Black Friday (6 page)

Chapter 11

A
aron hadn't slept much. Being shot at like that had a way of getting a fella all wired, so that he couldn't relax. The sun wasn't even up yet when he crawled out of bed.

His eyes felt like their sockets were lined with sandpaper. Every time he blinked, he wanted to scream. He rubbed at them, but that just made them feel worse.

Something moved in a dim corner of his room. He saw it from the corner of his eye and turned sharply in that direction as he caught his breath.

For a terrible second he seemed to see that crazy old man sitting there in a wheelchair, cackling and pointing the big revolver at him. Damn, the barrel of that gun had looked like a freakin' cannon!

Of course, nothing was there in the corner that wasn't supposed to be. Aaron knew every inch of this room. He ought to. He had grown up here. It was completely humiliating that he'd had to move back in with his parents instead of being out on his own, but as broke as he was, he didn't have much choice.

He groaned as he swung his legs out of bed and stood up. Dressed in his underwear, he stumbled around the room until he found the pair of jeans he had taken off the night before and pulled them on. He struggled into a T-shirt and went downstairs barefooted.

Where was he going again? Oh, yeah, the mall. He'd decided to go to the mall. He couldn't afford to do any shopping, but he could hang around. Maybe some of his old friends would show up. They'd all spent a lot of time at the mall when they were kids, and some things hadn't changed. A lot of people his age seemed to be trying to hang on to their high school days, even though they'd been out of school for years.

Aaron hadn't finished his education. He'd been behind bars when the rest of his class graduated and hadn't even gone for a General Education Development test. For a while, after he'd gotten out of jail, his mother had been after him to get his diploma, but he guessed she'd given up, because she hadn't said anything about a GED for a while now.

His mother was sitting by herself at the old Formica-topped table in the kitchen, with a cup of coffee in front of her. Aaron knew his dad had gone to work already. The old man would be nursing a hangover from all the beers he'd put away the night before, but at least he'd been drunk enough that he spent the evening in a half-stupor from which he hadn't roused. Be grateful for small favors, as Aaron's mom always said.

The old man drove a bus. How he hadn't had a wreck and gotten himself fired or thrown in prison, Aaron didn't know.

Aaron liked the idea of his father being in prison, though. Try being such a big jerk there and he'd find out real quick what a pathetic joke he really was.

“There's coffee,” his mother said as Aaron sat down at the table. “You want some?”

“I'll get a cup in a minute,” he told her. He had a sour taste in his mouth, and his stomach was sort of jumping around. He wasn't ready to put anything inside it yet.

“I can fix you something to eat.”

He shook his head and said, “No, I'm not hungry.”

“What are you going to do today?”

Man, she was just full of questions. He felt like telling her that his plans were none of her damn business, but he suppressed the impulse. He was living in her house, after all, and other than letting the old man get away with all the crap he'd gotten away with over the years, she'd tried to do a decent job of raising him and his sister, he supposed.

“I dunno,” he finally said. “I thought maybe I'd go out to the mall.”

“Really? There'll be a big crowd there today. I thought you didn't like crowds.”

Normally, he didn't. He didn't explain that he wanted a bunch of people around so he'd be less likely to see and hear things that weren't there. He hadn't ever told her about that. He hadn't told
anybody
.

Life was crappy enough without people thinking he was going crazy.

“I need to pick up a few things,” he lied.

His mother leaned forward and said, “You know what you need to do? You need to take Jennie with you.”

Aaron sat back and frowned in surprise as he said, “What? Take Jennie?”

“I'm sure she'd enjoy it. And it's been a long time since the two of you did anything together. When the two of you were little, you used to play together all the time, even though there was more than four years difference in your ages. I never saw a brother and sister who got along as well as you did.”

That was because Jennie was the only real ally he had in this house, and he was hers, he thought. What was that old saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend; that was it. The old man was definitely the enemy of everybody else in the family.

But as he and Jennie got older, they weren't as close. That had been inevitable, he supposed. They each had their own interests. His had been drugs, sex, hanging out with his friends, and getting whatever he wanted without having to work for it, which had led inevitably to crime.

Jennie, on the other hand, loved school and wanted to excel at everything she attempted. Aaron couldn't imagine caring that much about anything.

They still got along—if that meant they didn't fight—but the idea of spending the day at the mall with his sister didn't really appeal to him.

On the other hand, having her come along meant that he wouldn't be alone on the drive to and from there. As jumbled up as his mind was these days, he didn't really want to be alone any more than he had to.

Once they were at the mall, they could split up and go their separate ways, rendezvousing later at the food court or something. Maybe they could even have lunch and talk some about her plans for college.

Those thoughts went through his head in a flash. He shrugged and said, “Sure, if she wants to, that's all right with me, I guess.”

“I don't think she's up yet. Do you mind waiting for her to get ready?”

Aaron shook his head and said, “Nah, I don't have anywhere I have to be at any certain time.”

Wasn't that the truth?

* * *

Pete McCracken got himself up and dressed, into the wheelchair, and made his own breakfast. He still had enough use of his left arm to pilot the chair with it, although sometimes he had to use his right hand to move his left one into place where it could grasp the control knob. His right arm worked just fine, about the only part of him that still did on a consistent basis.

