Jonathon King - Shadow Men

"He took a look at the rifle and said that there were several patterns of rusting going on in the barrel. One layer was very old from the samplings he took, but it had been disturbed at least a couple of times since forming. New rust had apparently started, and it too was marred. His quick conclusion was that it had been fired and then stored away for a long period of time and then fired again. He'll have to do more extensive analysis to give any kind of timeline, though."

The reverend could have used his grandfather's gun four times or even more. He would not have had to clean and oil it. Without any particular fondness for its past or maybe because of that past, it could have been a simple tool to him.

Billy had also done some computer searching.

"I found archived newspaper accounts of four homicides in and around Highlands County that were the result of gunshot wounds that fit your sheriff's timeline. The victims in each case were not exactly upstanding members of the community," Billy said.

All four were convicted felons. A rapist. A child abuser. A domestic batterer. And a man with more convictions than the paper had space to go into. His last crime was beating and choking a woman because he wanted her red sports car.

"He was awaiting trial when he was shot in Sebring, only a few miles up the road from Placid City," Billy said.

"So the reverend is a man on a mission to rid the world of evil?" I said.

"Maybe. But Mayes isn't evil. He wouldn't be a target."

"That's your opinion, Billy-the opinion of a rational man," I said.

I swung north from the bottom of Lake Okeechobee and my headlights found the sign that read OUR SOIL IS OUR FUTURE. I pressed harder on the accelerator.

When I got to Placid City the eastern sky was showing the soft gray glow of dawn, but it was still early, even for the rural farm folk. I passed Mel's and could see that there was a light on deep in the building somewhere. Maybe it was for security. Maybe an early cook was dicing up breakfast ingredients. If Sheriff Wilson was somewhere awaiting my arrival, I saw no sign of him, and I doubted that it would be his style to hide himself. I continued through town and out to the Church of God.

When I turned down the entry road, the sun's first rays sheared over the horizon and the huge oaks caught the light in their upper branches. There was dew in the grass and it was disturbed by three sets of footprints, one going and coming back, the other leading from a van to the front steps. I remembered the van as Mrs. Jefferson's. I got out and could tell from the moisture on the van's hood that it had been here awhile. The windows were layered with a wet sheen, but I could see through the windshield. No one was inside. I took the precaution of rubbing a clear spot on the back window and checking the floorboards in the backseat. Nothing.

I turned to the church. The high steeple was slightly afire with the early sun and all was silent, save for the ticking of my truck engine cooling after its hours of abuse. I followed the tracks in the grass and got to the porch before realizing that the front door of the church had been left open, not enough to peer inside, but enough to show that the bud of metal on the catch mechanism was not engaged. My right hand felt empty. I had left my Glock behind.

I moved to the side of the building, looking for any other vehicles that might be parked in back. I checked the height of the windows and quickly gave up the idea of peeking inside. I went back to the front, stepped quietly across the porch boards, held my breath and eased the door open. The inside was dim but my eyes adjusted and I could see the shape of someone sitting in the first seat off the aisle in the front pew. The head was bowed as if praying and did not move. I swept the room as I moved down the center but noticed nothing out of place. I was halfway up the aisle when I said, "Mark?"

When she lifted and spun her head to look at me the movement scared the hell out of me. My knees flexed and my heart jumped in my chest.

"Why, Mr. Freeman. What are you doing here?"

I don't think I exhaled until I sat down next to her. Margery Jefferson was wearing a dark shawl over her shoulders. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was pale. She maintained her quizzical look, as if she'd been expecting someone else.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Jefferson. You OK?" I finally asked, looking away.

"Yes, of course, sir."

"Uh, is the reverend here, ma'am?"

"My husband is at home, Mr. Freeman," she said. "Are you looking for him or for your Mr. Mayes, sir?"

It was my turn to be anxious.

"Has Mark Mayes been here?"

"He was waiting outside when I arrived," she said, turning her face back to the altar. "We spoke for some time. He was very comforting, Mr. Freeman. He told me of the things you had found out for him, the past about his family. He reminds me very much of Mr. Jefferson when he was that age. Full of questions and wonderings."

I stayed silent and scanned the polished wood floor, the open door to the back of the church, the pure white cloth covering the altar.

"I don't know whether to thank you or to despise you for bringing out these truths, Mr. Freeman. I am asking the Lord to guide me."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, standing up, not knowing how else to answer.

"I suspect you will find Mr. Mayes at our home," she said. "I gave him directions."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said.

My tires spun in the wet grass when I pulled away from the church. I drove back through town and then west on the blacktop road, thinking that my speed might alert the local law. The sun was up full by the time I pulled in between the oaks in Jefferson's front yard. When I got out I quietly closed the door. The air was still and the dust I'd raised caught up and settled around me. The reverend's car and Mayes's small sedan were parked side by side next to the house. The veranda was empty and the front door closed. I took a survey of the windows before moving to the side of the house. I hesitated before rounding the corner, then stepped out onto the two- track that led to the barn. In the distance the angle of the sun threw a shadow across the half-opened barn door. It was forty feet of open ground, and I felt naked without a weapon.

"Reverend?" I called out with no expectation of an answer. "Mark Mayes? It's Max Freeman."

The call returned nothing, and I had little choice. I walked upright and slowly toward the barn, concentrating on the shadow and any possible movement. The air held the smell of sun on grass and the odor of turned dirt. When I got to the door, I hesitated again, then scanned the back of the house, unnerved by the flash of sunlight on the panes of glass.

"Mayes?"

When I stepped into the space of the open doorway, the smell of cold dust touched my face. The windowless room was dark and I pulled on the metal handle to let in more sun. The low, waist-high swatch of light caught the shined black leather of the reverend's shoes.

He was in his dark suit. The coat unbuttoned. The black shirt wrinkled up with the twisted position of his body. The white cleric's collar stained on one side by dirt from the rope. He had fastened one end high at the top of the center beam that ran from ceiling to floor. The joists that formed the floor of the second story had provided the crosspiece, and it appeared as though the reverend had measured carefully so that his chest was positioned at the intersection. I had seen enough dead men to know that to cut him down would be fruitless.

"He didn't wait for my forgiveness, Mr. Freeman."

The words snapped my head around, and for the second time that morning my heart jumped.

Mark Mayes was sitting cross-legged on the floor behind me, exactly where the shock of the sight of a hanged clergyman had probably dropped him to his knees.