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with his father. He said, “I’m glad he’s doing things on his own.”
    “He feels he hasn’t been successful in your eyes. For one thing, he knew you’d turn him down if you had known. Makes a kid desire to do it all the more.”
    Cutter said, “I wouldn’t want him to take the risk.”
    “He knows what you did at his age when you joined the Rangers, got yourself shot up in Vietnam. That’s something to live up to.”
    “I get it. Give me a break though. News of this girlfriend is a lot to handle.”
    Doc Jerry added, “I’ve met her. She’s good on electronics.”
    “I hope she’s not as ugly as her father.” Cutter chuckled, “Looked like a hedgehog. We made jokes about him. I don’t think he ever understood the English of what we were saying.”
    Doc Jerry reached up and shut off the phone. Without the loud static, the room quieted. “Atmospherics are not helping us either. Maybe be better tomorrow.”
    Three hours later the door to the office opened and let in a waft of hot summer air. It was laden with the midday stench of melted creosote tar from the overheated pilings at the harbor wharf.
    Laura, the receptionist, called out. “Mister Cutter, you’ve got a visitor.”
    He recognized the one local man he did not want to talk to. With his dark form silhouetted against the outside intense light, Pastor Allingham stood in front of Laura. As the black preacher closed the opening softly behind him, the sunlight shrunk gradually to a smaller triangle until gone.
    The Pastor smiled, put out his hand, and said, “Laura had arranged this appointment for me. I hope I’m not stopping by at a bad time.”
    Cutter walked toward him. Laura didn’t meet his eyes. “Fine, Pastor. I’m sorry we had so much trouble meeting. Been a madhouse around here getting the Peregrine away.”
    “Can we have a few minutes now?” he asked.
    Cutter shook hands. “Of course.” Cutter waved his arm to a chair and sat down. “Anything wrong?” He expected more complaints about the treatment of black workers.
    “Not yet.”
    Cutter took a deep breath. “I guess you want to discuss the church building repairs.” Jolly had mentioned the preacher wanted a charitable contribution for the roof.
    The pastor jerked his head, slightly embarrassed, and replied quickly, “Oh no. That’s not why I’m here today.”
    “Well,” said Cutter, in his most pleasant voice, “What can I do for you?”
    “I’ve come to tell you something about the Peregrine.”
    The Pastor’s face had a frown. Cutter felt a chill in the hot room air.
    “The Peregrine?” asked Cutter, trying not to show alarm. What now, he thought.
    “Yessir,” replied the Pastor.
    Cutter said, “She was pretty sailing out of the harbor the other morning.”
    The Pastor nodded. “Could you walk with me out by my church? It’ll just take a few minutes.”
    “We can’t talk here?”
    “No. I want you to meet a parishioner.”
    They walked. Banks and marinas were spaced along the street, most of them built with a colonial look to match the town heritage. Dozens of local citizens greeted them. Many introduced their husbands and wives or children.
    “River Sunday people care,” said Cutter as they moved away from the center of town.
    “They respect you.”
    “Not as much as you.”
    “We each of us create good in our own ways.”
    They passed the courthouse, a Georgian building of brick built not long after the Revolution. In front surrounded by giant boxwood were statues, one of a brass Confederate soldier holding a greening battle flag, another a flat plaque of a helicopter of the Vietnam era, a third dedicated to a famous local aviator of the Thirties.
    Cutter said, “So much history in this town. It resembles a miniature of the whole United States.”
    The pastor nodded. “The big maritime story here occurred in the War of 1812. The British tried to destroy us because of the fast schooners and brigs built here. The privateers raided England. To