Sister Angela had helped him move everything in the kitchen down low enough that he could reach it. He actually enjoyed getting his own meals. It told him that if Sister Angela ever stopped coming for any reason, he could survive without her.

Whenever he thought about that possibility, however, he felt a cold, empty spot inside him. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the nun was his only friend. He didn't want to lose her.

Luckily, in the time he had left he might not have to. Unlike most young women, she wasn't going to get married and go off somewhere with her husband, her already being married to God and all.

He supposed her bosses in the Catholic Church could move her to another parish or something. Not being Catholic himself, he wasn't sure how all that worked, just like he wasn't sure why she had ever “adopted” him the way she had.

Maybe she was just a good person. It was possible, he told himself . . . although not too common, in his experience.

When he had finished breakfast, he went back to the bedroom and got the Browning Hi-Power from the drawer. There was a little pouch on the inside of the wheelchair's right arm where he slid the gun and an extra loaded magazine.

Loading magazines was a pain in the butt in his condition—that was why he liked the Ruger revolver so much, a wheel gun was easy—but he managed, just like he managed everything else that was a physical challenge since the stroke.

He'd be damned if he was going to roll over and die because of some blood clot in his brain.

The doorbell rang while he was rolling out of the bedroom. He said, “Hold your . . . damn horses,” even though it was unlikely whoever was on the other side of the door could hear his croaking voice.

Couldn't be Sister Angela. He had given her a key when she started taking care of him, and she would have let herself in. Pete couldn't think of who else might be visiting him on the morning of the day after Thanksgiving.

Maybe that fat cop had come back to return his Ruger Redhawk to him. Pete didn't think that was very likely, but it would be welcome if that turned out to be the case.

It didn't. He unlocked the door, swung it open, and glared as he saw the man standing there. He said, “Who the hell . . . are you?” then noticed too late the white collar around the man's neck.

“We've met, Mr. McCracken,” the priest said with a patient smile. “I'm Father Steve.”

He had been with Sister Angela once when she'd stopped by, Pete recalled. They had been on their way to run some errand. The guy was young, little more than a kid—although at Pete's age, almost everybody seemed like a kid. He had tousled blond hair and looked like he ought to be surfing in Southern California instead of being a parish priest in Springfield, Illinois.

Pete didn't like Father Steve, he also recalled. Maybe he was jealous. Not in any sort of romantic way, since he didn't feel like that about Sister Angela and likely Father Steve didn't either, considering his calling, but the priest got to spend a lot of time with her, the lucky son of a gun.

“Yeah, I . . . remember you,” Pete said. “What do you want? Where's . . . Sister Angela?”

“I'm afraid she's under the weather.”

“She's . . . sick?”

“It's nothing serious, she assured me.”

“Oh. Well, I guess . . . bein' a nun . . . don't excuse her from havin' lady troubles.”

Father Steve flushed and said, “I don't think it's anything like that—”

Pete waved his right hand to stop him.

“It's all right. Thanks for . . . comin' to tell me . . . I guess. She could'a just . . . called me . . . and not bothered you, Father.”

“It's no bother. And I didn't just come by to tell you. Sister Angela said that the two of you had an outing planned for today.” Father Steve stepped aside a little and waved toward the handicap-equipped van parked at the curb, the van that Sister Angela carried Pete around in on their excursions. “She asked if I'd mind taking you to the mall, and I told her I'd be glad to.”

“What?” Pete started to shake his head. “Oh, no, that's . . . not necessary.”

“I really don't mind, sir,” Father Steve said. He didn't sound completely sincere. Pete would have bet that Sister Angela had had to talk him into this.

He started to roll the wheelchair back from the open door and said, “No, forget it—”

“She told me you'd say that.”

Pete paused where he was.

“She did, did she? What else . . . did she say?”

“That you like to pretend to be a cantankerous old curmudgeon, but that you're really not. She said that you're actually a kind, generous man who doesn't like to allow anyone to get too emotionally close to you.”

Pete narrowed his good right eye and said, “Yeah, that sounds just like . . . the kind o' bleedin' heart claptrap . . . she'd come up with, all right.”

Father Steve took a deep breath and went on, “She told me to ask you to go ahead and carry on today just as the two of you had planned. She said it's been a while since you've gone anywhere and that it'll do you good to get out of the house.”

“That sounds like her, too,” Pete admitted grudgingly. “If I don't . . . do like she says . . . she'll go and get her feelin's hurt . . . won't she?”

“She'd never say so, but I suspect that she would.”

Pete sat there for a long moment, then muttered, “Oh, the hell with it. I guess we're goin' . . . to the mall . . . Father.”

Chapter 12

T
obey woke up with his arms full of firm, warm female flesh. That sure was an improvement over the way he emerged from slumber most mornings in Iraq. Too many of those had been rude awakenings involving gunfire and explosions.

As he stirred into wakefulness, Ashley did, too. They were spooned together, but she rolled over so she was facing him. She nuzzled her face against his shoulder as his arms tightened around her again.

“This is wonderful,” she said in a sleepy murmur. “I could stay like this all day.”

