Beneath the Cracks Read Online Free

his thirst and hunger-muddled thoughts it frustrated
him.  He toiled alone, absent the hostile strangers in the van
with whom he'd met before leaving Downey, out in a field digging
irrigation troughs from what he could surmise on his own. 
Farming after all, wasn't his field of expertise. 
    Another dead end.  Another glaring
failure in his quest to uncover what was really going on in the
veiled world of the homeless.  For a week and a half he'd been
out here, baking under the Indian Summer sky, staring down the
golden stalks of corn yet to be harvested, digging through rich,
black soil, wondering how he'd ever figure anything out when
nothing was what he once thought it was, or at the very least,
suspected.
    Even now, that he'd caved to the strong pull
of common sense and followed the last possible lead, Preacher found
himself wondering if he possessed even a shred of a clue.
    A shadow loomed a moment before it merged
with his, distorted in the muddy ditch.  He lifted one hand
and muttered the first phrase of the twenty-third Psalm.  "The
lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …"
    "Cut the crap, you fuckin' lunatic," a
canvass-sheathed canteen smacked the back of Preacher's neck. 
"I ain't comin' out here to water you so I can listen to more of
your bullshit."
    Preacher's fingers greedily grasped the
flask.  The heat beating down left him feeling flushed and
burnt, his mouth dry, energy sapped by more than just the
back-breaking work of shoveling mounds of heavy soil in the growing
fingers of turned earth.  He twisted the metal cap away from
the neck and poured the icy liquid down his parched throat. 
He drained it, held it aloft from his lips waiting for the last
precious drops to soothe a leathery tongue.
    No, this was not what he signed on
for. 
    And in the swift moments that followed,
Preacher didn't question the resurgence of energy, the mental
acuity that allowed him to plot how much time it would take to
reach the end of this particular trough of muddy soil.  He
missed the sudden cessation of hunger pangs that usually gnawed at
his ribs and twisted his belly into knots.  Hell, he stopped
noticing that his clothing bagged more than usual in this wretched
disguise.
    Instead, Preacher looked up at his minder in
soft question.  "More?"
    The man's forehead glistened with a light
sheen of sweat in the morning sunshine.  "Later," he
grinned.  "You knock off this Jesus bullshit, and you can
drink as much as you like." 
    Fingers closed around the canteen and yanked
it away from Preacher's hand. 
    "In fact, you do a good job out here today,
and tonight, we might throw in a bottle of somethin' a little more
to your liking, Preacher."
    Preacher fisted one hand around the spade
he'd been wielding for days in this futile attempt to learn that
perhaps his compadres were simply worked to death.  "How much
more before we go back?"
    The man's eyes seemed to be swallowed by
large pupils.  "The end of the row."
    "This one?" he gestured with a light swing
of the spade.
    "Sure, man.  I think maybe you're ready
for a break when you're done with this row.   They say
it's gonna rain this afternoon anyway."
    Preacher's eyes drifted skyward.  Not a
cloud as far as he could see, which out here, was pretty damned
far.
    "But you know, if you wanna dig in the rain,
that's cool, man."
    "I could have the afternoon off?"
    His bald head tipped back, raucous laughter
parting thin lips.  "I never said that, man, but we can find
something for you to do indoors.  Be a shame to waste all this
raw energy, huh?"
    Preacher nodded.  Energy.  Waves
of it rippled through his muscles, tightened his spine and itched
along nerves suddenly eager for movement.  Rain, shine, hell,
through the black of night, he suddenly felt that he could do
anything.
    "Yeah," the man muttered softly.  "I
think you're about ready for a new job, Preacher.  I think
you're just about ready for