Blindside

didn’t. Indeed, he was frowning. “Doesn’t sound true to type,” he said finally.
    “You’re right,” Katie said. “He’s always polite, always pleasant, but there’s just something about him, something that makes you want to take a step back, if you know what I mean.”
    “How many people in his congregation?” Sherlock asked.
    “Maybe fifty, sixty, I’m not really sure. I’m thinking I’ll just swing by their house, you know, check it out a bit, see if just maybe Clancy is hanging around out there. He’s her brother, after all. Where else would he hide?”
    “I’m going with you, Katie,” Sherlock said and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “No way are you on this little sightseeing visit by yourself.”
    “What about me, Mom?”
    “You stay here. Oh dear.” She stared blankly at Miles, who was giving her a crooked smile.
    “Go get ’em, tiger,” Miles said. “Keely, you and me andSam are going to stay and play gin rummy with your uncle Dillon and maybe have some lunch in the cafeteria. Whatcha think?”
    “I don’t know how to play gin rummy,” Keely said.
    “I want to go, Papa.”
    “Sorry kid, not this time. They serve who also wait, or something like that. Keely, you’ll learn real fast. Now, say good-bye to your mom.”
    “Good-bye, Mom.”
    “I’ll see you soon, sweetie.”
    “Take another pain pill in exactly thirty-one minutes, okay?” Sherlock said as she kissed her husband’s whiskered cheek. “And find out if it’s at all possible the McCamys could be behind Sam’s kidnapping.”
    “A preacher wanting Sam?” Miles said as he settled Sam back onto his lap. “I can’t begin to imagine why.”
    Katie shrugged. “I’ll bet Clancy has visited Elsbeth here in Jessborough, knew about Bleaker’s cabin, and that’s why they took Sam there. You ready, Sherlock?”
    Could Elsbeth McCamy be involved in this? Katie just didn’t think that could be right. Elsbeth was a wuss, a woman who worshiped her husband, and was utterly and completely dominated by him. She never even referred to him by his first name.
    Glen Hodges said, “I should go with you, Sheriff. Like I said, this is a federal case and—”
    Sherlock said mildly, “I’m a Fed last time I checked, Glen. You keep heading up the search. Welcome Butch Ashburn when he arrives, wing tips polished. The women are going to the preacher’s house.”

14
    A s Katie turned onto Boone Street, she said to Sherlock, “That’s Town Hall, where Mayor Tommy hangs out. I’ve got about six messages on my voice mail from him already this morning. And that’s the combination Police Department and Fire Station. We’re coming up on Main Street, Jessborough’s main drag. You’re in for a treat.”
    Sherlock was already craning her neck to see everything. The sky had cleared after the heavy rainstorm of the night before, and the fall leaves were in full color, with spectacular reds, yellows, and golds. Beautiful old buildings lined the brick sidewalks. Sherlock saw half a dozen churches, with spires rising above the brilliant trees.
    Katie said, “There’s Keely’s favorite stop, The Lollipop Store, and on the right is Nancy’s coffee shop, called The Cranberry Thistle.” There were antiques stores and galleries, a saddle shop, several gift shops, including a quilt shop that Sherlock would have liked to visit, and an enclosed marketplace. Small restaurants were dotted in among the shops, ranging from burgers and fries to Italian cuisine.
    “This is lovely,” Sherlock said, turning in her seat tolook back down Main Street. “Does one of these churches belong to the Sinful Children of God?”
    “No, that one’s out on Sycamore Road, in an old church that used to be Lutheran before Reverend McCamy took it over some three or four years ago.”
    “I see some gift shops. You have a lot of tourists?”
    “More during the summer. We’re a little off the beaten track.”
    “And those mountains,” Sherlock said, waving her hand at them. “It feels like you could reach out and touch that blue haze. They’re solid and eternal, and that’s comforting, I suppose.”
    Katie smiled. “The Appalachians change a lot with the seasons. Fall is the most beautiful time, but they’re sort of like a good neighbor who stays put, you can count on them always being there under that blue haze—well, that’s why we call them the Smokies. I’ll tell you, it still sometimes makes my heart skip a beat when I look