Beneath the Cracks Read Online Free PDF

cautiously shorn of stubble.  Veins on the arms stood out
like living ropes that twisted sinuously beneath the skin barely
containing them.  He followed the writhing highway from the
back of the hairy hand upward.  The thin sliver of blood oozed
out from a darker track at the bend of the elbow.
    The chilling laughter went straight to
Preacher's gut.
    "I shared," the man chuckled.  "I do
that when it suits my purpose.  But now, it's time you and I
had a serious chat, Preacher.  For starters, I think it's high
time we stop dancing around the real issue at hand.  You feel
awful good right now, but I promise you, that'll all change if I
don't hear what I want."
    Preacher's body tensed without
volition.  Restraint cut into his ankles, and the euphoria
he'd felt only moments ago evaporated into panic.  His arms
tightened and jerked while his legs bounced with such force that
the chair hopped several inches over the slick gray floor.
    "You're not going anywhere.  Might as
well tell me why you volunteered for the job, Preacher."
    "Bed and meals," he rasped.  "Warm
place to sleep."
    "You had that at your cozy little
shelter.  Funny thing though.  One of the guys over there
tells me you didn't spend as many nights under that roof as some of
our other volunteers .  Got me wonderin' why that
was.  You ready to tell me the truth now, Preacher ?"
    He struggled for the carefully practiced
words.  "In the beginning was the word, and the word was
–"
    "Knock that shit off.  You're about as
religious as I am."
    Preacher's eyes widened when the light
caught the glimmer of thin silver, a clear droplet drizzling from
the open beveled tip.
    "We can do this easy, or we can do it
hard.  You're choice, man, but you're not getting out of here
until I get some fuckin' answers, and I mean right now.  Who
are you really?  A cop?  That's the word on the street
you know.  You got too much money to be a bum."
    His eyes fluttered shut.  So
careful.  So much work.  So much ridiculous suffering
with the lice and the smell and the active resistance to any
inclination toward basic hygiene.  All for nothing.
    Part of Preacher's brain resisted the
temptation to crumble.  The other part craved the return of
euphoria and the certainty that he could do anything.  A
parched fleck of dry muscle poked through lips dying for a little
moisture.  Futile.  As futile as escaping the shackles at
wrist and ankle. 
    He clenched his teeth and whispered, "Our
father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."
    The needle advanced, pierced the tender
flesh in his arm.  Another wave of euphoria was aborted
quickly by the crushing pain in his chest of a heart that could not
possibly beat harder for another moment.  In the end, his only
comfort was knowledge that whatever had been in the needle had not
stripped him of his loyalty.
    It was a faint smile that played about
Preacher's lips before they parted with the expulsion of his last
breath.
     
     
     
    Maya was hauling a platter from the butler's
pantry to the dining room.  Her guests followed the savory
smells that wafted through the house as though nothing else
mattered.  My impromptu recital was a minor diversion among
old friends. 
    I was outside all of it, superficially
engaged in the conversation that rippled around the table, volleyed
in bursts between detectives and police officials, that dragged my
thoughts away from murder and mayhem of my own invention into Zack
Carpenter's world of prosecutions and Steve Smith's never-ending
passion for crime scene photography.
    I was present but not there . 
When Maya asked Chris Darnell if he'd do the honors and carve her
beautiful brisket, I imagined sliding a scalpel through Danny
Datello's flabby flanks.  Instead of relishing the melting
beef on my tongue like my guests were, I relished the imagined
shrieks of Datello's prolonged agony. 
    Everyone was in the moment, that happy place
where nothing could disturb the pleasure of whatever it was