“So could I,” Tobey agreed, “but we've got things to do. We're going to the mall, remember?”

“I remember. It still seems a little odd for you to suggest doing that.”

“Maybe I'm just glad to be home. I want to revel in all the things I didn't know if I'd ever get to do again.”

She kissed his shoulder and then bit it lightly.

“I know something we could both . . . revel in,” she suggested in a husky voice.

Tobey wasn't going to argue with that, although a part of his brain was still occupied in thinking about how he was going to slip away from her once they were in the mall and go to the jewelry store to pick out her engagement ring.

Certainly, it would have been easier if he had gone by himself sometime, but he kind of liked the intrigue and excitement of doing it this way, as if this were some sort of secret mission he had to carry out.

Then, considering how she was kissing him with growing urgency, he stopped thinking about other things for a while.

* * *

They didn't get in any hurry leaving Tobey's apartment. It wasn't like they could beat the crowds to the mall. By nine o'clock, the place would already be packed and so would the parking lot. But it was a nice day, looked like, so Tobey didn't mind if they had to walk quite a way to one of the mall entrances.

Ashley was as beautiful as ever in jeans, a silk blouse, and a lightweight jacket. Tobey wore jeans, a snap-front shirt, and a denim jacket.

Ashley sometimes tried to accuse him of dressing like a cowboy, but the clothes were comfortable, he'd explained. That was the only reason he wore them.

And if they made him look a little like a cowboy . . . well, so much the better, as far as he was concerned.

The denim jacket had a good inside pocket, too, where he carried a Smith & Wesson M&P 9mm Shield, along with an extra loaded eight-round magazine. The little semi-auto was lightweight and accurate. It didn't have the stopping power of a .45, but with hollow-point rounds it would be pretty effective.

He was glad Illinois had started issuing concealed carry licenses. After being armed nearly all the time in Iraq—and having his life depend on his skill with those weapons on a number of occasions—he would have felt positively naked if he'd had to go around without a gun.

He didn't expect to ever actually
need
one again, at least he hoped not, but if bad trouble ever cropped up, he'd be prepared for it.

To that end, he made it out to the range at least a couple of times a month and did plenty of dry fire exercise between sessions. He had a good eye and didn't want to lose it.

This morning, Ashley saw him slipping the Shield into his pocket and said, “Are you expecting to have to shoot your way through a horde of crazed shoppers?”

“Hey, you never know when a zombie apocalypse might break out. There's a good reason why they shoot so many of those movies in shopping malls. People are more likely to be insane to start with when they're trapped in them.”

“It was your idea to go today, you know,” she pointed out dryly.

“I know, and I still want to. Come on.”

One of the first things he'd done when he got back was to buy a pickup with the money he'd saved. He had worked construction before he enlisted and figured he'd go back to that, and having a vehicle he could use for hauling things might come in handy. He'd been right about that, too. He worked steadily and was pretty much a master carpenter.

Tobey liked the feeling of having the pickup's substantial chassis around him, too. Not that he expected to encounter any ambushes in suburban Springfield.

He opened the pickup's door for Ashley. She was a tall girl, so she didn't have any trouble climbing in, although Tobey was right there to give her a hand if she had.

“I'm still curious what it is you want to buy,” she said as they started toward the sprawling mall on the edge of town.

“Nothing in particular,” he lied. “I just thought it might be fun to look around.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not believing him. “You're hoping I'll see something and talk about how much I like it, so you'll know what to buy me for Christmas.”

“If that's what I was doing, I probably wouldn't admit it, now would I?”

“Probably not. But it doesn't really matter. Being sneaky is not your strong suit, Tobey Lanning.”

“I'll remember that,” he replied. He almost said,
I'll remember that when we're married,
but he caught himself in time.

They had discussed marriage, but not all that seriously yet, at least as far as Ashley knew. If Tobey hadn't been serious, he never would have brought the subject up in the first place.

“You're not thinking about buying me a gun, are you?” she asked a few moments later. She wasn't an anti-gunner. In fact, she had gone with him to the range a few times and shot some with his weapons, proving to be decently accurate at five to ten yards. She had seemed to enjoy herself, too. But she'd never expressed any interest in having a gun of her own.

“I wasn't planning to, no,” Tobey answered, honestly this time.

“Good. I don't mind being around you when you're carrying, but I don't see any reason for me to have one. I couldn't ever shoot another person.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

“I am. No matter what the circumstances, I couldn't pull the trigger on another human being.”

Tobey didn't see any point in arguing with her, so he didn't say anything else about the subject.

He didn't believe she was right, though. If she ever found herself in a situation where the instinct for self-preservation ought to kick in, she would fight to defend herself or some other innocent person. He hoped that was true, anyway.

A few minutes later, they came in sight of the mall and the parking lots that surrounded it. Tobey's eyes widened a little as he said, “Wow.”

“I warned you.”

“Yeah, I know.” He laughed. “There's no turning back now, though. Remember that poem by Tennyson we had to study back in high school?”

“It's the mall, Tobey. It's not the valley of death we're charging into, like the Light Brigade.”

“We'll see,” he said.