She would then admit she hadn't rushed to the door to try to get the license plate of his getaway car, mostly because she'd gone straight to the living room to berate her husband for failing to prevent the maniac from making her hand over every last dollar from the cash register and leering at her while doing it.

The local police officer would pass along the description to the Illinois State Police barracks, where it would be noted with a sign and added to the growing list of Marvel escapades. It was clear he was heading east, stealing vehicles now and then, holding up stores and gas stations, flashing a weapon but always speaking courteously.

The sergeant would be pleased when Marvel crossed into the adjoining state. It wasn't wise to soil your own nest too long; at some point, the shit would drop on someone below, who might get pissed.

Brother Verber stood outside the gate, mopping his forehead and gazing unhappily at the hodgepodge of tin, plywood, rotten boards, and mismatched sheets of siding that comprised Raz Buchanon's shack. The roof over the porch tilted dangerously, and the boards of the porch itself were pocketed with rot. The only indication the shack was not some relic from bygone centuries was the spidery television antenna on the roof.

He shifted the handkerchief to his other hand and worked on his neck for a while. It was his Christian duty to march through the weedy yard, cross the porch, pound on the door, and confront Raz Buchanon with the bald-faced, no-gettin'-around-it truth that moonshining was a sin that led straight to eternal damnation. He knew it was his Christian duty because Sister Barbara (aka Mrs. Jim Bob) had told him so, and she'd done so for more than an hour, stressing the necessity of confrontation with this underling of Satan who was decimating the moral fiber of Maggody.

He'd have preferred to put off this particular battle with the devil for a day or two, giving himself time to study up on the extent of the wickedness and arm himself with Bible verses and platitudes. When he'd suggested as much, and also mentioned a baseball game on television that very afternoon, Sister Barbara had lit up like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. He'd revised his schedule real quick.

There was no denyin' she was the beacon of the church, the leading ewe of the flock, and a fine figure of a woman to boot, Brother Verber thought mistily as he hesitated on the far side of the gate. Whenever she came to him for counseling, she dressed modestly, to be sure, but he was keenly aware that she was no scrawny bag of bones. No sirree, she had a righteous bosom, a fetchingly slim waist, and a well-rounded derriere above shapely calves and trim ankles. He hated fat ankles as much, if not more, than he hated Satan hisself.

It occurred to Brother Verber that he might be harboring something akin to lust, and he firmly told himself that genuine admiration for the Good Lord's handiwork was above reproach. He closed his eyes to offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the miracles of creation, but moments later found himself wondering what the handiwork might look like in a bathing suit or a silky nightgown. Or nothing at all. "Onward, Christian soldier," he said aloud and, commencing to hum the tune, stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket and pushed open the gate. His Bible clutched in his hand, he wound through the weeds, ordered himself not to speculate on whether the porch boards would hold him, and went right up to the door.

As befitting his officer's commission in the Lord's army, he pounded on the door and yelled, "Open up, Raz Buchanon! Open this door or prepare to spend all eternity stoking the fires of perdition beneath the devil's own moonshine still."

The door opened to a slit. "What're ye howlin' about, preacherman?" said a surly, suspicious voice.

Brother Verber sucked in his gut and stuck out his chin. "I'm here to save your filthy, perverted, motheaten soul. You've gone many a mile down that wicked road, but it's my Christian duty to bring you back, even if it means hanging onto your trim ankle to stop you from taking that last step."

"Say what?" said Raz, puzzled. "I ain't gonna have the likes of you or any other feller hangin' on my ankle. I hear tell there's boys like that over at the truck stop in Hasty. You kin go over there and find yerself a real pretty one."

"How dare you!" Brother Verber thundered, mostly to cover his embarrassment. "The Good Lord says that's an abomination, just as wicked as fornication, drunkenness, lust-and making field whiskey! I'm here for your own good, Raz Buchanon. This is a mission of mercy, and I'd appreciate it if you'd open the door and step aside so that I can bring salvation into your home and your heart."

"Suit yourself, preacherman, but you'll have to wait until Marjorie's show is over. It's one of those damn fool soap operas, and she's stucked on it tighter 'n a seedtick on a mule's ass."

To Brother Verber's dismay, the door opened all the way and he was ushered inside, warned again to stay real quiet, and nudged across the room to be plopped on a lumpy sofa. On a recliner lay a bristly white sow with moist pink eyes and a drooly snout, and damned if she wasn't staring attentively at a television set. He was so bewildered that he mutely accepted a jar filled with a clear liquid and went so far as to automatically raise it to his lips. The first sip nearly jolted him out of his daze, but it didn't. The second sip went down more smoothly, Before too long, the jar was in need of a refill.

Brother Verber wasn't off and running down the road he'd described to Raz, but he was well on his way at a brisk clip.

I scrunched as far as I could against the window and stared down at the endless expanse of flat, gray clouds, trying to convince myself I was traveling in an airplane rather than a time machine. We were moving forward in space, not backward along a continuum that ended in an elegant apartment (fv rms, ter, all mod con, full sec). I was going to Manhattan to rescue my mother from whatever disaster she'd brought upon herself, I was not going home. I'd done that when I walked out of the courthouse and hailed a cab for the airport.

I strained to believe the lecture I was giving myself but my ex's face kept popping up and breaking my concentration. For the record, he wasn't bad-looking if you like lounge lizards only one generation removed from pastel polyester pantsuits, family outings to discount stores, and forced joviality around the gas grill in a New Jersey backyard. The facade had begun to erode early in the game (we're talking months, not years), but I'd persevered until I could dredge up the courage to confront myself with my lack of judgment, lack of perspicuity, and lack of anything remotely akin to common sense. Admitting it to Ruby Bee had been even more painful, although for once in her life, she didn't point out that she'd told me so. Estelle did it for her, and at length.

I took out my checkbook and glumly noted the damage I'd done with the airline ticket. The pathetic figure, coupled with the possibility I'd be unemployed when I returned to Maggody, distracted me but did not enhance my spirits. Nor did the three-hundred-pound salesman from Toledo, who in theory was sitting in the aisle seat but in truth had oozed over into the adjoining one, and was now frowning as he read the bottom line in my checkbook.

"You got a place to stay tonight, sweetie?" he asked wheezily. "I'd hate to see a pretty little thing like you stay in a dirty hotel with a bunch of pimps and whores. I'm staying at the Hilton, myself, and I sure could stand to squeeze you in with me."

"That's real nice of you, but I'm hoping to get my mother out on bail. Either way, I can stay in her room."