by Dan Walsh
“JD,” Rick yelled again, now too close for JD to miss where the sound was coming from.
When he saw Rick, he turned and started running in the other direction. But he wasn’t fast, and Rick was on him in seconds. He leaped into the air and tackled him from behind. They tumbled on the grass. JD’s face was pushed in the ground, but Rick could hear him screaming in panic. Rick rolled him over and was just about to unleash his rage in a flurry of punches to his face.
But he stopped short, his fist raised in the air.
The man’s face was a mask of fear. He was babbling incoherently. “Please don’t. Please help me. I won’t do it anymore. I won’t. I won’t. But I can’t stop. But I will, I promise. Please don’t hit me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Shut up!” Rick yelled into his face. He was sitting on top of him. JD stopped talking. “Where is it? Where’s the money?”
“I don’t, I don’t have money. In my coat, my coat. There’s some in my coat. Take it. Take it.”
Rick got off him but kept him pinned down with one hand on his chest. He started going through his pockets, looking for the deposit bag and a wad of cash. All he found were four one-dollar bills crumpled up. “This isn’t it,” he yelled. “Where’s the rest?”
“That’s all I could get today. It’s all. I can get some more later. I was too late for my McMuffin. You take it. I’ll get more.”
Wait a minute, Rick thought. Maybe he’d jumped the gun here. He looked back at his car, thought about how far the store was from here. He wasn’t even sure JD could have walked this far since the break-in. He lifted his hand off his chest and reached back toward JD’s feet and lifted his pant legs.
“What? What are you doing? Taylor? Where’s Taylor? What are you doing?”
“Would you just shut up?” He hated touching the man’s filthy legs, but he didn’t see a bruise on either shin. He squeezed his legs up and down, looking for a reaction.
He got one. JD started laughing, almost hysterically, crying, “Stop it, stop it!”
Rick stood up and reached out his hand. “Here, get up.”
JD stopped laughing and looked up from the ground. “What now? What, what . . .”
“I’m not going to hurt you. It’s obviously not you.”
“It’s not me? What’s not me? Have you seen my friend Taylor?” he asked as Rick pulled him to his feet.
“No.” Rick started walking away.
He got about ten steps when he heard JD yell out, “Since it’s not me . . . can I come back tomorrow for my Egg McMuffin?”
“No!” Rick yelled without turning around.
25
Rick arrived back at the Book Nook to find Andrea sweeping up the broken glass. He noticed a fine black powder around the door, cash register, and counter. They had dusted for fingerprints. But the police were gone now. “Be careful,” he said, looking down at the glass. Seemed like the thing to say.
She looked up. “Can you grab that dustpan over there and hold it here?”
“You were right, it wasn’t him.”
“What?”
“JD.”
“You found him?”
Rick bent down and held the dustpan on the ground. “Yeah, but where I found him, he was too far away. He could never have gotten that far on foot in that short a time.”
“I knew JD couldn’t have done it. In his own way he cares about Art.” She swept the glass into the dustpan.
“He also didn’t have any bruises on his leg.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The kid with the skateboard saw the guy trip hard on the cement stairs out there. Ran off limping. JD didn’t have any bruises.”
Andrea stopped and looked down at him. “I probably don’t want to ask how you found that out.”
Rick smiled. “No, you probably don’t.” He walked the glass debris to the trash can outside and came back in. “How long we have to leave that black powder on there?”
“Sergeant West said I can clean it off whenever. Can I make a suggestion? Could you go to the hardware store down the street and get a windowpane while I clean up?”
“I can do that. You find anything else missing?”
“No. I think he just came for the cash.” She walked the broom back.
The cash, Rick thought. What were they going to do? What was the right thing to do? It was his stupid mistake that allowed the thief to nab the deposit bag. Should he volunteer to reimburse that much to his mom? He’d have to check, but he knew it was twenty-two-hundred-something and change. A lot of dough. But a lot easier for him to come up with than his mom.
It made him so mad.
“What’s the matter?” Andrea asked. She came back holding a soap bucket and rag.
“It’s just so . . . frustrating. This guy gets to just walk in here and walk out with all that money.” He had a thought. “Wonder if they have any insurance?” Maybe he’d just have to eat a small deductible.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Your mom might.”
Rick sighed.
Andrea read the sigh. “We’re going to have to call her about this.”
“I’m dreading that. It’s the last thing she needs, something else to worry about.”
“Maybe you can search Art’s office, see if you find a policy. Then you wouldn’t have to call her just yet. See how much the insurance will cover.”
“I’ll do that, right after I get that windowpane.”
Rick drove back with the windowpane carefully wrapped in newspaper sitting on the front seat. A little bag of things, putty, some tools. He hoped he could remember what the heck the hardware guy had said about how to fix it.
He hated hardware guys. Knew how to do everything that needs to be done. And the guy talked like everyone else should too. “First, you take this thing here and then you do this with that thing there. But don’t forget to make a notch in that thing first or this thing won’t go in right. And you don’t want that.” But he didn’t say “thing,” he used hardware words that, for some reason, Rick was supposed to already know.
