Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [91]
“Why not? Come on.”
“I don’t have that much money here, and I don’t want you smoking dope here. Make it 50 percent, roll yourself a couple, and get out.”
As Brady made his way back to the shack, he stepped in not one but two puddles of slush, freezing his feet to his shins. He couldn’t wait to get back and smoke one of the joints. Maybe the high would curb his fury. He hated everybody in his life except Petey and his aunt and uncle. Even Tatlock drove him crazy. What was with that guy?
He sees something in me? What a sap!
It made no sense, Brady knew, to be so bothered by a man who kept giving him breaks. But Tatlock’s kindness made him face himself and realize that he had become a criminal. He was a bad kid, a horrible brother. He hated his jobs, hated his bosses—and that was ludicrous too. Alejandro was one of the good guys. But why hadn’t he found more work for Brady so he could leave Burger Boy and quit selling dope?
It wasn’t Brady’s fault he’d had to resort to that. Hadn’t Alejandro promised him? Pretty soon he was going to have get tough with the foreman and tell him he needed more work or he was going to have to move on.
But where would Brady go? He’d have to find a new place to live. That would be all right too, if he found work that allowed him to afford someplace half decent. It was no fun living with a bunch of scary guys who didn’t like him anyway.
By the time Brady got to the trailer park, he was so antsy for a joint that he was about to burst. And when he passed the Laundromat, he was reminded of everything Tatlock was and he wasn’t.
He stopped and stared at the place, all quiet and dimly lit under a single fixture over the sign. Tatlock was tidying the place himself these days, and it looked like it would pass military inspection.
Livid, Brady looked around till he found a frozen chunk of dark snow. He hefted it in his bare hands and guessed it weighed at least twenty pounds. When he heaved it through the plate glass window, it set off a ringing alarm that sent him slipping and sliding into the night.
33
Adamsville
Thomas Carey couldn’t sleep but didn’t want to disturb Grace. He eased out of bed and into the living room, where he sat in the dark, watching the snow fall and thinking about how to confront his wife about what he had discovered. Maddeningly, he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to Henry Trenton.
Thomas wondered if he should have called Chaplain Russ and told him what the Deacon wanted. If he did that, he would also have to tell the man that he didn’t believe Deke was ready for eternity. But he guessed Russ was fully aware. Aside from everything else, Deke didn’t seem to be one who would hide his opinions.
Deep in his gut, Thomas knew Trenton would ask for him late, and he would be pressed into gallows duty. But the child sex offender and murderer—Thomas still had difficulty ranking one crime over the other—had already clarified that he didn’t want prayer or Scripture or even any counsel about his fate. Short of those, all Thomas had to offer was company on the night the Deacon was to die.
Thomas didn’t want to be selfish—it wasn’t about him, after all—but, unable to provide any of the services he was trained to offer, what was the point? He had never seen a man die, and he certainly didn’t relish hearing a neck snap. Imagining it was bad enough. How long might the bite of the trauma stay with him?
Thomas prayed that God would at least allow him to somehow minister to Henry Trenton, to be more than just a companion on that terminal night. If he knew the man had repented, had prayed, had been reconciled to God, Thomas believed he could stomach the ordeal.
He shook his head. Forgive me for thinking of myself again, Lord. Is it possible to give me a love for such an awful man? I know You love him.
Thomas stood and moved to the window, finally noticing that the only light reflected in the glass was the tiny bulb at the top of the ancient Nativity scene Grace had laid out on the piano. He turned and moved to study it, reminded anew of Ravinia and her childhood fascination