Outside the Holiness Church, the cars were mostly gone but the din of the crickets was, if anything, louder. Westermann had no idea of the time, but it must have been on into the early morning, the moon bright enough to lend a shimmer to the silhouettes of the trees and hills. He leaned against his car, heart rate back to normal, head throbbing. He should have been in bed in the dingy room he had let above a dim bar on Main Street. But he wouldn’t be able to sleep in this state of exhilaration. He needed to talk to somebody to settle himself down.
Allison was next to him, leaning against the car as well, his tie undone and his shirt collar open to the cool night. His hair was lank with dried sweat, his body sagged, his eyes shone.
“The Lord got ahold of you,” Allison said, marveling.
“Did he?”
“I suppose you’d be the proper judge of that. But from where I stood, I’d say something had you.”
Westermann nodded. Something. Outside, in surroundings less alien, less confined, he wasn’t so sure what it had been. The Holy Ghost? The heat, the music, the intensity of belief in the people around him—all these things, he thought, had drawn him along, pulling him outside himself. Circumstances, not the Divine. Or was it the Divine that created the circumstance? He couldn’t analyze it. He had no frame of reference.
“I take it you’re not normally a churchgoing man. Or at least not a church like this.”
Westermann shook his head.
“Well, there’s never a bad time to come to the Lord, Brother West. I truly believe that your presence tonight was a gift from the Lord to you. He has a plan for you. He brought you here, praise God.”
“I came here because of Prosper Maddox.”
This took Allison by surprise. “Prosper Maddox? You’re seven years too late, brother.”
“No. I know he’s not here now. I just … there’s been a problem and I think he can help us, but he doesn’t seem to want to.”
Allison pondered this. “You police?”
Westermann nodded.
Allison frowned. “Brother West, I don’t bear you any ill will, but you have attended our church under false pretenses, and I think that you will have to excuse me if I take my leave now.”
Westermann held up his hand in apology, exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant it to go this way. I was just going to come in, have a word. But, as you said, I got caught up in it.”
Allison frowned and nodded, conceding this point.
“Could you just tell me who I might talk to about Prosper Maddox, about why he left town? Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Westermann waited while Allison, also drained, thought this over. Westermann wondered how often his congregation met. McIlvaine had made it sound as if it was nearly every night. Westermann couldn’t imagine maintaining this state of heightened emotion night after night.
“You might could talk to Boyce Symmes. He wasn’t here tonight, but he’s another old-timer might could tell you about Prosper.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” Westermann said, and held out his hand to Allison. Allison looked at it, then took it.