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development? That would certainly be enough for a hefty down payment on a new church building.
    I wondered if the old building was insured.

9
    Are you helping men to heaven or hell?
    —Highland Baptist Church
    The edginess that hung over the courthouse that morning had less to do with June’s smothering heat and humidity than with Channel 5’s news van parked out front.
News and Observer
and
Ledger
reporters roamed the halls and sidewalks, too, looking for man-in-the-street reactions to the destruction of a black church. Although it’s glossed over now and goes pretty much unmentioned when people talk about the good old days, Dobbs is still the town that used to greet its visitors with a huge billboard that pictured nightriders, a burning cross and big letters that said, “Welcome to Klan Kuntry!”
    As a child standing behind the driver’s seat when Mother and I drove over to Dobbs to visit Aunt Zell, I’d been offended by the sign. Not because of what it stood for—to a seven-year-old raised up Baptist, one cross looks pretty much like another and I had no idea what the Klan was. But I did know that “Kuntry” was bad spelling.
    “How come they don’t fix it right?” I’d ask Mother.
    “ ’Cause they’re dumber than dirt,” Mother would always answer.
    I’m not saying these reporters were necessarily looking to find a white hood sticking out from under the bill of a man-in-the-street’s John Deere cap, but a couple of snarling, dumber-than-dirt rednecks would have goosed up the ain’t-no-racists-here protestations, which was all they were getting on tape.
    Dwight Bryant, the deputy sheriff I’ve known since I was in diapers, had a sour look on his face when he stopped past the broom closet that serves as my bare-basics office when I’m sitting court in Dobbs. “Ed Gardner’s looking for you.”
    I didn’t play innocent. Ed used to be part of the Friday night crowd at Miss Molly’s on South Wilmington Street when Terry Wilson and I were hanging together three or four years ago. Terry’s State Bureau of Investigation; Ed’s federal: Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. These days, “Firearms” includes any incendiary device that results in an explosion or a fire. Colleton County’s old rundown tobacco warehouses have a bad habit of catching fire in the middle of the night around here, so we get to see a little more of Ed than other folks might.
    “I’m always happy to talk to him,” I said, “but don’t you and Bo want to know what I saw, too?”
    He shrugged unhappily and I almost got up to pat his shoulder like one of my brothers when they were down. In age, Dwight’s somewhere between Will and the little twins and might as well have been another brother, since he hung out with them so much. Kidd Chapin may be a hair taller, but Dwight’s more muscular and solid, like my brothers by Daddy’s first wife. At times I feel as protective of him as if he really was one of my brothers.
    “A little territorial infighting going on here?” I asked sympathetically.
    “Aw, you know how it is. The Feds are polite, but they don’t think we know squat. And I’m stuck hanging around, waiting for Buster Cavanaugh to get here and ride out there with me,” He gave a rueful grin. “ ’Course, old Buster now, he don’t know squat.”
    Fire Marshall in Colleton County’s always been more of an honorary term than a working title and Buster probably knows less about an arson investigation than I do. But he was connected to a couple of the county commissioners and he’d have his nose out of joint if he didn’t get included in the day’s festivities. He never misses a chance to slap that magnetic Fire Marshall sign onto the side of his car and turn on his flashing red light.
    Absently, I touched the little blisters scattered on my forearm.
    “Hurt much?” Dwight asked.
    I shook my head and pulled the sleeve of my robe. “Looks worse than it is. At least my hair doesn’t still smell like singed