Highway 24 Read Online Free Page A

wet with sweat, and plow horses straining against their harnesses to move carts laden with stone slabs for the rising courthouse tower. Those men labored to create something that would outlive themselves and their children. His father had left him a shoe, someone else’s shoe. Paul felt cheated.
    “Have they achieved it?” the preacher asked.
    “Achieved what?”
    “Justice.”
    Paul shrugged. “Only the guy who did it really knows, I guess.”
    “That’s a matter of guilt or innocence. Justice is far more complicated.”
    Paul sensed an invitation to debate. The preacher waited. “So where do we find the sheriff?”
    “Yes, the sheriff. He’s with the county jail in that tin hut on the corner.”
    A one-story, flat-roofed hovel hid beneath a row of trees in a back corner of the courthouse lot. Clearly a squatter, the dull-brown, corrugated metal shed cowered beneath the larger building’s stony shadow. Bars secured the small apertures at the back of the building. Air conditioners projected from the lower halves of the front windows.
    They crossed another street paved with bricks. Tar filled holes, where the original bricks had crumbled, gave the impression that a black, splotchy fungus had taken root. The sidewalk that girded the courthouse suffered no uneven cracks. Despite the late autumn date, the lawn sprouted thick and green as moss in a clear, flowing stream. Japanese maples grew on either side of the walk, and their branches formed a series of living arches overhead.
    The preacher stopped in front of the county jail, at the foot of steps leading up to a glass door. A surge of doubt washed over Paul and breached his hastily constructed wall of courage. What seemed practicable less than an hour ago, while he sat beside the shoe, now seemed ludicrous. The sheriff would brand him a nutter, another petty annoyance on his list of broken windows, missing lawn chairs, and lost dogs. Paul hesitated, his outstretched hand halfway to the railing. The three rickety, white-washed wooden steps would be equally at home in a trailer park.
    “You’ll miss him if you don’t hurry. He goes out on patrol before lunch.”
    Paul ignored the comment. If he hadn’t picked up the preacher, he could have turned and left this whole ridiculous business behind. The preacher stared with a gaze that bore through him. Paul didn’t believe in telepathy, but if anyone could know his thoughts, he suspected it would be the preacher.
    “Courage, my son. Resolution and faith. Those are your friends, sometimes your only friends. You must trust them.”
    Paul rolled his eyes. “Thanks for your help.” The railing moved under the pressure of his grip and the steps creaked like a horde of crickets.
    “I’ll be waiting.”
    “It’s not really necessary. I’m just reporting an accident.”
    The preacher nodded but made no move to leave.
    Paul entered the office, thinking only of putting a physical barrier between himself and the preacher. A gush of warm air enveloped him. A young woman in a long-sleeved, red blouse looked at him from behind a gray, metal desk. Her short-cropped hair barely covered her ears. Her mouth formed a severe, red line, and the green eyes that studied him exuded a callousness bordering contempt.
    “Can I help you?” asked the woman.
    Paul fumbled, searching for a way to say “no” without sounding ridiculous.
    The woman cocked her head to the right. She motioned toward a stack of empty forms on the edge of her desk. “If you want to report a theft or vandalism, you need to provide a detailed list of the items and their monetary value.”
    “That’s not what I need,” Paul blurted. “I was going to talk to the sheriff. I wanted to report something I’d seen, but it’s...uh...it’s probably not worth bothering him. Good day.”
    “Come on in.” The baritone came from the office to the left, its doorway filled by the sheriff. His bulging biceps threatened to burst his shirt sleeves. Just below his neck,