One Deadly Sin Read Online Free PDF

sweating and his mouth was dry, and he ignored both. He saw immediately he wasn’t the first to arrive. Everyone knew Fred Lyle’s Town Car. He recognized Kenneth Parsley’s car by the fish on the bumper, and Dennis Runkle’s Corvette stood out even without the Runkle Real Estate sign on the back window. But he would have known who gathered there regardless of those familiar indicators. Their little group had been forged in deception and blood, and it wasn’t likely he’d forget any member. Several of their group were missing, of course. But you can’t call the dead back to life. Or so he’d have thought.
    He parked his truck and walked to the flat rocks overlooking the pit. Fred Lyle was already pacing, his skin bloodless and strained.
    Reverend Parsley perched on an outcropping, calmly staring into the abyss. He’d put on the pounds in the last twenty years and his chin had disappeared into his neck. But he still had that air of rectitude that never seemed quite on the level to James. But Parsley’s self-assured piety had vaulted him to the head of the community. No one was closer to God than Ken Parsley, Mimsy liked to say, and he’d tell you so himself.
    As usual, Dennis Runkle was on the phone, mouth going fast, hands gesturing emphatically. On his wrist, a thick gold Rolex winked in the hot sunlight. James couldn’t remember ever seeing him stand still. But even nearing seventy he still seemed the little weasel he’d been in high school, though he’d had the last laugh on all of them. Biggest house in town, fastest car, sexiest ex-wives.
    Runkle, Parsley, Lyle, and him. James stopped a moment to watch the motley group. All of them kept well away from the edge. He understood. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the pit himself.
    “Jimmy!” Fred spotted him and stopped pacing long enough to close the gap between them. “What are we going to do?”
    “First, we’re going to calm down.”
    “Calm down? Are you crazy?”
    “James is right.” Ken Parsley ambled toward them. In deference to the heat, he’d removed his suit coat, but his sleeves were still buttoned at the wrist. Without the coat you could see his rotundity more clearly. His slacks were hiked over his round belly, like Humpty Dumpty’s, but his height and huge broad shoulders somehow carried it. “We have to remain calm. Think this through.”
    Fred threw up his hands, retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his face. “Runkle!” He threw the real estate agent an angry glance.
    Runkle held up a hand, and Fred uttered an annoyed growl. But ten seconds later, Dennis Runkle strode over. More like raced. But then, that was the man’s natural gait. Why walk when you could run?
    “That Jansen property is going to kill me,” he frowned. Redbud’s self-styled Donald Trump, he’d bet on Hammerbilt’s growth, buying out the Jansen farm for a new subdivision. But with the audit market tight, development money was scarce. He’d already been the key investor in the new condos on Redbud’s west side—an eyesore to some with its repetitive concrete and fake wood façade, a symbol of progress to others. Dennis Runkle was firmly with the latter, reputedly moving his town square office to the west side, though some would say unit sales were languishing.
    “Okay.” The little man rubbed his hands together. “What’s so all-fired important? I got a business to move, things to do.”
    They formed a misshapen circle, Parsley towering over Runkle, and James looming over Lyle. James could feel the impatience and edginess of the group. Or maybe it was just his own anxiety poking through.
    Fred reached into his pocket and pulled something out. He opened his fist. In the center sat a tiny black angel.
    The atmosphere stilled, then tensed. Everyone stared. No one reached out to take the thing.
    “How did you get that?” the reverend asked.
    “Came in the mail,” Fred said.
    “Did you bring the envelope like I asked?” James