Blindside

Sunday. The church is really nice, sort of like Paul Revere’s church in Boston. Sooner also does tent revivals—every June, out in Grossley’s pasture, about three miles west of Jessborough.”
    Katie glanced over at Miles, who still looked dead on his feet. All his attention was on his boy. After she’d dropped Sherlock off at the hospital a couple of hours before, she’d taken Miles and the kids out to Kmart to buy some clothes. Miles was wearing the black jeans, boots, and plaid flannel shirt he’d bought. He looked, she realized, really good. As for Sam, he looked like a miniature copy of his father, down to the black boots.
    “Papa forgot to pack clothes for us,” Sam had confided to her earlier in the truck. “He didn’t think about anything else, he just wanted to get to me as fast as he could.”
    “I wouldn’t have packed anything either,” Katie said, smiling at Miles. “Not with a Kmart in the neighborhood.”
    Of course, Keely had to have black jeans and black boots, and her mother, knowing when to throw in the towel, had given in.
    Butch Ashburn said to Savich, “If you and Sherlock plan on staying in Jessborough for a while, I think Jody and I will head back to Washington. We’re still running checks and interviewing all neighbors and employees, and I want to check Beau Jones’s apartment myself. Also, since Miles is former FBI, we’re checking particularly violent cases he was involved in. I don’t buy the idea of revenge myself, but we’re checking everything.” He looked over at Sam, who’d just taken a big bite of fried chicken. “I’m more pleased than I can say, Miles, that you’ve got such a brave, smart boy.”
    Miles swallowed, then nodded, and said sharply, “Sam,don’t wipe your greasy fingers on your new jeans. Use the napkin.”
    Life, Butch thought, was always unexpected and even, sometimes, like now, not bad at all. He said, “You guys work on Clancy’s connection from this end and, like I said, I’ll work the other end. Hopefully, we’ll meet in the middle real soon.”
    Katie smiled at Special Agent Butch Ashburn —no wing tips on my neck from this guy.
    Fifteen minutes after a telephone call, Katie’s mother, Minna Bushnell Benedict, arrived to take charge of the children. She won Sam over with a chocolate chip cookie the size of Manhattan, and assured both Miles and Katie that she’d keep both Sam and Keely safe, with the help of the two deputies seated in their cruiser just outside the house.
    “Butch, you have a safe trip back to Washington. Miles, Katie, we’re off to meet the Sinful Children of God,” Savich said, and took Sherlock’s hand. “Maybe we can talk to some of the congregation before the service starts.”
    “Find Fatso,” Sam called after his father as they went out the front door. “Shoot him.”
    The church of the Sinful Children of God was on Sycamore Road. Katie was right, it looked like the Old North Church in Boston—a tall wooden spire, painted all white, the roof sharply raked with shingles, the windows small and traditional.
    There were maybe twenty cars parked in the paved lot behind the church, which was set back from the road, at the edge of a thick stand of maple and oak trees. And Miles found himself marveling yet again at how many trees there were in this part of the country.
    The church was nearly full, maybe as many as fifty, sixty people. Men were in suits, women in dresses, hats on theirheads. Children sat quietly beside their parents. The four of them sat down in the back. A couple Katie didn’t recognize scooted farther down the bench, not speaking to them.
    Katie realized, as she looked around at all those well-dressed people, that she didn’t know very many of them. She wondered from how far away they came. It took her a while to recognize Thomas Boone, the postman, because he looked different in a suit. There was Bea Hipple, an expert quilter, sitting only shoulder high to her husband, Benny, a local mechanic. For the life of her, Katie couldn’t imagine Bea being all that submissive.
    She knew maybe twenty-five of the adults in the congregation, no more than that. The organist finished “Amazing Grace.” Throats cleared, papers rustled, and then the church fell quiet. Hearing “Amazing Grace” played in church always made Katie, hard-assed sheriff or not, get tears in her eyes.
    Reverend Sooner McCamy rose from his high-backed chair to walk up the winding stairs to the pulpit that was set on a