Karen shook her head, turning the car sharply up a steep, tree-lined street. They stopped in front of a ranch-style bungalow. "Here we are," she said, getting out of the car.
Wheelan followed her up a brick path, his hands in his pockets. The fog was tightening in around them.
A short man with a high, lined forehead and cropped gray hair opened the door of the bungalow. "Evening, Karen," he said, smiling.
"Mr. Balderstone, Mr. Wheelan," Karen said.
Wheelan nodded and came into the house after her.
Balderstone stopped in front of a deep fireplace. "Thought we ought to have a chat."
"I hear you mentioned me in your service the night I picketed your place," Wheelan said.
"Explained to newcomers that you were the town eccentric." Balderstone's heavy gray eyebrows slanted toward each other. "People come to my lectures—don't call them services—to unbend. To relax. Don't like to have somebody shouting at them through a megaphone and waving signs, Wheelan." He crossed the room. "Drink?"
Wheelan shook his head, glancing at Karen.
She had sat in a straight back chair and folded her hands. "Scotch and soda," she said to Balderstone.