Read The Psalmist for Free Online Page B

weeks longer—­although if anyone could defy expectations, it was her.
    Luke felt a clutch of emotions, as he always did, holding her fragile hand, praying for Millie and her family, thanking God for Millie’s life, for her work with the church and in the community. As he walked away from her room, into the corridor, he felt weighted down with sadness, knowing that these visits with her were numbered.
    He took the northern route back, through farmland that seemed to stretch without end in all directions. The morning haze had burned away and noontime light cast a stark clarity on the farm fields, the grain silos and wooden barns. Some places were zoned to become bigger, to attract industry and promote growth, but most of Tidewater County—­other than a few stretches on the waterfront—­was zoned to never become anything other than what it was. It’s what he loved about the place.
    He pushed in one of Charlotte’s CDs. Chopin, Fantasie Impromptu , the console read. Charlotte, at his request, had begun teaching him a little about classical music, with mixed results. So far he’d learned that he liked Mahler and Tchaikovsky, although he sometimes couldn’t tell the difference. This one he liked; the music quickly drew him in, lending a subtle grandeur to the countryside as he drove back toward the coast on a shoulderless two-­lane road, trying out anecdotes in his head for Sunday’s sermon.
    Distances became a little tricky in this open country—­so that you might see a truck across the fields and not know how far away it was or which direction it was going. He was absently tracking a pickup now as Chopin’s piano melody took a mysterious turn—­a big silver truck, moving parallel to him, maybe half a mile away, but traveling faster than he was. Route 11, probably. Going west by southwest.
    It must’ve turned left then, because when he noticed it again, the truck was coming directly toward him, perpendicularly. And then it was right there: Luke was stopped at the two-­way at Goose Creek Crossing and the truck whooshed by, shaking his car. A new-­looking double cab Ram pickup with a prominent dent on the right front fender.
    More surprising than the vehicle—­it was rare to see anything but old pickups out here—­was the man driving it. As the truck passed, the driver turned his eyes to look squarely at him.
    Jackson Pynne.
    He recognized him. Except why would Jackson Pynne be driving through Tidewater County?
    It had been months since Luke had even thought of Jackson Pynne—­and much longer since he’d actually seen him. But seeing him now gave him a bad feeling. Jackson was a hotel and condominium developer who’d come here six or seven years ago with deep pockets and plans to build a high-­end hotel-­marina project. The Baltimore Sun had called him a “maverick, larger-­than-­life businessman” back then—­which Jackson liked, although that article may have also begun his unraveling. Tidewater County rarely made room for ­people who were “larger than life,” particularly when they were what locals called “come heres” rather than “from heres.”
    In some ways, though, Jackson was larger than life. Tall, long-­legged, with a self-­assured step and cool, craggy features, he always reminded Luke of a 1950s film actor, in the Robert Mitchum, William Holden mold. There was an inherent drama in his face that often made him seem to be saying more than he actually was. ­People would sometimes do a double take when they spotted Jackson walking the streets of Tidewater, thinking he might be someone famous. And, for a while, Jackson Pynne had been a player in the business of Tidewater County, albeit a controversial one, convincing some of the newer commissioners and zoning board members that his hotel-­marina would transform the waterfront, attracting a “new