Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(3)

At ten o’clock, the buzzer sounded, signaling al trustees to their jobs, the rest of the inmates back to their cel s. Pablo and Luis arrived a minute late, completing the flock.

Pastor Riggs came out of his vestry. They al joined hands for prayer.

Afterward, the Reverend went back in the vestry to write his sermon. The trustees settled back to their work, getting ready for the juvies’ visit at one o’clock.

Wil wrote notes for his testimonial. Luis and Pablo got out their guitars and practiced gospel songs in that god-awful Freddy Fender style they had going. Elroy, C.C. and Zeke worked on the stained glass.

The panel would show Jesus in chains before Pontius Pilate. It was supposed to be finished by the time the juvenile hal kids got here from San Antonio, so they could hang it behind the preacher’s podium, but the trustees knew it wouldn’t be ready. Pastor Riggs had agreed they could work through lunch anyway. He’d seemed pleased by their enthusiasm.

Two civilian supervisors showed up late and plopped folding chairs by the door. One was a retired leatherneck named Grier. The other Wil had never seen—a rookie, some laid-off farmhand from Floresvil e probably, picking up a few extra dol ars.

Grier was a mean son-of-a-bitch. Last week, he’d talked trash to Luis the whole time, describing different ways HPL was planning to kil him. He said the guards had a betting pool going.

Today, Grier decided to pick a new target.

“So, C.C.,” Grier cal ed lazily, palming the sweat off his forehead. “How’d you get two Cadil ac jobs, anyway? Gospel and Maintenance? What’d you do, lube up your nappy ass for the warden?”

C.C. said nothing. Wil kept his attention on his testimonial notes and hoped C.C. could keep his cool.

Grier grinned at the younger supervisor.

Reverend Riggs was stil in his vestry. The door was open, but Grier wasn’t talking loud enough for Riggs to overhear.

“Good Christian boy now, huh?” Grier asked C.C. “Turn the other cheek. Bet you’ve had a lot of practice turning your cheeks for the boys.”

He went on like that for a while, but C.C. kept it together.

Around eleven, the smel of barbecue started wafting in—brisket, ribs, chicken. Fourth of July picnic for the staff. The supervisors started squirming.

About fifteen minutes to noon, Supervisor Grier growled, “Hey, y’al finish up.”

“We talked to the Reverend about working through lunch,” Wil said, nice and easy. No confrontation. “We got these kids coming this afternoon.”

Grier scowled. Continents of sweat were soaking through his shirt.

He lumbered over to the pastor’s doorway. “Um, Reverend?”

Riggs looked up, waved his hand in a benediction. “Y’al go on, Mr. Grier. I don’t need to leave for half an hour. Get you some brisket and come back. I’l keep an eye on the boys.”

“You sure?” But Grier didn’t need convincing.

Soon both supervisors were gone, leaving six trustees and the pastor.

Wil locked eyes with Pablo and Luis. The Mexicans reached in their guitar cases, took out the extra sets of strings the pastor had bought them. At the worktable, Elroy pul ed a sweat-soaked bandana off his neck.

C.C. handed him a half-moon of white glass, a feather for an angel’s wing. Elroy wrapped the bandana around one end of it. Zeke unplugged his soldering iron.

Wil got up, went to the Reverend’s door.

For a moment, he admired Pastor Riggs sitting there, pouring his soul into his sermon.

The Reverend was powerful y built for a man in his sixties. His hands were cal used and scarred from his early years working in a textile factory. He had sky-blue eyes and hair like carded cotton. He was the only hundred percent good man Wil Stirman had ever known.

This was supposed to be a showcase day for Riggs. His prison ministry would turn a dozen juvenile delinquents away from crime and toward Christ. The press would run a favorable story. Riggs would attract some big private donors. He’d shared these dreams with Wil , because Wil was his proudest achievement —living proof that God’s mercy was infinite.

Wil summoned up his most honest smile. “Pastor, you come look at the stained glass now? I think we’re almost done.”

The old preacher went down harder than Pablo had hoped.

Riggs should have understood the point of the glass knife against his jugular. He should’ve let himself be tied up quietly.

But Riggs acted outraged. He said he couldn’t believe everything he’d worked for was a lie—that al of them, for months, had been using him. He tried to reason with them, shame them, and in the end, he fought like a cornered chupacabra. Elroy, Pablo and Stirman had to wrestle him down. Zeke got too excited. He smashed the old man’s head with the soldering iron until C.C. grabbed his wrists and snarled, “Damn, man! That’s his skul showing!”

Pablo took a nasty bite on his finger trying to cover the preacher’s mouth. Elroy had blood splattered on his pants. They were al sure Riggs’ yel ing and screaming had ruined the plan. Any second the guards would come running.

But they got Riggs tied up with guitar string and taped his mouth and shoved him, moaning and half- conscious, into the corner of the vestry. Stil nobody came.

Elroy stood behind the worktable so anybody coming in wouldn’t see the bloodstains on his pants. C.C.

and Zeke huddled around him, staring at the stained glass as if they gave a damn about finishing it. Zeke suppressed a schoolboy giggle.