I laid the yellowed 1979 ledger out on the vinyl table runner beside my worn leather pastoral Bible and the blue three-ring binder that held our parish bylaws.

Wade put two heavy ceramic mugs of black coffee next to my elbow.

He adjusted his silver-framed glasses with his thumb and forefinger, his eyes locked on the spread of papers.

“Arthur stood on the rectory porch for forty minutes watching security change the lock cylinders,” Wade said.

“He figures I’m fifty miles down Highway 37 by now,” I said.

Wade pointed his pen at section four of the parish charter on page twelve.