damned."
"Me, too. And when he offered me two hundred thousand dollars for the red church and a dozen acres of mostly scrub pine and graveyard, I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning like a possum. Sup-posed to go in tomorrow and sign the papers at the lawyer's office."
"Why the red church, if he's got that kind of money?" Littlefield asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.
"That property started off in the McFall family. They're the ones who donated the land for the church in the first place. Remember Wendell McFall?"
Coincidences. Littlefield didn't like coincidences. He liked cause and effect. That was what solved cases. "That's a lot of money."
"Couldn't say no to it. But I had a funny feeling that he would have offered more if I had asked. But he knew I wouldn't. It was like that time with the mountain lion, like he was staring me down, like he knew what I was thinking."
"I guess if he's a successful businessman, then he's had a lot of practice at negotiating."
"Reckon so," Lester said, unconvinced. He stood with a creaking that might have been either his joints or the rocker's wooden slats. "It's time to be putting up the cows."
"And I'd best finish my rounds. I appreciate your time, Lester."
"Sure. Come on back anytime. And next time, plan on staying for a piece of pie."
"I'll do that."
As Littlefield started the Trooper, he couldn't help thinking about the part of Lester's story that had gone untold. The part about why a bell rope no longer hung in the red church, and why Archer McFall would want to buy back the old family birth-right.
He shook his head and went down the driveway, gravel crackling under his wheels. FIVE
The dawn was crisp and pink, the air moistened by dew. The scent of pine and wild cherry blossoms spread across the valley along with the thin, smoky threads of the night's hearths. Water swept its way south underneath the soft fog that veiled the river. A rooster's crow cracked the stillness of the hills. Archer McFall nestled against the damp soil, the earth cool against his nakedness. He kept his eyes closed, looking back into the dark avenues of his dreams, chasing shadows to nowhere. The dreams were splashed with red, the color of retribution. They were human dreams, strange and new and chaotic. The rooster crowed three times before Archer re-membered where he was.
Home.
The word, even though it was only thought and not spoken, left a bitter taste in his mouth. The bit-terness came from the memory of old humiliations. And an older suffering, one that ran deeper than the expansive surface of sleep.
Archer coughed. Pine needles and brittle leaves pressed against his cheek. He shivered and rolled into a sitting position, opening his eyes. After so long in darkness, he was almost surprised at the brightness of the coming day. The light slashed through the gaps in the forest canopy, sharp and merciless and full of grace. He gazed down at his bare human flesh. His skin seemed to fit well enough. These human bags of water and bone had always seemed awkwardly con-structed to him. But he'd come among these people to take up their ways. Deliverance was more joyful when the victims thought it came from one of their own kind. More thoughts came back to him, more memories flooded the gray mass of brain that filled his skull. He spat. A reddish clot of half-digested pulp clung to a stump.
As the sun warmed him and his shifting night shapes slithered the rest of the way out of existence, he planned his route back to theMercedes. He knew the river well. It flowed below the old home grounds, below the church. He'd left his car in the woods a mile away. A Brooks Brothers suit, pinstriped and charcoal gray, was spread out in the trunk, along with leather shoes, knit socks, cologne, a Rolex wrist-watch, and a sky-blue tie.
The uniform of the walking dead, the Christian soldiers, the false idol-worshipers. The pretenders. And he would pretend to be one of them.
Archer stood and
"Me, too. And when he offered me two hundred thousand dollars for the red church and a dozen acres of mostly scrub pine and graveyard, I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning like a possum. Sup-posed to go in tomorrow and sign the papers at the lawyer's office."
"Why the red church, if he's got that kind of money?" Littlefield asked, even though he was pretty sure he already knew.
"That property started off in the McFall family. They're the ones who donated the land for the church in the first place. Remember Wendell McFall?"
Coincidences. Littlefield didn't like coincidences. He liked cause and effect. That was what solved cases. "That's a lot of money."
"Couldn't say no to it. But I had a funny feeling that he would have offered more if I had asked. But he knew I wouldn't. It was like that time with the mountain lion, like he was staring me down, like he knew what I was thinking."
"I guess if he's a successful businessman, then he's had a lot of practice at negotiating."
"Reckon so," Lester said, unconvinced. He stood with a creaking that might have been either his joints or the rocker's wooden slats. "It's time to be putting up the cows."
"And I'd best finish my rounds. I appreciate your time, Lester."
"Sure. Come on back anytime. And next time, plan on staying for a piece of pie."
"I'll do that."
As Littlefield started the Trooper, he couldn't help thinking about the part of Lester's story that had gone untold. The part about why a bell rope no longer hung in the red church, and why Archer McFall would want to buy back the old family birth-right.
He shook his head and went down the driveway, gravel crackling under his wheels. FIVE
The dawn was crisp and pink, the air moistened by dew. The scent of pine and wild cherry blossoms spread across the valley along with the thin, smoky threads of the night's hearths. Water swept its way south underneath the soft fog that veiled the river. A rooster's crow cracked the stillness of the hills. Archer McFall nestled against the damp soil, the earth cool against his nakedness. He kept his eyes closed, looking back into the dark avenues of his dreams, chasing shadows to nowhere. The dreams were splashed with red, the color of retribution. They were human dreams, strange and new and chaotic. The rooster crowed three times before Archer re-membered where he was.
Home.
The word, even though it was only thought and not spoken, left a bitter taste in his mouth. The bit-terness came from the memory of old humiliations. And an older suffering, one that ran deeper than the expansive surface of sleep.
Archer coughed. Pine needles and brittle leaves pressed against his cheek. He shivered and rolled into a sitting position, opening his eyes. After so long in darkness, he was almost surprised at the brightness of the coming day. The light slashed through the gaps in the forest canopy, sharp and merciless and full of grace. He gazed down at his bare human flesh. His skin seemed to fit well enough. These human bags of water and bone had always seemed awkwardly con-structed to him. But he'd come among these people to take up their ways. Deliverance was more joyful when the victims thought it came from one of their own kind. More thoughts came back to him, more memories flooded the gray mass of brain that filled his skull. He spat. A reddish clot of half-digested pulp clung to a stump.
As the sun warmed him and his shifting night shapes slithered the rest of the way out of existence, he planned his route back to theMercedes. He knew the river well. It flowed below the old home grounds, below the church. He'd left his car in the woods a mile away. A Brooks Brothers suit, pinstriped and charcoal gray, was spread out in the trunk, along with leather shoes, knit socks, cologne, a Rolex wrist-watch, and a sky-blue tie.
The uniform of the walking dead, the Christian soldiers, the false idol-worshipers. The pretenders. And he would pretend to be one of them.
Archer stood and
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