Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [104]
“Let’s get you to bed,” Grace said.
He allowed her to lead him to the bedroom like a sleepwalker. The phone startled him. An officer from the penitentiary was asking about the car. He told Thomas it was okay to leave it there, but that he should have cleared it first.
Brilliant, Thomas thought. All these days off and I’ll have to walk back.
Defeated. He could think of no other way to put it. He was beat, his tank was empty, and he couldn’t even conceive of how to muster the energy to try to refill it. Oh, he’d show up at church Sunday, and Pastor Kessler would preach the Word, as they both were wont to say. And if God’s promise was true that His Word would not return void—whatever that meant—maybe something would knife its way through.
Thomas had so counted on that promise. How was it that God had not allowed him to utter even a word of Scripture to a dying man? What was he supposed to do if not minister to someone on the brink of eternity?
Finally sitting on the edge of the bed in his pajamas, Thomas would normally have read some Scripture, quoted some, prayed, kicked off his slippers, and stretched out on his back. But he had left his Bible at the office. That would be embarrassing come Sunday morning. And he didn’t feel like quoting. Or praying.
He just sat there, lower than he had ever been, trying to muster the wherewithal to bare his feet and pull back the covers. Was Grace going to have to do even that? Before the thought was fully formed, here she came, kneeling to take his slippers, helping him stand so she could make room for him under the covers.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, too spent even to weep.
Thomas stretched out on his stomach and pressed his face into the cold pillow. He felt as if he’d been strained through a cyclone fence. He should pray for the release sleep would bring, but he didn’t much feel like talking to God.
Touhy Trailer Park
Brady Darby had nearly drifted off when he heard a car slowly roll up to the trailer. It wasn’t his mother, unless she was half in the bag, as it stopped on the wrong side. Now whispering, then a flashlight, then another car in the front.
Brady sat up and peeked out. He swore under his breath.
Already?
He reached over and grabbed Peter’s toe and twisted. As soon as the boy roused, Brady shushed him. “Whatever you do, don’t answer the door. We’re not here, got it?”
“What? Why? What’s going on?”
“The cops are after a friend of mine, and I don’t want to lie to them, but I don’t want to rat him out either. Better if they just think there’s no one home.”
“What if they break in?”
“They can’t do that without a warrant.”
“Where’s Ma?”
“Probably won’t come staggering in till morning. Now be quiet.”
Brady heard footsteps on both sides of the trailer. He hid under the covers, showing Peter how to do the same. Soon came three sharp knocks on the door.
“Police department! Open up!”
“Brady!” Peter whined.
“Shh!”
“Brady Darby! If you’re in there, open the door!”
“You gotta answer it, Brady!”
“Shut up, will you?”
“We know you’re in there, Darby! Don’t make us damage your place!”
“Brady! Answer the door!”
“Shut up, Petey! They’re bluffing.”
“No, they’re not!” Peter cried out. “Now go!”
They had to have heard that, and Brady lost it, cursing his brother in desperate whispers. “You answer it and tell ’em I’m not here! You let ’em in, you’re dead meat!”
Peter ran to the door as Brady locked the bedroom. He leaned against the door so he could hear.
“Coming!” Peter hollered.
“No problem, ma’am!” a cop said. “We just need to talk to your son.”
“I’m not a ma’am, sir,” Peter said, opening the door. “I’m a kid.”
“So you are,” a female officer said. “Your mom here?”
“She’s working all night. Waitressing.