Free The Bastard Hand by Heath Lowrance

don’t like it here? What are you gonna do?”
    He looked at me. “Charlie, it don’t matter if I don’t like it. Doing the Lord’s work ain’t always a picnic, you know. Besides, I think I’m gonna like it just fine. It’s a pretty little town, ain’t it? Full of possibilities.”
    Oldfield had been sitting in his car until then, probably on the radio to announce our arrival to his boss. He stepped out, and the Reverend and I did the same.
    “Well, here it is,” Oldfield said. “Whatta ya think?”
    The Reverend put his hands on his hips, nodded his head grandly at the church. “Beautiful. Mighty beautiful, indeed. I just know some souls are gonna be saved in this place.”
    “Would you like to see the inside?” Oldfield said, grinning. “I just called in to Captain Forry and he told me the rear entrance is unlocked.”
    I said, “Do they always leave the place unlocked?”
    Oldfield explained that the Ladies Club had been holding the key until a new pastor could be found—they held their meetings in the basement and cleaned up twice a week. The door was left open just in case any members had to get in for whatever reason. “But now that you’re here, Reverend, that won’t be necessary anymore. The Ladies Club will turn the key over to you tomorrow night. Knowing them, they’ll prob’ly make some dramatic deal out of it.”
    Oldfield held the back door open for the Reverend, then followed. I caught the door from swinging shut on my face and went in after them.
    It wasn’t bad. The short back hall led past the stairs to the second floor and the basement, and right into the church itself. Reverend Childe lingered there, gazing over the rows of empty pews with a strange look on his face. Behind the podium was a mammoth piece of artwork, depicting a serene valley, rich with green and blue and brown, and above the painting Jesus looked down on us casually from a red crucifix.
    Oldfield said, with some pride, “That crucifix was carved by hand, believe it or not, by our very own Aarons brothers.”
    The Reverend looked at it appreciatively, said, “Aarons brothers? Well, that is something, ain’t it? They good church-going folk?”
    Oldfield grimaced. “Not as such, I’m afraid. I don’t think anyone in this town can say the Aarons ain’t Christians, but we haven’t seen ’em around here for a few years.”
    “Well that’s just a shame.”
    Shrugging, Oldfield said, “They sorta keep their own company, you know? They got a place out by Moker’s Hill and they spend all their time hunting and raising dogs and making illegal moonshine.”
    The Reverend glanced at him. “Making moonshine?”
    Oldfield nodded. “Yessir, I’m sorry to say.”
    “Ain’t that against the law? Why don’t you arrest ’em?”
    Oldfield looked apologetic. He said, “Well, it ain’t illegal to make it, Reverend, it’s just illegal to sell it. Those boys make a point of not selling it to anyone in town here. Besides, illegal booze is the county sheriff’s problem, and, according to my sources,” —a bit of pride crept into his voice— “the Aarons give the stuff away to the sheriff’s boys to keep ’em off their backs.”
    The Reverend nodded. “Ah, well. Some things you just can’t do nothing about, huh? It’s just a shame that men with such obvious gifts from God would waste it. Maybe I’ll go up to Moker’s Hill and see if I can’t talk to them.”
    “I wouldn’t really recommend that, Reverend. The Aarons are always heavily armed. And they don’t care for folks coming out on their property.”
    The Reverend said, “The Lord’s will don’t care nothing about guns, Officer.”
    “Well . . . if you go up there, at least let me know so that I can go with you.”
    With the spiritual matters behind us, the rest of our tour of the church addressed more practical needs. Downstairs, Oldfield showed us the pastor’s office, the bathrooms, the huge kitchen. The main hall was amazingly wide, and