The Ranger - Ace Atkins [76]
“You can’t be back here,” one of them said, indistinguishable from the other, with their tattoos and bald heads and black T-shirts. “No way. Come on.”
They led her back to the sanctuary and sat her down, her legs feeling like they’d given out. The baby began to cry, and Lena moved her onto a soft shoulder to pat. The movie theater seemed like a bus station or purgatory, and if this whole thing didn’t end soon she’d just walk clean out the door, Charley Booth in tow or not.
“God said, ‘Moses, they may not like you, never like you, talk about you, gossip about you. But they will never be able to deny I am not with you.’ And guess what they did? They lied about Moses, talked behind his back, even wanted to put him to death. But them ole Israelites could never deny he had been led by God’s hand. They could not deny it.”
There was a strong hand on Lena’s shoulder, and she craned her neck to see Gowrie standing over her, a fat shadow, saying, Amen. Amen. Amen. He smelled like sulfur and smoke. His hands had been stained as black as tar.
Brother Davis moved on down the center aisle, people touching him, his stupid grin showing his golden teeth. “Moses says, ‘God, I ssss—stutter. How can I s—speak through the Majestic One—how can You use one that cain’t talk plain?’ My friends, I am not an eloquent man, either. Hell, I don’t even really know the word . . . I wasn’t eloquent then and do not know, even if I’d had an encounter with the bush, if I’d be any different. We all have to deal with them issues. The Lord God doesn’t want a perfect life. But y’all can relate to someone who has walked through the valley of the shadow of death and come out smelling like a rose.
“God says that’s okay,” Brother Davis said. “I need a leader.”
Davis was on them now, laying his hand upon Gowrie. Gowrie closed his eyes.
“You may see a rod turned to a snake and a snake turned to a rod,” Brother Davis said. “But who among us is not afraid to reach out and touch it? Do not have fear, my friends.”
The people said, “Amen.”
“Who in the hell goes to church on a Tuesday night?” Quinn asked.
“These folks have had church about every night since they took over the movie house,” Boom said. “It’s what they do.”
“I wish it was still a movie house.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look worn out.”
Quinn shrugged.
They sat in Quinn’s truck across the town Square, watching the men and women file out of the theater and climb into their cars and trucks, heading back to their compound. He saw Gowrie and Brother Davis. Lena walked with her child and a skinny boy with jug ears that Quinn believed to be the child’s father.
“So what’s up?” Boom asked.
“I got a little tour of the county the other night with a guy who used to work for Gowrie.”
“The same one that was blown up?”
“Yep.”
“And what’d we learn?”
“I got a pretty solid feel for Gowrie’s whole operation here,” Quinn said. “He cooks at a half-dozen trailers spread throughout the county.”
“And you’re thinking that we might want to shut ’em down.”
“You think I should leave it alone?”
“Did I say that?”
“You don’t need to be a part of this.”
“You’re forgetting one thing, man.”
“What’s that?”
“What you got in mind sounds like a hell of a lot of fun.”
“You think?”
“Oh, hell yes,” Boom said, smiling, half-light shadowing his face. “Let’s kick that hatin’ bastard square in the nuts.”
Quinn smiled, cranked the old Ford, and knocked it into gear.
26
Five of the six went a little something like this:
Quinn would kick in the front door of the trailer. Boom would enter with that big-ass Colt .44 Anaconda and blast a hole in the wall if a man faced him. Another man might run from a back room, and Quinn would shoot at him with his .45, force him to drop his weapon, knowing if anyone came out with a gun pointed at him he’d have to neutralize him. Quinn was prepared to do it, had hoped that someone would come for him like that, wanting it. But instead they found most of these men and women napping, watching television, and one couple was having sex when they snuck up on their trailer.
The most