I located the soft drink machine, bought a Coke, and watched the news while sipping a bourbon-and-Coke made from the second half of my airline bottle. I was glad Mrs. Bishop wasn’t there to see the conduct of this purported member of a religious cult.

After a while, feeling strangely anonymous in this little town where no one knew me, I drove around, staring through the fading light at the town Martin had known so well growing up. I went past the ugly brick high school where he had played football. Through a light drizzle in the gray spring evening, I peered at the houses where Martin must have had friends, acquaintances, girls he’d dated, boys he’d gone drinking with. Some of them, perhaps most of them, were surely still here in this town… maybe men he’d gone to Vietnam with. Perhaps they mentioned it as seldom as he did.

I felt as if I were eavesdropping on Martin’s life.

I had a book in my purse, as usual (tonight it was the paperback of Liza Cody’s Stalker), and I read as I ate supper at the diner Mrs. Bishop had recommended. The menu was slightly alien-none of the southern diner standbys. But the chili was good, and it was with reluctance I left half of everything on my plate. Now that I was over thirty, gravity and calories seemed to be having a little more effect than they used to. When you’re four feet, eleven inches, a few extra calories end up looking like a lot.

No one bothered me, and the waitress was pleasant, so I had a nice time. I took the light rain as a sign I should not walk or run tonight, though I’d virtuously brought my sweats and running shoes. As a palliative to my conscience, I did some stretches and calisthenics when I got back to my room. The exercise did relieve some of the cramped feeling the plane and the long car ride had caused. I checked in with Amina, who told me Martin had indeed left a message on her machine not thirty minutes ago.