Free Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley

polished boots. I told Arch to stay put and intercepted him as he was unlocking the back door.
    â€œExcuse me. Are you Reverend Hinkley, by any chance?”
    He looked around at me and smiled without any effort. “In the flesh. What can I do for you?” He had combed-over, black, thinning hair and a lopsided nose that made me wonder if he’d ever boxed. His eyes were a soft brown, his gaze disarmingly friendly.
    I offered my hand. “My name’s Cal Claxton. I was wondering if I could talk to you about Sherman Watlamet.”
    His face clouded over. “Is Sherman a friend of yours?”
    â€œNo, Reverend. I take it you heard what happened yesterday.”
    â€œYes. I’m afraid I have. It’s all over town.”
    â€œI was the one who found him. I’d driven out to his ranch to talk to him.”
    He shook his head and looked at me in bewilderment. “My Lord, what a terrible thing. Who would shoot a kind man like that? Our whole congregation’s in shock.” He paused for a moment and appraised me. “Are you with the Sheriff’s Department, Mr. Claxton?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. I’m an attorney.” I handed him a card. “Could we talk for a few minutes?”
    Reverend Hinkley’s office was a small cubicle cluttered with books and papers. There was a single picture on the wall of Jesus praying in the Garden, light streaming down from the heavens onto his upturned face. One of the books on his credenza was Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion, and I wondered whether the Reverend had an open mind or was preparing to tell the local library to remove the book from its shelves.
    He offered me a seat. I said, “I have a client who has asked me to look into the disappearance of her grandfather, a Wasco Indian named Nelson Queah. Mr. Watlamet and Mr. Queah were seen together the day of the disappearance. I’d gone out to Watlamet’s ranch to talk to him about this. That’s when I discovered his body.”
    He leaned forward in his chair. “That must have been horrible for you. I understand he was shot from long range with a rifle.”
    â€œIt was a high caliber weapon, for sure.”
    He nodded in my direction. “I see you’re injured.” He wasn’t probing like a gossip or voyeur. There was genuine concern in his eyes.
    I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, the killer shot at me but missed. I took some splinters when the bullets hit the house. I’m fine.”
    His eyes got larger. “Dear God. Something happens like that must make you wonder about mankind.”
    There was an invitation in the statement. I almost dumped the feelings that the shooting had stirred up in me but caught myself. I was here to get information from the Reverend, not the other way around. “Well, I was a district attorney for the city of Los Angeles for many years, so I’ve seen a lot, Reverend. But, in all honesty, you never get used to something like this.”
    â€œI’m sure you don’t, Mr. Claxton. I’m sure you don’t.”
    I cleared my throat. “I’m wondering if Mr. Watlamet happened to say anything about the disappearance of Nelson Queah to you or anyone else in the church?”
    The wariness returned to his eyes. “Are the shooting and this disappearance related?”
    â€œI have no reason to believe that’s the case. The disappearance happened quite a while ago.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask how long. The answer might cause him to doubt my sanity.
    He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together on his belly, and looked straight into my eyes. “Mr. Claxton, words are often spoken to me in confidence.”
    â€œI know, Reverend. And I respect that. It’s just that Mr. Queah’s granddaughter cares deeply about him, and she’s been suffering in his absence. Mr. Watlamet was one of the last persons to see him alive.”
    He kept his eyes on me. They