Blinded by Stephen White

Author:Stephen White [White, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2011-08-30T18:39:41+00:00

According to the police report, the preacher who had witnessed Sterling’s disappearance into the river was Reverend Nathaniel Prior, who served the faithful at a church in Meigs, a little town a short stretch northeast on Georgia 3 from the accident scene.

That’s where I would start.

The drive from the river to Meigs passed through thick woods that alternated with fields harvested clear-I was guessing-of cotton. I didn’t see much else that would support the local economy. I assumed I was in a poor county.

I drove up to a recently whitewashed church and asked a young man who was out in front raking leaves on the ragged lawn if he knew where I could find Nathaniel Prior.

“You’ve already found him. I’m Nathaniel Prior,” he told me. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Nathaniel Prior was no more than twenty-five years old. He was smaller than me by a few inches but matched my weight pound for pound and then raised me a few for good measure. He had a voice that resonated like a diesel in a tunnel. The pile of leaves at his feet covered him up to midcalf.

He had big ears.

He tugged off a canvas glove, and we shook hands. I said, “Sam Purdy. Shall I call you Reverend?”

“That’s fine, or Nate’s fine, too. There are moments when I’m convinced I’m called worse things behind my back, but you’ve barely met me, so what reason would you have to insult me? What can I do for you this fine day?”

It was a fine day. The afternoon sun was shining, and the moisture in the southern air had already softened up my cuticles and the tender skin inside my nose. Those are the first parts that turn to papyrus after even a few days in the Colorado high desert.

“Do you have a minute to answer some questions about last Saturday? The accident at the bridge?”

Prior looked over my shoulder at the Cherokee. He said, “Mr. Purdy? Do I have that right? Why don’t we sit a spell and get a glass of tea? I have a feeling you’ve come a long way to ask me these questions, and these leaves are probably more than content to wait to be imprisoned in Hefty bags.”

“Sam,” I said. “Some tea sounds great.” I sat on the wooden porch of the church while the reverend retrieved the tea from inside. At least three people walking down the quiet lane waved hello to me while he was gone. I waved back to every one of them.

The tea was sweet, flavored with mint, and was delivered in painted glasses fat enough to hold a Big Gulp with room to spare.

“Thanks,” I said after a long draw.

“Colorado, huh? You ski?”

“Snowboard, actually, if you can believe it. I have a kid I try to chase around as much as I can. The snowboarding is his idea. He thinks skis are dorky. For his benefit, I try not to be any dorkier than comes naturally.”

“Copper? Winter Park?”

I didn’t expect somebody in Meigs, Georgia, to be asking me about ski resorts on Colorado’s Front Range.

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