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

file cabinet, and a couple of peach crates full of religious books had been squeezed into the little room. On the desk was a pad of paper and a cup containing a number of ballpoint pens. “Not havin’ much luck, I’m a’feared,” he confided. “Sometimes you dig deep and just wind up scrapin’ the bottom. But I ain’t worried, somethin’ll come to me. Always does. You want some water, there’s a fountain this way.”
    Gwinn led him through a corridor lined with other small rooms, the floor creaking underfoot. A ceiling fan stirred the heat. There was a water fountain, and Dan went to work satisfying his thirst. “You a regular camel, ain’t you?” Gwinn asked. “Come on in here, you can stretch yourself out.” Dan followed him through another doorway, into the chapel. A dozen pews faced the preacher’s podium, and the sunlight that entered was cut to an underwater haze by the pale green glass of the stained windows. Overhead, two fans muttered like elderly ladies as they turned, fighting a lost cause. Dan sat down on a pew toward the middle of the church, and he pressed his palms against his eyes to ease the pain throbbing in his skull.
    “Nice tattoo,” Gwinn said. “You get that around here?”
    “No. Someplace else.”
    “Mind if I ask where you’re headin’ from and where you’re goin’?”
    “From Shreveport,” Dan said. “I’m goin’ to —” He paused. “I’m just goin’.”
    “Your home in Shreveport, is it?”
    “Used to be.” Dan took his hands away from his eyes. “I’m not real sure where I belong right now.” A thought struck him. “I didn’t see your car outside.”
    “Oh, I walked from my house. I just live ’bout a half-mile up the road. You hungry, Mr. Farrow?”
    “I could do with somethin’, yeah.” Hearing that name was strange, after all this time. He didn’t know why he’d chosen it; probably it was from seeing the young man who was begging work at Death Valley.
    “You like crullers? I got some in my office; my wife baked ’em just this mornin’.”
    Dan told him that sounded fine, and Gwinn went to his office and returned with three sugar-frosted crullers in a brown paper bag. It took about four seconds for Dan to consume one of them. “Have another,” Gwinn offered as he sat on the pew in front of Dan. “I believe you ain’t et in a while.”
    A second pastry went down the hatch. Gwinn scratched his long jaw and said, “Take the other one, too. My wife sure would be tickled to see a fella enjoyin’ her bakin’ so much.” When the third one was history, Dan licked the sugar from his fingers. Gwinn laughed, the sound like the rasp of a rusty saw blade. “Part camel, part goat,” he said. “Don’t you go chewin’ on that bag, now.”
    “You can tell your wife she makes good crullers.”
    Gwinn reached into a trouser pocket, pulled out a silver watch, and checked the time. “ ’Bout quarter to five. You can tell Lavinia yourself if you want to.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Supper’s at six. You want to eat with Lavinia and me, you’re welcome.” He returned the watch to his pocket. “Won’t be no fancy feast, but it’ll warm your belly up. I can go call her, tell her to put another plate on the table.”
    “Thanks, but I’ve gotta get back on the road after I rest some.”
    “Oh.” Gwinn lifted his shaggy white brows. “Decide where you’re goin’, have you?”
    Dan was silent, his hands clasped together.
    “The road’ll still be there, Mr. Farrow,” Gwinn said quietly. “Don’t you think?”
    Dan looked into the preacher’s eyes. “You don’t know me. I could be … somebody you wouldn’t want in your house.”
    “True enough. But my Lord Jesus Christ says we should feed the wayfarin’ stranger.” Gwinn’s voice had taken on some of the singsong inflections of his calling. “ ’Pears to me that’s what you are. So if you want a taste of fried chicken that’ll make you hear the heavenly choir, you just say the word