Read Online Feast for Thieves by Marcus Brotherton - Free Book Online
Authors: Marcus Brotherton
Ads: Link
five solid minutes passed. All this time the deputy kept the engine running. I closed the hood, making sure it latched firm again, slowly walked around to the passenger door again, opened it, and slid in.
“Seems to be cooler now,” the deputy said.
I nodded.
“Thanks, Reverend. That was kind of you.”
I nodded again.
The deputy put it in gear and started down the road. My heart was still pounding, but nothing more was said between us. I didn’t know precisely where this man stood. He catered to the letter ofthe law, so I knew his mind worked on suspicion. But he didn’t have nothing solid on me other than his hunch. It had been raining thickly that day of the robbery, and a man shooting at another man will often not look closely at his features if he’s not trained to do so, which I doubted this fella was.
The deputy pulled up in front of an old white-boarded building and let me out.
“Welcome to the Cut Eye Community Church, Reverend Slater.” The deputy coughed slightly. “A man of your background and training should surely enjoy your time here.” He coughed again, this time louder.
I looked at him through the open passenger window and touched two fingers to my forehead lightly in an even-tempered salute goodbye. “Deputy,” I said. “Thank you kindly for the ride.”
He smiled broadly. Too broadly. “Reverend Slater, be warned that some in this congregation may call into account your background and training, but I am not a man to question the Lord’s anointed. The test of any true preacher comes by fire and the blood. So I’ll be praying for your sermon this Sunday—that it would be delivered with power and might and real conviction. Yes sir, I will be praying for you. Be praying for your soul.”
I did not want to turn my back on him, even to walk away, and so I eyed him without gesture, as one might eye a cougar in a tree. The deputy put the car in gear and drove away into the dust.
SEVEN
T he building needed paint, I saw that right off. I doubt if it had seen a brush with color since it opened in 1900. The roof was missing shingles. One of the two windows in front was boarded up. A bell tower sat to the right. The wood siding was peeled, the rope to the bell had long since rotted away, and when I gazed up into the cup-shaped hollow, the clapper was rusty—an indication that the church bell hadn’t been rung in years. Parked sideways in the gravel was a dusty 1934 Plymouth, the world’s lowest priced car, so somebody was inside the church building, undoubtedly waiting for me to show.
I ambled up the steps to the church’s front door. It was unlocked and I poked my head inside, looked around, and called out a long, “Hello-o-o-o.” The room smelled musty and needed a thorough cleaning. Rain from a leak in the roof had colored brown the ceiling in the far corner, and the hymnbooks in the backs of each pew looked worn and frayed. I counted ten rows of seats with an aisle down the middle and reckoned the building held a hundred and twenty folks in a pinch. A large stump of a pulpit stood at the far end and an old black pump organ squatted to its right side. One bare lightbulb hung limp from a cord on the ceiling. I tried the light switch but it didn’t turn on. Those were the church’s only furnishings.
“You’re late!”
A voice from behind made me start and turn. It was brittleand loud, and the woman who spoke was thin-faced and in her late sixties, I guessed. She stood with a stoop, but her back looked sturdy, like she was no stranger to hard work.
“Come ’round to the side door where the office is,” she bellowed. “You don’t look like much, but we’ll get you settled away quick.”
I obeyed. Nailed to the left-hand side of the church was a rickety annex built onto the main building. Four doors ran lengthwise of the annex and each opened to the outside. “General office is closest to the road.” The woman pointed. “Pastor’s study is the second door. Sunday school
“Seems to be cooler now,” the deputy said.
I nodded.
“Thanks, Reverend. That was kind of you.”
I nodded again.
The deputy put it in gear and started down the road. My heart was still pounding, but nothing more was said between us. I didn’t know precisely where this man stood. He catered to the letter ofthe law, so I knew his mind worked on suspicion. But he didn’t have nothing solid on me other than his hunch. It had been raining thickly that day of the robbery, and a man shooting at another man will often not look closely at his features if he’s not trained to do so, which I doubted this fella was.
The deputy pulled up in front of an old white-boarded building and let me out.
“Welcome to the Cut Eye Community Church, Reverend Slater.” The deputy coughed slightly. “A man of your background and training should surely enjoy your time here.” He coughed again, this time louder.
I looked at him through the open passenger window and touched two fingers to my forehead lightly in an even-tempered salute goodbye. “Deputy,” I said. “Thank you kindly for the ride.”
He smiled broadly. Too broadly. “Reverend Slater, be warned that some in this congregation may call into account your background and training, but I am not a man to question the Lord’s anointed. The test of any true preacher comes by fire and the blood. So I’ll be praying for your sermon this Sunday—that it would be delivered with power and might and real conviction. Yes sir, I will be praying for you. Be praying for your soul.”
I did not want to turn my back on him, even to walk away, and so I eyed him without gesture, as one might eye a cougar in a tree. The deputy put the car in gear and drove away into the dust.
SEVEN
T he building needed paint, I saw that right off. I doubt if it had seen a brush with color since it opened in 1900. The roof was missing shingles. One of the two windows in front was boarded up. A bell tower sat to the right. The wood siding was peeled, the rope to the bell had long since rotted away, and when I gazed up into the cup-shaped hollow, the clapper was rusty—an indication that the church bell hadn’t been rung in years. Parked sideways in the gravel was a dusty 1934 Plymouth, the world’s lowest priced car, so somebody was inside the church building, undoubtedly waiting for me to show.
I ambled up the steps to the church’s front door. It was unlocked and I poked my head inside, looked around, and called out a long, “Hello-o-o-o.” The room smelled musty and needed a thorough cleaning. Rain from a leak in the roof had colored brown the ceiling in the far corner, and the hymnbooks in the backs of each pew looked worn and frayed. I counted ten rows of seats with an aisle down the middle and reckoned the building held a hundred and twenty folks in a pinch. A large stump of a pulpit stood at the far end and an old black pump organ squatted to its right side. One bare lightbulb hung limp from a cord on the ceiling. I tried the light switch but it didn’t turn on. Those were the church’s only furnishings.
“You’re late!”
A voice from behind made me start and turn. It was brittleand loud, and the woman who spoke was thin-faced and in her late sixties, I guessed. She stood with a stoop, but her back looked sturdy, like she was no stranger to hard work.
“Come ’round to the side door where the office is,” she bellowed. “You don’t look like much, but we’ll get you settled away quick.”
I obeyed. Nailed to the left-hand side of the church was a rickety annex built onto the main building. Four doors ran lengthwise of the annex and each opened to the outside. “General office is closest to the road.” The woman pointed. “Pastor’s study is the second door. Sunday school
Similar Books
