Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [105]
“Uh-huh. This is the Darby residence, right? And your brother is Brady Darby? We need to talk to him.”
“Yeah, but he’s not here either. He worked late too.”
“Where?”
“Burger Boy.”
“He’s working at Burger Boy?”
“Yup.”
“Who else is here?”
“No one. I was just sleeping.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Oh, that must have been the TV. I like to have it on when I’m here alone.”
“Even when you’re sleeping.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. Do me a favor, son. Grab a blanket or a coat and step outside here a minute, will you?”
“It’s awful cold.”
“You can sit in the squad car. It’s toasty in there.”
“I’m not supposed to let anyone in.”
“Son, we have a warrant to search this place and to arrest your brother. Now do what I say.”
“Arrest him? I thought you were just going to ask him about his friend.”
“We might. Who’s his friend?”
“I don’t know,” Peter said, pulling on his jacket and slipping into his shoes.
“Where is Brady?” the woman whispered as Peter stepped outside.
“In the back bedroom, but don’t tell him I told you.”
“You’re a good boy and a good brother,” she said, leading him to the car. “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt him. Does he happen to have a weapon?”
“A sawed-off shotgun, but it’s way up in the closet.”
“You stay right here.”
She unholstered her gun and joined two other cops as they entered. “Potentially armed,” she whispered.
Brady heard them approach. He crept back under the covers and pulled them over his head. A cop knocked.
“We got a man outside the window and there’s three of us here, Brady. Open up and show us your hands.”
The lead man’s radio crackled and word came from the post at the window. “No movement inside.”
The cop knocked louder. “You got five seconds, scumbag. Open this door or we kick it in.”
Brady fought not to stir when the door burst open, the flimsy wood frame breaking into pieces and flying about the room. He could feel the room fill with bodies. A huge boot pushed his rear end. “Get up, you faker!”
Brady groaned and rolled over, shielding his eyes from an overpowering flashlight. “What? What do you want?”
“You’re the worst actor in history,” the woman said. “Get your tail out of that bed and get dressed.”
“What’s up, officers?” Brady said. “Something wrong? This about my ma?”
The biggest of the cops grabbed Brady as soon as he stood and threatened to cuff him in his underwear if he didn’t get dressed immediately. Brady pulled on his shirt and pants and slipped into his shoes, trying to smooth his hair.
“If you’ve got any of the money left, you’ll do yourself a favor and produce it right now. Don’t make us find it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking—”
“Okay, find it, people.”
“All right, all right, I’ll get it.”
“You gotta be the dumbest perp in history, Darby. You recruited the wrong guy. Mike What’s-His-Name had his share of the take in his car, man! The first thing we do in a robbery like that is suspect the caller of being in on it. Kid sang like there was no tomorrow.”
Brady spent the night in the county jail. His mother refused to come, let alone to try to bail him out. He was assigned a public defender who didn’t look much older than he did.
Despite the pleading of his lawyer, Brady refused to help himself by telling where the rest of the money had gone. Even though it was a first offense and he was a minor, the judge gave him six months in juvenile hall, reminding him that he could have gotten off with a few weeks plus probation if he had decided to exhibit even a little cooperation.
Adamsville
Consecutive sun-drenched winter mornings, even without having to go to work, had not budged Thomas from his funk. This was a new one on him—a wilderness experience, he called it. He tried to hide at church Sunday morning, glad the Sunday school teacher was there and he didn’t have to substitute.
After the service Pastor Kessler asked if he would wait around until the others had left. Thomas knew what was going on. He could see it in Grace’s eyes. She was worried about him and had clearly confided in the pastor. But hadn’t she herself said that the pastor was