“Our Father, who art in heaven—”
“Come clean, Plummet.”
“—hallowed be thy name. Thy—”
“Who’d you send out there to trash the Minton ranch?”
“—kingdom come, thy—”
“You did send members of your congregation, though, didn’t you? You’re too much of a gutless coward to go yourself.”
The praying ceased abruptly. The preacher’s breathing became choppy and light. Reede had struck a chord. Knowing that, he pressed on. “Did you lead your ratty little army out there, or did you just furnish the spray paint?”
Reede had told Alex earlier that he’d made the rounds of variety and hardware stores, checking out places where spray paint was sold. So far, none of the merchants recalled a significant demand for it on a single day.
Plummet was probably too clever to have bought it all in one store; perhaps he’d gone out of town. Reede couldn’t hold him indefinitely because he had no evidence, but Plummet might be fooled into thinking he’d left behind an incriminating clue.
For the second time, however, he called Reede’s bluff. Having composed himself, he stared straight ahead and said, “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about, Sheriff Lambert.”
“Let’s try this again,” Reede said with a heavy sigh. “Look, Plummet, we—Miss Gaither and I—know you’re guilty as hell. You all but told her to get tough with the sinners, or else. Wasn’t the vandalism out at the Minton ranch the or else?”
Plummet said nothing.
Reede took another tack. “Isn’t confession supposed to be good for the soul? Give your soul a break, Plummet. Confess. Your wife can go home to your kids, and I’ll be able to take off early today.”
The preacher remained silent.
Reede began at the top and methodically worked down his list of questions again, hoping to trap Plummet in a lie. Several times, Reede asked Alex if she wanted to question him, but she declined. She had no more to link him to the crime than Reede had.
 
; He got nowhere. The preacher’s story never changed. Reede didn’t even trip him up. At the conclusion of another exhaustive round of questions, Plummet grinned up at him guilelessly and said, “It’s getting close to supper time. May we be excused now?”
Reede, frustrated, ran his hand through his hair. “I know you did it, you pious son of a bitch. Even if you weren’t actually there, you planned it. You killed my horse.”
Plummet reacted visibly. “Killed your horse? That’s untrue. You killed it yourself. I read about it in the newspaper.”
Reede made a snarling sound and lunged across the room at him. “You’re responsible.” He leaned down close to Plummet again, forcing him backward in his chair. “Reading about that probably gave you a real thrill, didn’t it, you little prick? You’re gonna pay for that animal, if I have to wring a confession from your scrawny neck.”
So it went for at least another hour.
Alex’s bottom grew tired and sore from sitting in the uncomfortable chair. Once, she stood up and paced the length of the room, just to restore circulation. Plummet’s fanatical eyes tracked her, making her feel so ill at ease that she returned to her seat.
“Mrs. Plummet?”
The preacher’s wife flinched when the sheriff suddenly spoke her name. Her shoulders had been sagging forward with fatigue; her head had been kept slightly bowed. Both came erect and she looked up at Reede with awe and respect.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you go along with everything he’s told me?”
She shot Plummet a quick, sidelong glance, swallowed hard, and wet her lips nervously. Then, she lowered her eyes and bobbed her head up and down. “Yes.”
Plummet’s face remained impassive, though his lips were twitching with a smug smile longing to be full-blown. Next, Reede looked down at Alex. She gave him an almost imperceptible shrug.
He stared at the floor for ponderous seconds before barking out a deputy’s name. The officer materialized in the doorway as though he’d been expecting his chief’s restrained but furious summons.
“Let him go.”