Deadliest of Sins by Sallie Bissell Page A

the pitcher threw a fast ball. It looked like Honeycutt was going to let the thing pass, then, at the last possible second, he lowered his shoulder and swung. The bat cracked as the ball flew just inches over the pitcher’s head. Everyone leapt up and cheered as the ball flew past the pudgy Methodist short stop and ripped up center field. Honeycutt raced for first base, then went for second. By the time the hapless Methodists had gotten the ball back to the infield, Honeycutt was standing on third base, his right arm lifted, his index finger pointing toward heaven. Everyone around Mary mirrored his gesture, lifting their arms and pointing their fingers upward. Instead of lifting her arm, Mary touched the smart phone in her pocket. I should send Ann Chandler a picture of this , she thought.
    The rest of the game went quickly. The One Way team fielded as well as they hit, dispatching the Methodists with a murderous efficiency. Galloway played a credible right field but struck out in the ninth inning. By then, it didn’t matter—the Saints were ahead 20–0. After the game ended, Mary again kept her eyes on Honeycutt. Though he bumped fists with the Methodists, his face remained stern. Only when he turned to greet his other teammates did he display any exuberance—leaping onto the catcher’s back, again pointing his finger at the heavens. The team trotted off the field together, finally dispersing among the people in the bleachers. Victor Galloway came up to her, sweatier from his chest-bumping celebration than his efforts on the field.
    â€œSo what’d you think?” he asked, out of breath.
    â€œI think they put you in the right position,” said Mary.
    â€œI really suck, don’t I?”
    â€œYou did okay, considering you’re playing with semi-pros.”
    â€œI’m probably lucky they let me play at all.” Galloway laughed, unembarrassed by his lack of baseball skill. “You want to go get a beer? I found out some stuff about your kid.”
    â€œHoneycutt?”
    â€œNo, your little kid in the peach truck.”
    â€œSure,” she said. “Let’s go.”

    She followed him to a quiet restaurant far from the church league baseball crowd. They sat at the bar, underneath a television that was airing a soccer game.
    â€œThat’s my sport,” said Victor as the barkeeper put two beers in front of them. “I’m a much better fullback than I am a right fielder.”
    Mary looked up at the screen. She hadn’t watched soccer since Lily played in the nine-year-old league, in Cherokee. The memory was bittersweet—Lily had loved soccer, but back then, Lily Walkingstick had also loved her.
    â€œI played in high school, then some club soccer in college,” continued Galloway. “My mother’s brother, Alejandro, played forward for Argentina.”
    He pronounced Argentina with a Spanish accent. Until that moment, Mary had forgotten that he’d been hired for being bilingual. “So your mother’s Argentine?”
    â€œ Sí, senorita . Maria DeCampos, des Buenos Aires. My father’s Pete Galloway, from Brooklyn.” He grinned. “I got my mother’s charm and my father’s hustle.”
    â€œYeah, I saw all your hustle, out there in right field.”
    Shrugging, he nodded at the TV. “Like I said, soccer’s my game …
not baseball.”
    â€œSo have you found out anything about your teammates?”
    â€œOnly that they take baseball almost as seriously as they take God.”
    â€œI found something interesting on your number eleven. Honey-
cutt.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œ He’s the guy Sligo County indicted for Alan Bratcher’s murder.”
    Galloway put down his beer. “Are you kidding me?”
    â€œNope. They were in a bar, after a baseball game. Bratcher was gay, put his arm around Honeycutt’s shoulders. Honeycutt took offense and beat the shit out of