Very Bad Men Read Free Page B

the old man’s eyes. “Tell me what you see,” he said.
    Twisted strands of iron-gray hair hung over the old man’s brow. His eyes squinted. “That’s my name.”
    â€œIs there anything odd about it?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIs it moving?”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œWhat color would you say it is?”
    â€œIs this a joke? It’s written in black.”
    Lark turned the notebook around and read the name. Charlie Dawtrey. “Yes, the ink is black. I know that. Intellectually. But the words seem red to me. They don’t seem red to you?”
    The old man’s eyelids fluttered. “God in heaven.”
    â€œThey don’t ripple, like they’re floating on water? They don’t expand and contract, like they’re breathing?”
    â€œGod in heaven. I’m talking to a crazy man.”
    â€œI’m not crazy,” Lark said, turning back a page. “What about these names?”
    He watched the old man’s eyes move down the list. Henry Kormoran. Sutton Bell. Terry Dawtrey.
    â€œThat’s my son. My son and two of his no-good friends.”
    â€œBut you don’t see the letters breathing?”
    â€œIs this about my son?”
    Lark closed the notebook and slipped it into his pocket. “Are you close to your son?”
    â€œNot for a long time.”
    â€œIf something happened to you, would it matter to him?”
    â€œWhat’s this about?”
    â€œWould he mourn, if you were gone?”
    â€œWhat do you want here?”
    A dull ache wound itself in a figure eight behind Lark’s brow. He returned to the chair and reached for the towel-wrapped ice.
    â€œI want you to answer my question,” he said. “I think if you were gone, it would affect him. He would mourn your passing.”
    The old man sat forward slowly. His ice pack lay neglected on the sofa cushion beside him. His nose had stopped bleeding.
    He said, “Mister, if you think you can get to my son by hurting me, you’ve gone off the rails. No one’s going to care much when I’m gone, least of all Terry.”
    â€œYou haven’t kept in touch with him?”
    â€œHe’s been in prison the last sixteen years. I gave up on him, and he gave up on me, a long time back.”
    â€œYou never go to see him?”
    â€œNot anymore. So why don’t you clear out now, and take whatever grudge you’ve got with you.”
    â€œI don’t have a grudge.”
    â€œYou’re wasting your time.”
    â€œI don’t think so. You have a sparrow calendar.”
    The old man brushed iron-gray hair out of his eyes. “What?”
    â€œThere’s providence in the fall of a sparrow. I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bible.”
    â€œOh Lord, you’ve gone crazy again.”
    â€œI’m not crazy. That line about the sparrow—it means we’re all part of a bigger plan. You shouldn’t be afraid of playing your part. You shouldn’t lie to get out of it.”
    â€œI haven’t lied to you.”
    The towel was damp against Lark’s brow. He felt a drop of icy water roll along the bridge of his nose and onto his cheek.
    â€œYou have a sparrow calendar,” he said again. “Every other Saturday is marked with a ‘T.’ Short for ‘Terry.’ You’re still close to him. You visit him at the prison every other Saturday.”
    The old man didn’t try to deny it. He flexed the fingers of his swollen right hand. His eyes settled on Lark’s.
    â€œYou don’t look good. How’s your head?”
    Lark shrugged the question away.
    â€œMaybe it’s trying to tell you something,” the old man said.
    The pain traced its figure eight. The ice helped, but not enough.
    â€œThe headaches are just a symptom,” said Lark. “I’ll have them until I deal with the underlying problem.”
    â€œIs that what