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moved past his neighbor and self-proclaimed preacher as he led his wife Harriet by the arm. The young mother had draped a remnant of black lace across her head. The brown hair was pulled into a bun, and her dark eyes darted beneath the drooping veil, painfully searching each face for reassurance that her son was not lost to her.
    She caught sight of the casket at the far end of the room. The profile of the child rose above the padded rim as if he lay suspended over a sea of white satin. Harriet Coleman drew back. Her legs crumpled. Luke tried to catch her, but she sank to the hardwood floor.
    “My boy,” she sobbed. “Why would God let him die? He didn’t need to die.” Her husband struggled to raise her to her feet. Pace took her other arm and together they managed to carry her to a folding chair that Wayne set up against the wall. The woman shut out all attempts to comfort her, only staring at the casket, her grief grown too deep for any physical expression.
    “Are you expecting others?” I asked Luke Coleman.
    “Some friends and neighbors. Leroy will say a few words before we all leave for Kentucky.”
    I nodded and patted the man on the arm. “I’ll be close by to be of assistance.” I gave a slight wave of my hand indicating we should withdraw. Fats McCauley was not watching for the signal. He was fascinated by the young mother and studied her as if she were the only person in the room.
    “Travis,” I whispered, then repeated more distinctly. There was no response.
    “Travis, let’s go,” said Pace.
    The big man nodded, but instead of following the Reverend, he crossed the room and knelt in front of Harriet Coleman, putting his bulk between her and the casket.
    “You have a beautiful little boy. Nobody will take that memory away from you. Believe me.”
    Harriet Coleman reached out and touched Fats McCauley on the cheek. She rubbed her fingers across his tears.
    “He is with Jesus, isn’t he?”
    “Yes. Yes, he is. And my Brenda is with Jesus too. Happy and whole in the shelter of His arms.” He took a deep breath, then whispered so low that the rest of us strained to catch the words. “Too cold. It was too cold.”
    Fats McCauley got to his feet, looked back at the boy and walked out of the room without another word.
    “I’m going to sit with Fats for a few minutes in the kitchen,” said Pace.
    I turned to Susan. “Would you mind helping me at the front door? Folks can put their coats in the hall closet.”
    About fifteen or twenty people came. Most were like the Colemans, poor, ill-clad, and terribly distraught by the tragedy. Like the Colemans and Leroy Jackson, they had migrated over from Kentucky. As the colony’s spiritual leader, Jackson dealt with the mourners more as tribe members than as a congregation.
    I was surprised at the one exception to this group of backwoods mountaineers. Fred Pryor, the Ridgemont Power and Electric executive, walked into the foyer wearing a tan cashmere overcoat.
    Accompanying him was a lean man with oily black hair and the dark stubble of a well-past-five-o’clock shadow. He wore a wrinkled gray suit and would have been almost presentable if not for the scuffed brown shoes. I figured him for late forties. He helped Pryor out of his coat while never taking his eyes off me. There was no chance I could mistake his expression as friendly. He was wary, like a dog protecting his turf.
    “Mr. Clayton,” said Pryor. “Sorry to meet again under such sad circumstances. And I gather there is still no word on Dallas Willard?”
    I shook my head. Pryor turned to his companion.
    “This is Odell Taylor. He is one of our foremen. I asked him to have the crew check the security gate at the head of the rail spur and walk the track.”
    I reached out to shake the man’s hand, but instead Taylor laid Pryor’s heavy coat across my forearm.
    “Nothin’,” he said. “We found nothin’ because that Willard knows better than to set foot on our property.”
    Pryor quickly