Summer People by Aaron Stander Page B

want me to put him off?”
    “I’ll talk to him; might as well start the day with the bizarre.”
    “He’s on three,” said Sue.
    Ray lifted the receiver and hit the blinking button. “Good morning, Reverend Tim.”
    “Good morning, Sheriff. Sheriff, you’ve got to come out and talk to me.”
    “I’d be happy to do that Reverend Tim, but I’m real busy with a murder investigation right now. Could I have one of the….”
    “That’s what I want to talk to you about, the Hammer murder. I know who done it. Can you come out here at once so I can tell you about it?”
    “I’ll come and see you, but can you give me some information on the phone?”
    “Sheriff, the devil has got this phone tapped, and he’s telling the murderer everything. Please come and see me. I’ve got to unburden my heart of this.”
    “Reverend Tim, you can’t come to the office, can you?”
    “My truck ain’t running. Will you come over?”
    “I’ll be there in twenty minutes to a half an hour. How does that sound?
    “I’ll be waiting, Sheriff.”
    Ray hung up the phone. He walked to Sue’s desk.
    “I’d like you to go with me on this one; bring a recorder and your laptop.”
    “Where are we going?”
    “We’re going to take a statement from Reverend Tim. You’ve never met him?”
    “No, I’ve just heard stories.”
    Ray smiled. “This will be an interesting chapter in your education.”
    Ray drove out of the village, turned on Indian Hill Road and headed north. After several miles he pulled onto Deadstream, a sand and gravel road that wound into a low, heavily wooded area. After a few miles Ray pointed out the sign—crudely hand lettered, white paint on a weathered board nailed to a tree—Freewill Bible Synod of God: the Only True Followers of Jesus. Below it was another sign. Its message, sprayed in phosphorescent orange, read, Jesus Loves Bikers.
    Ray turned onto the two-track. The area was low and swampy until they reached a large clearing. A long, low, coarsely constructed building stood in the center of the clearing. A cross made from two small logs, lashed together with yellow nylon rope, stood near the entrance at the center of the building. The building was covered with rough-cut, unpainted siding. A pickup truck stood under a large oak at the side of the church. The truck’s engine was suspended from an overhead branch by a jerry-rigged system of ropes and pulleys.
    At the right of the clearing stood a second building. The front of an old mobile home poked out of one end of the collection of tacked-on additions, giving the impression of a caterpillar covered by cancerous appendages.
    Ray parked near the front door at the center of the church. The slamming of the car doors brought Reverend Tim rolling out of the church. Tim—clad only in large bib overalls, which he filled completely, and a small, short-billed denim hat with Harley-Davidson stitched across the front—wiped his hand on his overalls and extended it to Ray. His hands and short, thick arms were covered with grease. He also had several streaks of grime across his face.
    “Sheriff, glad ya come. I’d a been in to see you if this dang motor hadn’t given up.”
    “We are happy to come to meet you. This,” Ray motioned to Sue, “is Deputy Lawrence; she will be making notes of this conversation.”
    “Nice ta meet you, Miss,” said Tim with a gesture that approached a bow but not offering a hand. “Why don’t we sit over there, Sheriff?” Tim led them to a small circle of benches, planks nailed to the tops of stumps.
    Ray pushed ahead, “Reverend Tim, you said on the phone that you know who is responsible for the Hammer killing. We tried questioning Mrs. Hammer last night, but she was too upset to help us.”
    “No, wonder. That poor child.” The words, although sympathetic in context, had a condemnatory tone. He paused and looked at Ray. “If she had stayed with Jesus, this would never have happened, but she is a prisoner of Satan. She