Read The red church for Free Online Page A

at least in nothing more articulate than a groan. Boonie's tongue had been taken, too. Hoyle rescued him from his embarrassment. "We're ready over here, Sheriff," the ME called. Lit-tlefield winced and started to turn.
    "I'll handle it, sir," Storie said. "It's my case, re-member? I might see something I missed the first two times."
    She was right. Littlefield's shoulders slumped a lit-tle in relief. He hoped Storie hadn't noticed, but she didn't miss much. She had detective's eyes, even if they were easier to look at than look through. "Go ahead."
    Littlefield headed across the cemetery and up the hill toward the red church. He glanced at the mark-ers as he passed, some so worn he could barely make out the names. Some were nothing more than stumps of broken granite. Other graves were probably forgotten altogether, just the silent powder of bones under a skin of grass.
    The ground was soft under his feet—good moun-tain soil, as black as coal dust. Almost a shame to waste it on a graveyard. But people had to be buried somewhere, and to the dead, maybe the most fertile soil in the world wasn't comfort enough. Maybe his kid brother Samuel had yet to settle into eternal rest. The names on the markers read like a Who's Who history of this end of the county. Potter. Matheson. Absher. Buchanan. McFall. Gregg. More Picketts than you could shake a stick at. And three Littlefields off by themselves.
    He knelt by two familiar graves. His mother and father shared a single wide monument. He looked from the gray marble to a smaller marker, which had a bas-relief of a lamb chiseled in its center. Its letters were scarcely worn, and the fingerlike shadows of tree branches chilled the stone. Littlefield read the damning words without moving his lips.
    Here Lies Samuel Riley Littlefield. 1968-1979. May God Protect and Keep Him. His heart burned in his chest and he hurried away, his eyes frantic for a distraction. He stopped by the dogwood. The thing looked like it was dying. But it had looked that way for the last forty years, and every spring it managed to poke a few more blossoms out of the top branches. A memory stirred and crawled from the shadows before he could beat it back.
    The red church. Halloween. The night he'd seen the Hung Preacher.
    The night Samuel had died.
    He shuddered and the memory fell away again, safely buried. The sun was warm on his face. Down the slope, Hoyle and Storie were hauling Boonie's body to the back of the overgrown station wagon that served as the county's nonemergency ambulance.
    Littlefield moved away from the tree and put a foot on the bottom of four steps that led into the church foyer. The door was large and made of solid wooden planks. The cracks between the planks were barely distinguishable due to the buildup of paint layers. Over the door was a small strip of colored glass, two deep blue rectangular planes separated b y an amber pane. Those had survived the onslaught of juvenile delinquents' rocks.
    The sheriff climbed the rest of the steps. The top one was a wider landing, scarred from the tailgate of Lester Matheson's truck. Littlefield examined the thick hinges and the door lock. There was a lift latch in addition to the du ll brass handle. Littlefield put his hand on the cool metal. Wonder if I need a warrant to open it? he thought. Naw. Lester won't mind if I have a peek. There was a small chance that if Boonie had been murdered, some evidence might be hidden inside. Or the door might be locked , but he didn't think Lester would bother keeping up with a key just to protect a hundred bales of hay. People didn't steal out in these parts. The thieves and B&Eaddicts kept to Barkersville , where the rich folks had their sum-mer homes.
    Littlefield turned the knob and the catch clicked back into the cylinder. He nudged the latch up with his other hand, and as the door creaked open and the rich dust of hay hit his nostrils, he realized he hadn't set foot inside since shortly after Samuel's