I’d called Avery on the way over, introduced myself as Herman Abernathy, and given him the cover story Jay had come up with. Avery seemed pleased with my interest in his church and told me to come on by. A balding man with thick, wire-framed glasses, he met me at the door wearing tan slacks and a short-sleeved white dress shirt with large wet circles under the armpits. The top button of his collar was buttoned, and a fold of fat bulged over the cloth like a roll of Jimmy Dean sausage with a split in the package. His neck and face were red, as if the circulation had been cut off at the neck. It made him look like a petulant Pillsbury doughboy with a sunburn. With a fake beard and mustache, could he be said to match my description? Maybe to a blind man. “Reverend Avery,” I said. He grasped my hand in a sweaty paw and gave it a halfhearted pump. “Mr. Abernathy?” he said. The smooth, soft voice still made my gut recoil. I could almost place it. I ducked my head in an awkward nod and answered, “That’s right.
