Free Not Dead Enough by Warren C Easley Page A

had softened again. “I see. Are you a religious man, Mr. Claxton?”
    As a lapsed agnostic, I was afraid the conversation might veer in this direction. I stroked my mustache with my thumb and forefinger to buy a little time. “Uh, not in the conventional sense, Reverend. I sometimes feel spiritual when I’m out in nature. When I’m fly fishing, mostly.”
    Smile lines sprang from the corners of his eyes. “Christ is in all things, especially nature, don’t you think?”
    I wasn’t sure I could put a name on it, but I nodded in agreement.
    â€œWhere do you fish?”
    â€œOh, I’m just a beginner, but I like the Deschutes. That’s my favorite river.”
    â€œIt’s a great river. The salmon fly hatch’s superb, and the winter steelhead, oh my. I love the John Day, too. Can’t beat the smallmouth bass there.”
    I smiled and nodded in agreement. “Haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve heard that.”
    Reverend Hinkley’s smile was now a broad grin. “You know, last July we had a trip on the Day you wouldn’t believe. A big mayfly hatch brought every smallie in the river to the surface. Lordy. You should have seen it, Mr. Claxton. The river was boiling.” He leaned back in his chair, and a laugh roared from his chest like a thunderclap.
    He went on to tell me about the trip, which led into a lengthy exchange of fly fishing stories, mainly from his end. It was a relief to think about something other than bloody murder, and to tell the truth I almost forgot why I’d come to see the Reverend, whom I learned was an uncommonly good fly fisherman. No user of foam poppers and treble-hook spinners, the good reverend fished the right way—using dry flies that float on the surface.
    The fact that I was a fly fisherman must have compensated for my shaky religious underpinnings, because when I finally steered the conversation back to the subject of Sherman Watlamet, Reverend Hinkley leaned forward and said, “You know, Mr. Claxton, what Sherman told me the other night is confidential. But since he’s now in the Lord’s hands and since you’re an honorable man, I’m going to share some of what he said to me.”
    â€œThank you, Reverend. I’ll treat the information with great discretion.”
    â€œSherman joined our church a couple of years ago. He’s been a blessing. Our only Native American.” He gazed down at the blotter on his desk for a few moments and then chuckled. “You know, there’s nothing like the passion of the newly converted, Mr. Claxton. Sherman was no exception. He loved Jesus with all his heart.”
    I smiled. “I’m sure he did.”
    â€œA couple of nights ago he called me and said he wanted to come by to talk about something important. About setting something right, I think is the way he said it.”
    A small current of excitement went down my spine. I nodded but kept quiet, fearing if I said anything I might break the spell.
    â€œHis soul was in great torment. Said he’d done things that were wrong, that he was ashamed of. Said he wanted to get it off his chest.” The Reverend closed his eyes and shook his head at the memory of it. “He wanted to know if it was right to tell the truth, even if it hurt someone, a friend.”
    â€œCouldn’t the truth hurt him as well?”
    Reverend Hinkley smiled. “He didn’t care about himself, Mr. Claxton. When you have the fire of the Lord in your heart, you’re fearless. I told him the Lord spoke only the truth, and if he wanted to be like Jesus, he would have to do the same thing, no matter what the consequences.” Reverend Hinkley’s eyes brightened with a film of moisture. “He cried when I said this. I told him to talk to his friend. To ask his forgiveness.”
    â€œDid he mention any names, Reverend?” I asked as gently as I could.
    â€œHe didn’t