"Well, sir, I'm headed in your direction momentarily. In fact, I can be there in a little more than two hours."
Before letting him jump to any more conclusions, I gave him a truncated version of the Mayes case, how the great-grandson had come to us, how I had tracked down the name of John William Jefferson and then Placid City's own Reverend Jefferson. I then told him the secret that the reverend had been keeping in his barn, and that the rifle he turned over to me was indeed a.405-caliber weapon meant to take down large animals, including people.
"You said the first shooting was fifteen years ago?" I said, working the long conversation I had with the reverend around in my head.
"Yes. Before I got here," Wilson answered.
"You might check with the morgue and get the date of the reverend's father's suicide. He told me it was fifteen years ago. I'd be interested in seeing how close the days match."
There was silence on the line.
"I think the great-grandson, Mark Mayes, is coming to visit the reverend. I'm not sure I'd trust the pastor's reaction," I said.
It was this bare accusation that pushed the old sheriff over the edge.
"Freeman, you got some set of brass ones on you, fella," he said, his tone, even over the cell phone, turning icy. "The reverend Jefferson has been a blessed and solid citizen in these parts for more than a decade. Why, that man even presided over my own daughter's wedding.
"Son, I have checked out your record, and according to my own damn sources, you might have gone off the deep end yourself up north in Philadelphia when you shot a young boy in the back. Then I understand that you came down here to Florida and got yourself twisted up with a child abductor and ended up killing him, and that some innocent park ranger went down at the same time. Then not too long ago you were apparently found beating a suspect nearly to death, and another cop was forced to shoot and kill another suspect before that one was over.
"You've got a bloodlust or something, Freeman, and I'm not sure I even want you in my jurisdiction unless I've got you up here as a suspect."
I had not had my recent past raked into a pile with such an efficient stroke before. And Wilson didn't even know about my most recent wounding of PalmCo's hired man, nor could he have been aware of my subway encounter with an evil that I obviously held in my memory. The list made me wonder if I truly knew the man reflected in Richards's kitchen window as I looked out on the light of the pool.
"Do you have a fingerprint on the shell casing found in the first shooting?" I asked him.
He waited to answer.
"Damn right I do."
"Do you have a sample of the reverend's prints?"
Again he waited a couple of beats.
"No. He has no criminal record that I know of."
"No, he wouldn't," I said, then added, "I'll be in town as soon as I can get there, Sheriff."
When I punched off the cell, Richards had her head down, staring at the large stone tile on her kitchen floor.
"I've got to go," I said.
CHAPTER
22
I drove the first half of the trip at seventy-five miles-an-hour. After Billy called me on the cell phone, I did the rest at eighty-five. He had been unable to find Mayes. He was not answering the cell number Billy had for him. His room at the small mom-and-pop motel he had been staying in was empty. The manager said he'd last seen Mayes's small, two-door sedan sometime this morning. He had said something about going to church.
"I called Professor Martin up in Atlanta, and he talked to Mayes yesterday," Billy said. "He said he told him about your discovery of the burial site and the watch. He said Mayes seemed resigned to the truth and glad that it was finally over, that he had some answers."
"Did he tell Martin about Jefferson-the reverend, the religious connection?"
"Martin said he told him he thought he'd made up his mind about the seminary and would pray on it at church today, and that was it."
"What church?"
I could tell Billy was putting it together faster than I was. There was an anxiety in his voice, and the sound of it was ratcheting up my own nerves.
"I did get in touch with Lott," Billy said with an even tighter tone. "I got him out of a late-night place where he was moderately intoxicated, but with the right promise of a bonus remuneration, I convinced him to open the lab.
"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?"