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prophet and he comes back to life. Today, that would be quite a story. The media would be all over it.”
    “As they would the fact that this same man made an axhead float in water, and that he summoned bears out of the woods to kill children who made fun of his receding hairline.” It’s coming back to me now—these fanciful Bible stories. I remember not liking Elisha very much. It seemed petulant to use the power of God to get even with taunting youths.
    Gordon picks up on my thoughts and nods. “Yes, the Bible is full of what seem to us abuses of divine power. But I think the work is richer for it. There is a certain weight—a believability— that is granted to a book that shows its heroes in all of their insidious splendor.” Gordon’s glass is empty and I’m beginning to wish I’d taken him up on the offer of a drink of my own. If nothing else, it would give me something to do during these pauses in the conversation.
    “What’s your interest in the story, Gordon?” Asking this question seems a better choice than engaging the man in a debate about the historicity of Scripture. That’s not a discussion I’m prepared for, nor one I would want to participate in even if my thirteenth-century Incan stone ducks were all in a row.
    “In a way, I’ve already mentioned it.” He leans forward, pushing himself away from the embracing couch, closing the distance between us. Everything about his posture and his manner suggests conspiratorial excitement. “Tell me, what would happen if you and I were at lunch with the president and, halfway through dessert, he pulled out a gun and shot the waiter?”
    It’s an odd question considering the previous subject matter, and I’m left feeling stunned for a few seconds. Gordon, though, is waiting for an answer, so I take a stab at it.
    “He’d be arrested and they’d haul him off to jail. President or no, you can’t indiscriminately shoot people.”
    He looks irritated at my response and waves it off.
    “My fault. You’re using today as a frame of reference. Let’s say that it’s the 1960s and we’re supping with Kennedy? What would happen then?”
    I think I see now where he’s going with this. “In that case, you and I would be whisked away and we’d never be heard from again. The waiter’s death would be described as an accident, and anyone who saw anything would either be killed or cowed into silence.”
    “Ah, that’s more like it. But the predominant characteristic of the event is that it would disappear from history, at least to the extent that something like that can be covered up. But there’s always someone willing to talk, even if the history books are scrubbed clean. And that’s where the absence of information attracts attention. It’s the secrecy that draws people in, Jack. Tell people something, no matter how farfetched, and most will believe it. Tell them nothing—”
    “And you’ve got a conspiracy,” I finish.
    “Right. It’s the lack of information.” Gordon’s eyes bore into mine. “Just two verses, then nothing. Gone. Scrubbed from history—as much as could be done. But someone talked and so they couldn’t erase it entirely. They minimized it.”
    A heavy silence settles over us, and it seems darker in the room. Gordon’s face remains lit by the waning fire. It’s difficult for me not to get caught up by his passion, his magnetism. What makes it easier to retain a clinical distance is my understanding of what Gordon has implied, and then what he wants from me. Gordon Reese thinks—believes—that the bones are real. Worse, he wants me to find them for him.
    I consider my words, but no matter how I try to couch my terms, I cannot dilute what needs to be said.
    “Mr. Reese, I think you’re reaching. You can’t use a silence of historical record to prove a conspiracy—especially not in a document as old as Second Kings.” I feel odd even using the word conspiracy . “And if the story were true, who would try to cover