His big fear was doing this whole repair project in front of Andrea, having to pretend that he knew what he was doing. He could just see himself forgetting one step or slipping in some way. The glass breaks. She looks over at him. And she’d know. You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? You’re one of those guys.
As Rick turned the corner and St. Luke’s came into view, he saw two police cars parked beside the store. He sped up, wondering, What now? But their emergency lights were off. As he pulled into an open parallel parking spot, he saw the silhouette of a long-haired man’s head and shoulders in the backseat of one of the squad cars. “All right,” he said aloud. Looked like they got him.
He hopped out of his Celica and ran down the steps. “Is that him?”
Andrea was behind the counter, counting a stack of bills. Sergeant West stood on the other side. “About 99 percent sure,” West said. “We get him booked, I’m sure his fingerprints will match the prints we took in here. Be nice if we got a positive ID from that high school kid. But I don’t think we’ll need him. I mean, look.” He pointed to the counter. “Even got the bank bag, with the deposit slip you made out for the store.”
Rick hadn’t seen it yet. “The money still in there?”
“I have to count it next,” Andrea said. “But I peeked inside. Looks untouched.”
“Happen to know how much was in the drawer?” West asked.
“I hadn’t totaled it up yet,” Rick said.
“It’s 256 dollars,” Andrea said. She finished counting the cash recovered from the drawer.
“There was probably a few dollars more,” West said. “When we found him, he had an open bottle of vodka and a bag of burgers and fries from McDonald’s. Might have been all the cash he spent.”
“Where’d you find him?” Rick asked.
“Played a hunch,” West said. “Sent one of my guys out to US-1. Told him to drive south toward the edge
of town. Found him hitchhiking. These guys aren’t too bright. My officer said, the way this guy looked, no one would have picked him up. Should have spent some more cash trading his filthy coat and clothes at a thrift store. Anyway, I knew it didn’t sound like one of the local homeless guys. Figured after getting that much cash, he wouldn’t hang around town.”
“Very clever,” Rick said. “You have no idea what a relief this is. It would have been a huge hit for this little store to lose that money.” Rick looked at Andrea counting the money in the deposit bag. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so happy. “Is there anything I can do for you and your men?”
West looked around. “Don’t see any donuts, so I guess not.” He laughed, started making his way to the door.
“Wait.” Rick pulled out his wallet. “Here.” He handed the officer a twenty. “Please take it. I’ve gotta do something. Buy a couple rounds of drinks, you and your guys, when you’re off duty.”
“I’m sorely tempted, but really, I can’t take your money.” The officer shook Rick’s hand and then left.
“It’s all here,” Andrea announced, holding up the bank bag. “Every last penny. Thank you, Jesus.”
Rick wanted to run over and hug her. Almost felt like saying “Thank you, Jesus” too.
Almost.
26
The sun was setting, Leanne could tell. Sitting in a mostly dark room all day, she found it interesting how well the eye adjusts to the slightest nuances of light. She held her watch under the little book light. Good, Dr. Halper should be in soon. She’d reached a stopping place in her book and felt the need to stretch. She set the book down and walked over to Art.
She’d finally gotten to a calmer place about not being able to talk with him. She reached over and gently took his hand, remembering how much she loved it when he’d squeeze back. She loved that about Art—he was never afraid to show his affection. If they walked anywhere, they’d hold hands. If they sat next to each other, his arm would instantly go around her shoulder. He still said he loved her at least once a day, sometimes two or three.
He did, anyway . . . before last Friday. She stroked his hair with her finger. She knew he’d say it now if he could.
A tear slid down her cheek.
God, please let him stay.
“Excuse me, Leanne.” It was Holly. “Your son Rick’s on the phone, in the waiting room.”
She wiped her cheek. “Seems like I always get calls when Dr. Halper’s supposed to show up.”
“I’ll come get you if he does.”
Leanne kissed Art on the forehead and headed for the waiting room. A woman about her age sat in a chair near the phone. She got up as Leanne entered the room. “I’ll go, give you a little privacy,” she said.
“You don’t have to do that,” said Leanne.
“I’m starting to get a little hungry anyway.” She smiled and walked out the door.
Leanne picked up the phone. “Hi, Rick. How did your day go?”
“Safe to say like none I have ever had before.”
“Really?” He sounded upbeat.
“Let’s start with the headline. We were broken into just after lunch by this homeless guy. Took everything in the cash register and the bank deposit.”
Leanne slid down in her chair. A panicked feeling wanted to form, but Rick didn’t sound panicked. “Are you okay?”
“I wasn’t there. I forgot my lunch again and locked the store up just long enough to go grab something. But that’s not the best part.”
“Best part?”
“We got it all back, Mom. Well, almost all. Guy bought some booze and McDonald’s. But we counted the deposit money, and it’s all here. In fact, I just dropped it off at the bank.”
“Praise God,” she said and breathed an audible sigh.
“Yeah, it’s the craziest thing. And wanna hear something almost as crazy?”
“What?”
“I fixed the broken glass myself, didn’t even screw it up.”
