Free A Time for Hanging by Bill Crider Page A

stared at her husband's back.
    Consuela wondered what to do.   She did not want to intrude on the man's grief and his prayer, but she had to say what she had come to say.   She had to let these people know that their daughter was pregnant with someone's child and that while Paco would have had no reason to want her dead, there might have been someone else who did.
    She waited for several minutes before speaking.   There was no sound in the room except for the buzzing of a fly that seemed to be trapped behind one of the curtains.
    The air in the room was close and stifling.   There were no open windows, and Consuela found it hard to breathe.
    When she had waited as long as she could, she spoke.   "Senor Randall.   I have come to speak to you about my son, Paco Morales."
    She might have been a mute for all the impression she made on Randall.   He appeared to have heard nothing.   Even his cheek stopped twitching.
    "Senor Randall," she said again.
    "He can't hear you," Mrs. Randall said.   "When he's with the Lord like that, he can't hear a thing."   Her voice was bitter.   "If he'd could've heard some of the things I tried to tell him years ago, we might still have our daughter."
    "It is your daughter I have come about," Consuela said.
    Mrs. Randall looked at her then, as if realizing for the first time that there was really someone there.
    "What about my daughter?" she said.
    "They say my son -- my Paco -- that he killed her."
    Mrs. Randall's face turned red, and Consuela felt a jolt of fear.   Mrs. Randall was a formidable woman.
    "Then what are you doing in my house?" Mrs. Randall demanded, clenching her hands into fists.   "How dare you to come into my house and speak to me?"   Her voice rose.
    "Because Paco did not kill your daughter, Senora.   My son would never do such a thing.   It was done by someone with an evil reason, and my son had no such reason."
    Some of the color drained from Mrs. Randall's face.   "What reason?" she said.   "What do you mean?"
    Consuela had wanted both Mrs. Randall and her husband to hear what she had to say, but the preacher had not looked up even at the loud tones the woman had used.   Consuela decided that she would tell the woman.
    By the time she had finished talking, Mrs. Randall was looking as much like a statue as her husband.   She seemed to be hardly breathing, and she swayed on her feet like some gigantic boulder that might be about to tip over and start an avalanche.
    "Senora Randall?" Consuela said.   She was afraid that the woman might faint.
    "Get out of here," Mrs. Randall said in a harsh whisper.   "Get out of here and never come back."   She looked anxiously at her husband.
    "But Senora," Consuela said.   "I must tell your husband what I know.   He must understand . . . . "
    "He won't understand.   He'll never understand.   Just you get out of here.   Get out before it's too late."   Mrs. Randall asserted her body between her husband and Consuela and began to force Consuela backward, out of the room.
    "But my son.   Paco.   They will kill him," Consuela said.
    "That's better than havin' my husband kill you," Mrs. Randall said, pushing at Consuela with her doughy hands.   "Go on now.   Get out of here."
    Consuela got out.
    #
    When the back door slammed, the Reverend Randall opened his eyes, looked up and took his Bible into his hand.   Then he got slowly to his feet.   His knees popped as he straightened to his full height.
    He was watching the doorway as his wife came back into the room.   As she entered, he opened his Bible and began to read in a resonant voice:
    "'And the woman was arrayed in purple and scarlet color, and

    decked with gold and precious stones and pearls, having a golden cup in her hand full of abominations and filthiness of her fornication: and upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon the Great, the Mother of Harlots and Abominations of the Earth.'"
    "Don't," Martha Randall said.   "Please.