“Say that again about religion.”
“I have to give you an audiovisual presentation? We’re talking about a murder inside a church, on a cross. It was done by a believer.”
“A believer?”
“Yeah, and he’s really pissed.”
“How about Jack Collins?”
“Collins is a messianic killer, not a sadist.”
“You should have been a cop, Darl.”
“That’s what I did in the army. It sucked then and sucks now.”
“Why?”
“Because arresting these bastards is a waste of time,” Darl said.
Hackberry walked toward his cruiser, where Pam and R.C. were waiting. The hair was singed on the backs of his arms, and the side of his face was streaked with soot. The churchyard was filled with emergency vehicles, the red and blue and white flashers pulsing in the mist.
“Wrap it up here,” he said to Pam.
“You tried to save him, Hack. When you went inside, you didn’t know if the roof was coming down or not,” she said.
“Call Ethan Riser.”
“Riser is no help,” she said.
“She’s right, Sheriff. Them FBI people wouldn’t take time to spit in our mouths if we were dying of thirst,” R.C. said.
Hackberry opened his cell phone and found Riser’s number and punched it in, then walked off into the darkness and waited for the call to go to voice mail. Surprisingly, the agent picked up.
“Ethan?” Hack said.
“Yeah, who’d you expect?”
Hackberry told him what had happened. “I need everything you can get me on Josef Sholokoff. I need it by noon tomorrow.”
“Can’t do it, partner.”
“Cut this crap out, Ethan. I’m not going to put up with it.”
“There’re probably fifty agents in half a dozen agencies trying to shut down this guy. If you screw things up for the government, they’re going to drop a brick shithouse on your head.”
“Where are you?”
“In the Glass Mountains.”
“Who’s with you?”
“A friend or two.”
“I think you’re trying to take on Collins by yourself.”
“Collins is long overdue for retirement.”
“You don’t know him. I do. Let me help you.”