down in her hands and began to cry. I patted her shoulder softly.
Finally she stopped crying. "It's true," she said. Her voice was clogged.
"Yes," I said. My throat felt a little achy. Sherry hunched very tightly; her shoulders pressing in toward her small breast.
"Isn't there anyplace for me?" she said.
"You like this church?" I said.
She nodded. "I know you think it's junk," she said. "But it is home for me. It is peace. We're not crazy cults or anything. We love God and trust Him and try to live like Jesus. And now it's gone." She was crying again. "And now I have no place."
I held her against me. My breath was heavy balanced against her sobs.
"It's not gone," I said. "I'll fix it for you." A crowd of chickens came around the side of the building clucking and pecking at the ground and began to mill around the yard near the front door. Feeding time. Sherry's body shook as I held her.
"I'll fix it," I said. "You don't need Winston. You are the church, not him."
She tried to speak, but she cried too hard. It wasn't intelligible.
"You can run it," I said. "I'll get you financing. I'll get you help."
A young woman in a plaid shirt and a wrapaound denim skirt and cowboy boots came out of the front of the church building and began scattering feed to the chickens. They made a lot of noise about it. As she scattered the feed she looked uneasily at me and Sherry in my car.
Sherry stopped crying. She sat up and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweat shirt. "How?" she said.
"You'll see," I said.
"Do you really know how?" she said.
"Yes, but it's better if I not tell you."
"You really know?"
"I have a plan," I said.
CHAPTER 28
Vinnie Morris had promised two men on Bullard Winston around the clock and whatever else Vinnie was, he was good for what he said.
"Vinnie tell you something you can take it to the morgue," Hawk said. I nodded.
We were driving down the southern artery toward Paultz Construction. I had my short-barreled .38 in a hip holster, Hawk was like an MX dense pack. He had a .44 magnum in a shoulder holster, a .32 automatic in his belt, and a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun with the barrels sawed off and most of the stock removed. It was lethal at four feet and useless at twenty.
"You got a razor in your shoe?" I said.
"Sho' 'nuff, boss," Hawk said. "Jess wait till yo turns yo haid."
"None of you people do a good black accent," I said. "Didn't you ever listen to Amos 'n' Andy?"
"Not unless they yelled in my window," Hawk said. "We didn't have no radios where I grew up."
We pulled up in front of Paultz's yard. "You think he gonna let you hoist him like this?" Hawk said.
"Yes. He doesn't know what I've got. He doesn't know who's in this with me. Three hundred and fifty thousand is zippidy-do-dah to him. It'll buy him some time to find out how much of a threat I am."
"He gonna kill you, babe. Now or later."
"If he can," I said.
We got out and walked toward the trailer. Hawk carried the shotgun in his right hand, slapping it gently against his leg as we walked. He might have been carrying a salami for all the attempt he made to conceal it.
The fat woman was not in the outer office. Leaning against her desk was a barrel-bodied man with an army .45 stuck in his belt in front. He jerked his head toward the door to the inner office and we went on in. Paultz was there sitting in his armchair, and the two thugs I knew were there, and a white-haired man in an expensive suit was there sitting in the other chair by the kitchen table. He had a briefcase. One of the two thugs, the younger one with the tattoos, was holding an M-2 carbine with a banana clip.
I said, "I'm going to take an envelope out of my inside pocket."
Paultz nodded. I took out a number ten envelope and handed it over to Paultz. "The original," I said, "of Winston's confession."
Paultz took it and handed it to the white-haired man. The white-haired man opened it and read the confession. He had healthy pink skin. When he finished
Finally she stopped crying. "It's true," she said. Her voice was clogged.
"Yes," I said. My throat felt a little achy. Sherry hunched very tightly; her shoulders pressing in toward her small breast.
"Isn't there anyplace for me?" she said.
"You like this church?" I said.
She nodded. "I know you think it's junk," she said. "But it is home for me. It is peace. We're not crazy cults or anything. We love God and trust Him and try to live like Jesus. And now it's gone." She was crying again. "And now I have no place."
I held her against me. My breath was heavy balanced against her sobs.
"It's not gone," I said. "I'll fix it for you." A crowd of chickens came around the side of the building clucking and pecking at the ground and began to mill around the yard near the front door. Feeding time. Sherry's body shook as I held her.
"I'll fix it," I said. "You don't need Winston. You are the church, not him."
She tried to speak, but she cried too hard. It wasn't intelligible.
"You can run it," I said. "I'll get you financing. I'll get you help."
A young woman in a plaid shirt and a wrapaound denim skirt and cowboy boots came out of the front of the church building and began scattering feed to the chickens. They made a lot of noise about it. As she scattered the feed she looked uneasily at me and Sherry in my car.
Sherry stopped crying. She sat up and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweat shirt. "How?" she said.
"You'll see," I said.
"Do you really know how?" she said.
"Yes, but it's better if I not tell you."
"You really know?"
"I have a plan," I said.
CHAPTER 28
Vinnie Morris had promised two men on Bullard Winston around the clock and whatever else Vinnie was, he was good for what he said.
"Vinnie tell you something you can take it to the morgue," Hawk said. I nodded.
We were driving down the southern artery toward Paultz Construction. I had my short-barreled .38 in a hip holster, Hawk was like an MX dense pack. He had a .44 magnum in a shoulder holster, a .32 automatic in his belt, and a 12-gauge double-barreled shotgun with the barrels sawed off and most of the stock removed. It was lethal at four feet and useless at twenty.
"You got a razor in your shoe?" I said.
"Sho' 'nuff, boss," Hawk said. "Jess wait till yo turns yo haid."
"None of you people do a good black accent," I said. "Didn't you ever listen to Amos 'n' Andy?"
"Not unless they yelled in my window," Hawk said. "We didn't have no radios where I grew up."
We pulled up in front of Paultz's yard. "You think he gonna let you hoist him like this?" Hawk said.
"Yes. He doesn't know what I've got. He doesn't know who's in this with me. Three hundred and fifty thousand is zippidy-do-dah to him. It'll buy him some time to find out how much of a threat I am."
"He gonna kill you, babe. Now or later."
"If he can," I said.
We got out and walked toward the trailer. Hawk carried the shotgun in his right hand, slapping it gently against his leg as we walked. He might have been carrying a salami for all the attempt he made to conceal it.
The fat woman was not in the outer office. Leaning against her desk was a barrel-bodied man with an army .45 stuck in his belt in front. He jerked his head toward the door to the inner office and we went on in. Paultz was there sitting in his armchair, and the two thugs I knew were there, and a white-haired man in an expensive suit was there sitting in the other chair by the kitchen table. He had a briefcase. One of the two thugs, the younger one with the tattoos, was holding an M-2 carbine with a banana clip.
I said, "I'm going to take an envelope out of my inside pocket."
Paultz nodded. I took out a number ten envelope and handed it over to Paultz. "The original," I said, "of Winston's confession."
Paultz took it and handed it to the white-haired man. The white-haired man opened it and read the confession. He had healthy pink skin. When he finished
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