Southtown Read Free Page A

They were the eyes of a slave ship navigator, or a doctor in a Nazi death camp.
    “Safe passage,” Stirman told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Pablo imagined some Mexican mother hearing those words as the boxcar door closed on her and her family, locking them in the hot unventilated darkness, with a promise that they’d all see
los estados unidos
in the morning.
    Pablo needed to kill Stirman.
    He should take out his shank and do it. But he couldn’t with Zeke there—stupid loyal Zeke with his stupid soldering iron.
    Thunder broke, rolling across the tin roof of the chapel.
    “Big storm coming,” Stirman said. “That’s good for us.”
    “It won’t rain,” Pablo said in Spanish. He felt like being stubborn, forcing Stirman to use
his
language. “That’s dry thunder.”
    Stirman gave him an indulgent look. “Hundred-year flood, son. Wait and see.”
    Pablo wanted to argue, but his voice wouldn’t work.
    Stirman took the car keys out of his hand and went in the other room, jingling the brass cross on the Reverend’s chain.
             
    Pablo stared at the phone.
    Luis, Elroy and C.C. should’ve reached the back gate by now. They should’ve called.
    Or else they’d failed, and the guards were coming.
    In the corner, wedged between the unconscious supervisor and Grier’s body, Pastor Riggs stared at him—dazed blue eyes, his head wound glistening like a volcanic crater in his white hair.
    Out in the chapel, Zeke was pacing with his soldering iron. He’d done an imperfect job wiping up Grier’s blood, so his footprints made faint red prints back and forth across the cement.
    Stirman pretended to work on the stained glass. He had his back to the vestry as if Pablo posed no threat at all.
    Pablo could walk out there, drive the shank into Stirman’s back before he knew what was happening.
    He was considering the possibility when Zeke stopped, looking at something outside. Maybe the lightning.
    Whatever it was, his attention was diverted. The timing wouldn’t get any better.
    Pablo gripped the shank.
    He’d gone three steps toward Stirman when the guard came in.
    It was Officer Gonzales.
    She scanned the room, marking the trustees’ positions like land mines. Stirman and Zeke stood perfectly still.
    Gonzales’ hand strayed toward her belt, but of course she wasn’t armed. Guards never were, inside the fence.
    “Where are your supervisors?” she asked.
    She must’ve been scared, but she kept an edge of anger in her voice—trying to control the situation, trying to avoid any hint she was vulnerable.
    Stirman pointed to the vestry. “Right in there, ma’am.”
    Gonzales frowned. She took a step toward the vestry. Then her eyes locked on something—Pablo’s hand. He had completely forgotten the shank.
    She stepped back, too late.
    Zeke crushed her windpipe with the soldering iron as she tried to scream. He grabbed the front of her shirt, pulled her down, Gonzales gagging, digging in her heels, clawing at Zeke’s wrists.
    Stirman got hold of her ankles. They dragged her into the corner where they taped her mouth, bound her hands. Zeke slapped her in the head when she tried to struggle.
    Pablo just watched.
    He was a statue. He couldn’t do a damn thing.
    Stirman rose, breathing heavy.
    “Bind her feet,” he told Zeke.
    “In a minute,” Zeke murmured.
    He tugged at Gonzales’ belt. He started pulling off her pants.
    “Zeke,” Stirman said.
    “What?”
    “What are you doing?”
    “Fucking her.”
    Gonzales groaned—dazed but still conscious.
    Zeke got her pants around her thighs. Her panties were blue.
    The phone in the vestry rang.
    “Zeke.” Stirman’s voice tightened.
    Officer Gonzales tried to fight, huffing against the tape on her mouth.
    Pablo wanted to help her. He imagined himself driving the shank into Stirman’s back, coming up behind Zeke, taking him, too.
    He imagined the back gates opening, himself at the wheel of the Reverend’s SUV, the plains of South Texas