Read Online Gone South by Robert R. McCammon - Free Book Online

off while a state trooper was so close behind him put an end to that idea. He kept going, following the sun-baked road as it twisted like the serpent on his forearm.
    Mile after mile passed. The traffic was sparse, both in front and behind, but the strain of watching in either direction began to take its toll. The shooting replayed itself over and over in his mind. He thought of Blanchard’s wife — widow, that is — and the two children, and what they must be going through right now. He began to fear what might be lying in wait for him around the curves. His headache returned with a vengeance, as did his tremors. The heat was sapping his last reserves of strength, and soon it became clear to him that he had to stop somewhere to rest. Another few miles passed, the highway leading between pine forest broken by an occasional dusty field, and then Dan saw a gravel road on his right. As he slowed down, prepared to turn into the woods and sleep in his truck, he saw that the road widened into a parking lot. There was a small whitewashed church standing beneath a pair of huge weeping willow trees. A little wooden sign in need of repainting said: VICTORY IN THE BLOOD BAPTIST.
    It was as good a place as any. Dan pulled into the gravel lot, which was deserted, and he drove the truck around to the back of the church. When he was hidden from the road, he cut the engine and slid the key out. He pulled his wet shirt away from the backrest and lay down on the seat. He closed his eyes, but Blanchard’s death leapt at him to keep him from finding sleep.
    He’d been lying down for only a few minutes when someone rapped twice against the side of his truck. Dan bolted upright, blinking dazedly. Standing there beside his open window was a slim black man with a long-jawed face and a tight cap of white hair. Over the man’s deep-set ebony eyes, the thick white brows had merged together. “You okay, mister?” he asked.
    “Yeah.” Dan nodded, still a little disoriented. “Just needed to rest.”
    “Heard you pull up. Looked out the winda and there you were.”
    “I didn’t know anybody was around.”
    “Well,” the man said, and when he smiled he showed alabaster teeth that looked as long as piano keys, “just me and God sittin’ inside talkin’.”
    Dan started to slide the key back into the ignition. “I’d better head on.”
    “Now, hold on a minute, I ain’t runnin’ you off. You don’t mind me sayin’, you don’t appear to be up to snuff. You travelin’ far?”
    “Yes.”
    “Seems to me that if a fella wants to rest, he oughta rest. If you’d like to come in, you’re welcome.”
    “I’m … not a religious man,” Dan said.
    “Well, I didn’t say I was gonna preach to you. ’Course, some would say listenin’ to my sermons is a surefire way to catch up on your sleep. Name’s Nathan Gwinn.” He thrust a hand toward Dan, who took it.
    “Dan …” His mind skipped tracks for a few seconds. A name came to him. “Farrow,” he said.
    “Pleased to meet you. Come on in, there’s room to stretch out on a pew if you’d like.”
    Dan looked at the church. It had been years since he’d set foot in one. Some of the things he’d seen, both in Vietnam and afterward, had convinced him that if any supernatural force was the master of this world, it smelled of brimstone and devoured innocent flesh as its sacrament.
    “Cooler inside,” Gwinn told him. “The fans are workin’ this week.”
    After a moment of deliberation, Dan opened the door and got out. “I’m obliged,” he said, and he followed Gwinn — who wore black trousers and a plain light blue short-sleeve shirt — through the church’s back door. The interior of the church was Spartan, with an unvarnished wooden floor that had felt the Sunday shoes of several generations. “I was writin’ my sermon when I heard you,” Gwinn said, and he motioned into a cubicle of an office whose open window overlooked the rear lot. Two chairs, a desk and lamp, a