tonight.” Jeffire tipped his hat. “Until then.”
He began to turn and walk away but Tower stopped him.
“Does it have something to do with the disappearance of Ronald
Hale’s daughter?”
Jeffire gave Tower a curious smile. “No. Probably because Ronald
Hale doesn’t have a daughter. He lives alone.”
Seeing no response coming from Tower, Jeffire departed,
whistling as he went.
What is it with this town? Tower thought. He hadn’t
seen this many liars since his last card game on a Mississippi riverboat near
New Orleans.
He sighed, felt eyes staring at his back, and at first
stifled an urge to look behind him to see who had an interest in the conversation.
He then turned, as if to relight his cigar, and spotted two men on the club’s
porch. They were opposites. One was small and thin, dressed like an Eastern
dandy, while the other one was huge, easily six inches taller than Tower and
much wider. The little man had a foot raised and resting on the porch’s railing.
The bigger man just stared at Tower.
Tower blew smoke into the air and smiled at them. The little
man nodded. The big man clenched and unclenched his ham-sized hands. Tower
thought he heard a knuckle crack.
He turned his back on the men. He had no idea who they were,
but made a mental note to eventually put names to the faces.
He walked down a side street and made his way to the church.
The structure, although substantial, still somehow conveyed an impression of
humility. Maybe it was the simple flower beds around the front steps or the
unadorned sign telling parishioners the schedule of services.
Tower finished his cigar, dropped it into the dirt and
ground it down with his boot heel, then climbed the stairs and went inside the
church.
Two sets of benches twenty deep ran from the front of the
church to the back. They were made of simple pine, stained dark with use. Off
to one side was a row of candles. The other side held a few tables with stacks
of papers and several dog-eared bibles.
Near the front of the church were two confessional booths—both
doors were open.
The altar was on a slightly raised platform, and was
relatively ornate for such a simple room. It was made of a blond wood, with hand
carving on the legs and front edge of the altar’s top.
The ceiling above the altar was painted a unique grayish-blue
that Tower had never seen before and the borders of the ceiling and the wall
where they met were inlaid with a delicate gold finish.
In Tower’s estimation, it was a beautiful church.
A door at the rear of the altar opened and a man stepped out.
Tower instantly assessed him as one of those people you would never remember;
one who would blend into a crowd completely.
He was of average height and average build, had light hair,
and wore dark clothing.
“I thought I heard someone come in.”
Tower nodded and walked toward him.
“You’re Walter Morrison?” he asked.
The man looked at Tower more closely.
“I am,” he said. “And you’re the preacher I’ve heard about?”
“That would be me.”
Morrison stepped aside, and gestured toward the open door
behind the altar.
“Come in, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Twenty-Three
The top of the grass brushed against the chest of the
Appaloosa as Bird nudged the horse forward. It seemed like a crazy idea. What
would a girl be doing out here alone? There were no ranches or farms nearby. There
was nothing but a broad, flat valley until you got to Big River.
So had she really seen someone?
Bird wondered if there was something strange in Axelrod’s
whiskey. Maybe it was one of those newfangled concoctions made with strange
pharmaceuticals. Bird had heard some interesting stories about creative
chemists back East and the crazy things people did when they ingested their
creations.
She pulled the bottle out and looked again at the label. No,
just straight whiskey. And the bottle had been unopened; she’d broken the seal
herself.
A firm wind was blowing down the length
He began to turn and walk away but Tower stopped him.
“Does it have something to do with the disappearance of Ronald
Hale’s daughter?”
Jeffire gave Tower a curious smile. “No. Probably because Ronald
Hale doesn’t have a daughter. He lives alone.”
Seeing no response coming from Tower, Jeffire departed,
whistling as he went.
What is it with this town? Tower thought. He hadn’t
seen this many liars since his last card game on a Mississippi riverboat near
New Orleans.
He sighed, felt eyes staring at his back, and at first
stifled an urge to look behind him to see who had an interest in the conversation.
He then turned, as if to relight his cigar, and spotted two men on the club’s
porch. They were opposites. One was small and thin, dressed like an Eastern
dandy, while the other one was huge, easily six inches taller than Tower and
much wider. The little man had a foot raised and resting on the porch’s railing.
The bigger man just stared at Tower.
Tower blew smoke into the air and smiled at them. The little
man nodded. The big man clenched and unclenched his ham-sized hands. Tower
thought he heard a knuckle crack.
He turned his back on the men. He had no idea who they were,
but made a mental note to eventually put names to the faces.
He walked down a side street and made his way to the church.
The structure, although substantial, still somehow conveyed an impression of
humility. Maybe it was the simple flower beds around the front steps or the
unadorned sign telling parishioners the schedule of services.
Tower finished his cigar, dropped it into the dirt and
ground it down with his boot heel, then climbed the stairs and went inside the
church.
Two sets of benches twenty deep ran from the front of the
church to the back. They were made of simple pine, stained dark with use. Off
to one side was a row of candles. The other side held a few tables with stacks
of papers and several dog-eared bibles.
Near the front of the church were two confessional booths—both
doors were open.
The altar was on a slightly raised platform, and was
relatively ornate for such a simple room. It was made of a blond wood, with hand
carving on the legs and front edge of the altar’s top.
The ceiling above the altar was painted a unique grayish-blue
that Tower had never seen before and the borders of the ceiling and the wall
where they met were inlaid with a delicate gold finish.
In Tower’s estimation, it was a beautiful church.
A door at the rear of the altar opened and a man stepped out.
Tower instantly assessed him as one of those people you would never remember;
one who would blend into a crowd completely.
He was of average height and average build, had light hair,
and wore dark clothing.
“I thought I heard someone come in.”
Tower nodded and walked toward him.
“You’re Walter Morrison?” he asked.
The man looked at Tower more closely.
“I am,” he said. “And you’re the preacher I’ve heard about?”
“That would be me.”
Morrison stepped aside, and gestured toward the open door
behind the altar.
“Come in, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
Twenty-Three
The top of the grass brushed against the chest of the
Appaloosa as Bird nudged the horse forward. It seemed like a crazy idea. What
would a girl be doing out here alone? There were no ranches or farms nearby. There
was nothing but a broad, flat valley until you got to Big River.
So had she really seen someone?
Bird wondered if there was something strange in Axelrod’s
whiskey. Maybe it was one of those newfangled concoctions made with strange
pharmaceuticals. Bird had heard some interesting stories about creative
chemists back East and the crazy things people did when they ingested their
creations.
She pulled the bottle out and looked again at the label. No,
just straight whiskey. And the bottle had been unopened; she’d broken the seal
herself.
A firm wind was blowing down the length
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