The Carpenter Read Free

belly. That’s not the end, either. Jonah goes on to Nineveh, just like he was supposed to. This time he isn’t afraid to preach the Word. He goes and tells those unbelievers what’s what. And this time? The people listen to him. So I want you to think about being a brave Christian. About going out to spread the good Word. That’s one of your jobs, boys. That’s something the Lord expects in exchange for all the great things He’s done for you.
    By the time the lesson was done, Irene’s eyes were closed. Lee went over and took her hand. Barry smiled at him and said: Come on, Brother Lee. I have to swing by the church. I’ll drop you off at your new place.
    Sometime after midnight, Lee woke from the same dream he’d been having for as long as he could remember. In the dream he was a boy again, venturing down into the basement of the boarding house in town where he and Donna grew up. The basement had brick walls and a dirt floor and towards the back was a coal furnace. A set of octopus pipes stretched up from the firebox and transmitted strange sounds through the house at night.
    In Lee’s dream, none of the dimensions were quite right and it seemed as if he approached the furnace slowly, over a great distance. He’d hear a sound and turn to see a crippled caretaker, bearing a spadeshovel full of coal, taking shape out of the dark. The caretaker always looked like he was about to say something but he never did. Lee would try to run, but would find his feet fixed to the floor, and with the certainty of dreams he knew the spadeshovel was meant for him, to lift him whole or in pieces and carry him over to the furnace and load him onto the burning coals.
    The dream had come frequently to Lee through much of his childhood, through his years in prison. It troubled him. It always had.
    A little later, he gave up on the idea of sleep. He got up from the pullout couch and walked around the apartment. Eventually he put on his jeans and undershirt, and he went outside and stood on the sidewalk. The street was deserted. A stoplight blinked overhead. Nothing was quite believable yet.
    J udy Lacroix was dead inside a car, parked on the gravel patch where the drive-in cinema had burned down. When Stan Maitland found her, he had a feeling of all his long years as a cop dilating on him. He knew who Judy was. He knew her family. This was a particular burden he held entirely to himself. That it was he who should find the girl dead in the car was proof of what could not be outstripped by the passing of time alone.
    Earlier that evening, Stan had been fishing with his granddaughter Louise. They’d taken Stan’s boat north across Lake Kissinaw to a shoal in one of the back bays. Stan had brought along a carton of earthworms. Louise sat on the skiff’s middle seat. Her rubber boots did not touch the floor.
    They conferred between long stretches of affable quiet. He loved how she would ply him with questions as to the nature of things.
    —Grandpa, what do the fish do when the ice comes?
    —Different fish do different things under the ice. I don’t know all of them, but bass—I told you how to tell which ones are bass—slow down and don’t do much. They just kind of hang around till it gets warm again. Sometimes my friends and I used to ice-fish, and on a nicer day we might think we could catch bass, but we never could.
    Over an hour and a half they caught two pickerel and a small-mouth bass. When it was time to go he pulled the stringer of catch up into the skiff. In his tackle box he had a hatchet-handle, which he used to crack each fish across the skull. Louise sat primly, studying his every motion. Stan laid the dead fish on the bottom of the boat and rinsed his hands in the lake water. He stood, feeling his back pop, and heaved the pull-cord on the motor.
    It was two days past the new moon, and by the time they returned to Echo Point the dark had fully settled. He’d left a light on in the front window of the house.
    A dark