All Through the Night Read Free Page A

basically everything. The guy was an oncology radiologist. He had a doctor’s attitude, used to getting his way with everything. His lawn, his house, and his world were as clean and orderly as an operating room.
    At 8:37 the front door opened. The guy stepped out. He grabbed the newspaper on his front porch and set it on the iron table between the two padded porch chairs. He wore a jacket and a knit shirt and pressed slacks. He glanced at his watch and called back into the house. He walked over and coded a number into the garage, which was connected to the main house by a covered walkway. The door swung up. He got in behind the wheel of his Lexus and started the motor. He drove to where the drive connected to the home’s front walk of red brick.
    Wayne took a deep breath. He was trembling. Like always. He breathed again and flexed the fingers of his right hand. When they steadied he slipped his hand into his pocket and came up with the scope. He fitted it to his eye, adjusted the sight, and waited. No longer breathing at all.
    She came out first. Patricia wore her hair short, the new highlights burnished by the morning sun and his scope. She turned and smiled at the car. Said something lost to the distance. But the message was clear enough anyway.
    This was one happy lady.
    Then her son ran out. All youth and energy and laughter, so delighted with the day he could not bear to merely walk to the car. He wore a starched little shirt that was almost blue in the sunlight and navy shorts and white socks and little black shoes. He did a quick circuit around the front lawn, his arms out like wings. His three-year-old lungs shouted a joy Wayne did not need a scope to catch.
    The lady scooped the air between them, calling the boy into the car’s open door. Her hand held a black book.
    Only then did Wayne realize it was Sunday.
    He remained where he was until the car had driven away and the day was as empty as his spirit. He stared up at the sun, wishing it were a few degrees hotter, strong enough to melt him down.

    The more Jerry saw of this new kid, the more he liked him. Even now, when the kid was so deep into pain he crawled from his truck like the walking wounded.
    Jerry and Foster were busy fishing. Or they would have been, if the lagoon held anything worth catching. They actually used their poles as an excuse to get under the skin of the retired pastors and missionaries who made up over half of the folks who lived in the community. Normally the sight of Foster and him standing by the lagoon casting their way through a late Sunday morning was enough to have the residents doing the stork walk, all stiff-legged and indignant. It had been like that ever since one of the do-good ladies had walked over and given them the saccharine invitation to come do something worthwhile with their Sabbath. And Foster had quoted a line from the Koran. To a missionary. The line went, “God does not count hours spent fishing against a man.” It was doubtful the woman knew where the words came from, but she sure knew it wasn’t the gospel. That was the last time the Sunday crowd had done anything more than lob stare-grenades at them.
    Today was a little different, since the churchgoers were all shooting their blanks at Wayne. Only the kid was so internally wounded he didn’t notice.
    Victoria was seated in the fold-up aluminum chair Foster had brought down to the waterside. He always brought it down but never used it. Sometimes Victoria came and did needlepoint while they fished. Victoria and Foster had a thing going—or at least Foster wished they did, and they might have, except for the fact that Foster had deposited everything to do with religion in last year’s compost heap.
    Which sort of chopped off any chance he had with Victoria right at the knees.
    Foster was fishing with his hands only. His attention was fully on the kid. “The boy Grusza looks in pain.”
    Victoria did not even look up from her needlepoint. “That’s because he