She could tell he was really pleased with himself. She felt like she was listening to her little boy again, holding up a page, saying he’d colored between the lines. “That’s great, Rick. So I guess they caught the fella who did it.”
“They did. I thought for a while it was that guy JD. The one who hangs around here. But turned out it was some other homeless loser passing through town. They found him on US-1 trying to catch a ride south.”
“I’m so glad.”
“I’ve got to be honest with you though, makes me nervous, especially now, having this guy hanging around the store all the time.”
“You mean JD?”
“Yeah. Art’s got him fixated on these stupid Egg McMuffins. It’s like he lives for them.”
Leanne smiled. Art would have loved to hear that.
“You know,” Rick said, “he’s got his big ol’ box right around the corner. That can’t be good for business. Kind of says to any of these other homeless bums, ‘Hey, over here.’”
“I’m not so sure it’s hurting our business,” Leanne said. “We’re the only Christian bookstore in town. Seems like our customers are used to them. Most of them are harmless.”
“Except the ones who rob you blind.”
“You’ve got a point. But today’s the first time we’ve been robbed since we started the store down there.”
“Let’s just hope we haven’t started a trend,” Rick said. “Why does the church let this guy live behind their building? Doesn’t make sense to me.”
“There’s a few who don’t like it, but they had a meeting a while ago. Art spoke up pretty strongly in JD’s favor. He felt—”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s an old church, in the old part of town, and that’s where the homeless come. Art feels like some of them can still be reached.”
“I don’t see that happening,” Rick said.
“You may be right,” Leanne said. “But Art felt he was making some real progress with JD, thought he was worth the effort. I think so too.”
“Well, he can pick right back up where he left off when he’s better.”
Leanne felt she better not push it. She was still hoping to make progress reaching Rick. “I’m praying that day comes soon.”
“Any word?”
“I’m expecting to hear from the doctor any minute. Hold on . . .” Holly had just poked her head in the door, motioning that Dr. Halper was here. “I’ve got to go. The doc just arrived.”
“Okay, well. You take care. Anything I can get you?”
“No. But really, what you’re doing at the store, you have no idea how much that means to me.” She said she loved him, thanked him again, and hung up the phone.
She walked around the nurses’ station toward Art’s room and found Dr. Halper at the foot of his bed, reading his chart. He was biting his lip and shaking his head. Leanne looked at Art. He seemed just the same.
“Oh, hi, Leanne,” the doctor said quietly as she walked in. “I’ve got some good news. We’re moving Art to Shands tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? I thought you said he needed another day or two.”
“Well, I’d like another day or two, but it turns out we don’t have that much time.”
That didn’t sound good. “What do you mean?”
“Dr. Valencia called me today. He’s the neurosurgeon at Shands. He’s been called on a consult in Atlanta and has to leave on Friday. That means we’d have to drive Art there tomorrow, try to get him stabilized again so he’d be ready for surgery first thing Thursday morning. Otherwise, we lose Dr. Valencia till Monday or Tuesday. I don’t think Art can wait that long.”
“You don’t?”
“You know what I’ve already told you, Leanne.” He put his hand gently on her shoulder. “There are no guarantees in something like this. We’re working with odds and best-case scenarios. I’m just trying to give Art the best chance I can for his recovery. Getting him into the ambulance is a risk. The drive over is a risk. Getting him situate
d in a new hospital . . . you get the idea.”
“It’s all in God’s hands, then,” she said.
He nodded; he seemed sincere to her. Then he took another look at Art’s numbers and wrote a few more notes on his chart.
27
Rick hung up the phone.
His mom had just told him about Art being sent to Shands this morning. They’d be putting him in the ambulance any minute. He felt bad for her; she sounded so afraid. She always tried to sound brave when she worried, even upbeat. “It’s all in God’s hands. We have to trust him. I’m sure everything will be fine.” But he could tell by the tone of her voice, pauses in the wrong place, the sighs after each sentence.
He wasn’t sure if this extra effort was for his sake or hers. Whatever the case, he still felt bad. He and Art weren’t close, but Rick could tell . . . Art was her whole life.
A bell rang, just like it was supposed to. Worked like a charm. His second hardware achievement this week. He’d come in a half hour early this morning just to install it above the door. A little brass bell. Rick smiled and looked up at the front door.
But the man who’d walked in just now startled him. Big tall guy, probably six-four, all dressed in black. Rick zeroed in on a white spot under his chin. Oh no. It was a collar. This guy was a priest. He felt himself tense up.
“Well, hello, young man,” the priest said as he cleared the two inside steps. He looked around the store. “Art here?”
“No,” Rick said. “He’s not.”
The priest stepped inside. He had thick red hair parted on the side and wore a big smile. But still . . . he was a priest.
“Leanne?”
“No, she’s not here, either. Just me.”
The priest walked up to the counter. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Rick, Leanne’s son. I live in Charlotte. I’m just down for a while to help out . . . Father.”
The priest’s face turned serious. “Actually, it’s the Right Reverend. Or you may call me His Eminence. I’m not just a father, I’m a bishop.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
