His speech was crisp

A man named Rusty walked in and announced, "Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones." "Where?" "In Slone, near Washington Park." The thought of a retaliatory church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we'll give 'em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house. Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled along with a cane. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom. Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said "Good morning" to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it. "You from around here?" Jesse asked as he rung up the water. "No, just passing through," Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Yankee. "You a preacher?" "Yes. I'm a Lutheran minister," Keith said as he caught a nose full of onion rings being removed from hot grease. A hunger pain hit and buckled his knees. He was starving, and exhausted, but there was no time for food. Boyette was shuffling over. Keith handed him a bottle, said "Thanks" to Jesse, and turned for the door. Boyette nodded at Jesse, who said, "You boys have a good day." And with that, Jesse spoke to the man who murdered his niece.