“What time was prayer meeting over?” Reede repeated in a voice that said he’d tired of the game and wasn’t going to be a good sport any longer.
Plummet continued to give his wife a condemning stare. She lowered her head in shame. Reede reached across the table and yanked Plummet’s chin around.
“Stop looking at her like she’s a turd floating in a punch bowl. Answer me. And don’t give me any more bullshit, either.”
Plummet closed his eyes, shuddering slightly, greatly put-upon. “God, close my ears to the foul language of your adversary, and deliver me from the presence of these wicked ones.”
“He’d better send a whole flock of angels down to save you fast, brother. Unless you start answering my questions, I’m gonna slam your ass in jail.”
That broke through Plummet’s sanctimonious veneer. His eyes popped open. “On what charge?”
“The feds would like to start with arson.”
Alex looked quickly at Reede. He was bluffing. Racehorses were considered interstate commerce, and therefore would come under the Treasury Department’s jurisdiction. But government agents didn’t usually get involved in an arson case unless damage amounted to more than fifty thousand dollars. Plummet didn’t fall for the bluff, either.
“That’s ridiculous. Arson? The only fire I’ve started is in the hearts of my believers.”
“If that’s so, then account for your time from last Wednesday night until today, when Deputy Cappell spotted you slinking out the back door of that house. Where’d you go after prayer meeting let out?”
Plummet laid a finger against his cheek, feigning hard concentration. “I believe that was the night I visited one of our sick brothers.”
“He can vouch for you?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Let me guess—he died.”
Plummet frowned at the sheriff’s sarcasm. “No, but while I was in attendance, the poor soul was delirious with fever. He won’t remember a thing.” He made a tsking sound. “He was very ill. His family, of course, could attest to my presence at his bedside. We prayed for him through the night.”
Reede’s incisive eyes sliced toward Wanda Plummet. She guiltily averted her head. Reede then swiveled around and looked at Alex. His expression said that he was getting about as far as he had expected to. When he turned back around, he asked abruptly, “Do you know where the Minton ranch is?”
“Of course.”
“Did you go there last Wednesday night?”
“No.”
“Did you send someone out there last Wednesday night?”
“No.”
“Members of your congregation? The believers whose hearts you had stoked a fire in during prayer meeting?”
“Certainly not.”
“Didn’t you go out there and vandalize the place, paint on the walls, shovel shit into the drinking troughs, break windows?”
“My counselor says I don’t have to answer any more questions.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“Because you might incriminate yourself?”
“No!”
“You’re lying, Plummet.”
“God is on my side.” He worked his eyes like the focusing lens of a camera, making them wide, pulling them narrow. “ ‘If God is on our side,’ ” he quoted theatrically, “ ‘then who can be against us?’ ”
“He won’t be on your side for long,” Reede whispered threateningly. Leaving his chair, he circled the table and bent over Plummet. “God doesn’t favor liars.”