Free (2008) Down Where My Love Lives by Charles Martin Page B

of sorts. Just prior to the ringing of the 10:30 Am bells, women in all shapes, sizes, and colors, escorted by their families, walked smack down the middle of the highway en route to their pew.
    And hats? Hats galore. You've never seen so many hats. They say sometimes Pastor John stops midsermon to point out a new or good-looking hat. The women love it. They also love his preaching, which, according to his reputation, is pretty heavy on the fire and brimstone. People say he tells it like it is, and they like him for it.
    The church is a good mixture of all races and sizes, and if you drive by during the singing, it'll resonate through your windows. Even in winter when the front doors are shut. It's a good thing that steeple is tall and well built; otherwise they'd bring it down. Clapping, singing, even some dancing. You want good hymn singing? Go to Pastor John's church. You'll get it there.

    Tonight, like every Wednesday night, was no exception. The place was packed. I slowed to an idle and found myself parked on the shoulder opposite Amos's Crown Vic. His radio was squawking voices and radio checks.
    "Seven-twelve to HQ."
    "HQ to 712. Go ahead, 712."
    "Ah, I've got a. . . " An eighteen-wheeler carrying a load of pine trees whizzed by my window, causing me to miss the rest of the mumbo jumbo. After Amos had been appointed deputy, he told me, "D.S., if I don't learn my ABCs, they'll park my B-U-T-T in HQ and I'll be sorta-outta-luck." He spent weeks reading flashcards that he kept in his shirt pocket.
    Law enforcement definitely has its own language. I guess it's a good thing. If I'm sitting there with a telephone pole lying over the top of my car and my feet resting on the engine block, I don't want a deputy with flowery language. I want somebody who can cut through the c-r-a-p and get my b-u-t-t to the h-o-s-p-i-t-a-1. Right n-o-w. Amos says that pretty much eliminates me from law enforcement. He's probably right. I'd be explaining to HQ what the situation looked like rather than what was needed. I see colors, not structure.
    Based on the squawking, it was a dull night in Digger. Apparently most of the population was in church, because every parking space was taken. Even the dirt spillover lot was full. I left my truck on the shoulder and slipped in the side door, where I was immediately met by an usher in a threepiece suit. An older, gray-haired gentleman, probably seventyfive. He smiled from earlobe to earlobe and held the door while I walked through it. You have never seen so many teeth. And straight? You could have drawn a line with them.

    I stood there in jeans, scuffed boots, and a flannel shirt that I was rapidly trying to tuck in. I keep my hair pretty short, so that's never really a problem. Even when it's messed up, it can't look too messed up. The entrance to the church was warm and empty, except for Mr. Smiles and me. He asked me if I was a visitor, and I thought briefly about lying to him but figured the narthex of the church, beneath the apex of my grandfather's steeple, was not the place. I nodded without meeting his eyes.
    Through the window of the door leading into the sanctuary, I could see Pastor John pacing slowly back and forth, wearing a purple robe and holding a well-worn book in his right hand. He'd aged, and his hair had grown white since I last saw him. The usher gently opened the door and stepped in. A sea of three hundred to four hundred people, pressed elbow to elbow, filled the upright pews, and lines of latecomers filled folding chairs all the way down the aisle and around the back of the pews. This would never pass the fire marshal's inspection.
    The rounded sanctuary fanned out before me like a half circle. At the flat end stood the pulpit and Pastor John. Behind him stood an organ and forty or fifty folks in matching robes shouting "Amen" and "Umm-hmmm." The pews must have been fashioned by the Oompa Loompas because they were little; but judging from appearance, the size of the pew didn't