-rose through foothills, and then was in the higher elevations. The road had been engineered to find its way between the ridges, and he slid through valleys and passes, seeing many private drives off either side of the road. Then he noted his fuel light blinking and not knowing how much farther the drive would be, pulled into a grocery store. LESTER’S GROCERY, the sign said. It was a solitary white structure lodged into the slope, with a set of gas pumps out front. He filled up, decided he needed a Coke or something, and went in.

The place was dark and grubby, staffed by a lounging boy with acne and too much belly and a surly attitude. Bob got a bottle from a cooler, went to the counter, and paid.

“Say, you familiar with a Piney Ridge Baptist Prayer Camp up this way? Lady at the tourist center told me it should be along this road.”

“No sir,” said the boy, making no eye contact.

“How about a sudden influx of new younger men, in clumps, keeping to themselves, looking prayerful and pious? Ring a bell?”

“No sir,” said the boy.

“Son, you said that so fast it seemed to me you’s most interested in ending the conversation, not thinking hard for an answer. Same as last time. Here, look at me. Look at my eyes, see that I’m a human being too, try and help me out. Be surprised what good things can follow from that.”