Desert Shadows (9781615952250) Read Online Free PDF Page B

God’s Magnificent Mercy. God’s Magnificent Justice.
    â€œWhy, Rev, you’ve been keeping secrets from me. You told me you’d gone into publishing, but I didn’t know you were publishing your own books.”
    â€œOnly a few of the books are mine at this point. That’s the way a lot of small presses get started. You write a book but can’t find a publisher, so you publish it yourself. Maybe it doesn’t do very well, but that’s neither here nor there because you’ve scratched an itch by only spending a couple of thousand dollars. Sometimes, though, you make a profit. Then a friend who’s just finished his manuscript asks you to show him the publishing ropes, and you do. Then someone else asks. The next time it happens, you start thinking, ‘Why don’t I just publish these things myself?’
    â€œThere you are, the story of God’s Love Press. We have twenty-four titles now, with three more due out next month. Most of the manuscripts come from other ministers around the country, but I’m still throwing a few of my own into the mix.”
    His smile dimmed for a moment. “Religious publishing houses are seeing a big increase in business these days. People need hope more now than ever before.”
    While I was no longer an atheist (a near-death experience in the desert had ended that) 1 the Rev’s simple faith still made me uncomfortable. I hurried to change the subject. “Let’s get back to Gloriana’s murder, Rev. I need to interview everyone who sat near her at the banquet last night, and that includes you.”
    An unfathomable look. “I wasn’t the only one there, you know.” He glanced over at the SOBOP sales table. It was manned at one end by a yuppie-slick Asian, the counter card in front of him reading ARIZONA TRAILS PUBLISHING . In the middle of the table, behind a counter card that said VERDAD PRESS , sat a distinguished-looking Hispanic gentleman whose face seemed vaguely familiar.
    Holding down the other end of the table, as far away from those two as was possible in the cramped area, sat another familiar face. A blond man in his forties, who—judging from his expression as he eyed his table mates—appeared unlikely to break out in a chorus of Kumbayah. The book displayed in front of him was titled Losing America.
    The notorious Randall Ott.
    With dismay, I saw the long line of people, all Anglos, waiting to have their books autographed by Ott. I also noted that his counter card proclaimed PATRIOT’S BLOOD PRESS . Considering everything I’d learned so far, I wasn’t surprised to discover he was one of Gloriana’s authors. His Whites-only views on immigration alone would have warmed her cold heart. He had gone on the fatal hike, too. Could he have been having—I hoped, I hoped—publisher troubles? I’d love to nail him for her murder.
    The Rev ignored Ott’s glower and waved. Ott didn’t wave back. Was the Rev’s hair too dark for Ott? Suspiciously curly? The Rev appeared not to notice the snub. “Tell you what, Lena. A few of us are breaking for lunch in a few minutes, so why don’t you talk to us all at the same time?”
    â€œTry to bring Ott along, too.”
    He lifted his eyebrows. “I’ll try, but he’s…well, let’s just say he marches to his own drummer.”
    A big White drum with a military beat. Ott wouldn’t be satisfied until Arizona and the rest of America were lily-white, and if it took a few armed encounters to bring that about, he proclaimed himself up for it. Word on the desert pipeline was that he had already begun amassing the arsenal.
    While I much preferred talking to each of the SOBOP people separately, an immediate solo interview with each was not that critical. There was an up side to interviewing them together. Lulled by their associates’ presence, they might be off guard, thus possibly more truthful.