and the girls?”
“You saw my gun. I didn’t want to leave them tonight; I never do. A guy like that? He’s messed up in the head. He could’ve been meeting with Evan all this time just to make it look good, so he could get out early. I don’t care what Evan says—the guy is sick.”
They got out. It was biting cold. The rock salt crunched beneath their feet as they hurried across the breezeway and through the automatic sliding glass doors into the warmth of the hospital lobby.
“His folks were some real wing nuts, weren’t they?”
Jack paused at the welcome desk and asked the white-haired volunteer lady to confirm Galen’s room number: 356.
“Oh, yeah.” Jack led them to the elevators and hit the up button. “Heavy mind games, mental abuse.”
The elevator doors opened. They got on, and Jack hit 3.
“Who knows,” Derrick said. “Maybe Evan really did help him.”
Jack rejected the possibility. Gone. Wouldn’t even consider it.
They got off on the third floor and followed the signs to Galen’s room.
Jack felt he owed Derrick a response. “The dude is a bad seed . Guys like that are evil to the core. Birth to death. It’s not gonna change.”
“Hold up. You think God makes people like that?”
They stopped outside Galen’s room, and Jack lowered his voice.
“Look at Pharoah. Look at Judas. The Bible says God made everything for its own purpose—even the wicked for the day of evil.”
“But people can change, dude. I’m not saying he has, but it’s possible.”
“Okay.” Jack held up a hand. “We need to shift gears. We can talk theology later. You got a pad and pen? We both take notes.”
Once ready, they nodded at each other, and Jack knocked on the door.
After a moment he knocked louder.
Finally LJ opened the door, adjusting his eye patch. The TV blared from within. “Hey Jack, come in.” He nodded at Derrick and went back into the room with a bounce in his long stride, as if he was welcoming them to a New Year’s Eve bash. “We got the race on, and Daddy’s feeling spunky as ever.”
“Hey, Jack.” Travis got out of his chair and shook hands with both men. “And it was—”
“Derrick,” Jack reminded them. “Hey, Galen.” Jack crossed to the bed where Galen sat fully upright, glasses on, glued to the roaring TV. When Galen didn’t look at Jack, he rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
Galen looked up. “Oh, hey, young man.”
“Jack Crittendon.”
“I know that.”
“And this is my buddy from the Dispatch , Derrick Whittaker.”
Galen gave him the up-and-down and shook hands. “Good to meet you. Who you pullin’ fer?” His eyes went back to the colorful race cars blowing around the brightly lit track. Galen had an oxygen tube hooked to his nose and an IV in his arm, but he looked like he could get out of bed and walk five miles. A small, worn-out brown leather Bible sat on the nightstand next to the bed.
Derrick gave Jack a quick shake of the head.
Jack looked up at the screen and figured out it was NASCAR.
“I’m not really too up on it myself,” Jack said. “Jimmie Johnson?”
“Crashed in the second lap,” LJ said.
“Dale Earnhardt Junior?”
“Mountain Dew car. Number eighty-eight. Back of the pack,” LJ said. “You like the old-timers, Jack.”
“Hasn’t won anything in three years.” Galen’s watery eyes were fixed on the screen. “Shadow of the driver his daddy was.”
“That old Impala don’t help things none,” LJ said. “He needs a faster car.”
“Who’s driving the Target car?” Derrick asked. “My fiancée loves Target.”
All three Randalls turned to Derrick, then back to the screen.
“That’s Montoya,” Travis said. “He’s got the same problem as Earnhardt. What he needs is that new Dodge Charger just got announced for the Sprint Cup Series. That thing is a rocket.”
“What race is this?” Derrick asked.
Even though the noise was mind-blowing and all three of the Randalls had their
“You saw my gun. I didn’t want to leave them tonight; I never do. A guy like that? He’s messed up in the head. He could’ve been meeting with Evan all this time just to make it look good, so he could get out early. I don’t care what Evan says—the guy is sick.”
They got out. It was biting cold. The rock salt crunched beneath their feet as they hurried across the breezeway and through the automatic sliding glass doors into the warmth of the hospital lobby.
“His folks were some real wing nuts, weren’t they?”
Jack paused at the welcome desk and asked the white-haired volunteer lady to confirm Galen’s room number: 356.
“Oh, yeah.” Jack led them to the elevators and hit the up button. “Heavy mind games, mental abuse.”
The elevator doors opened. They got on, and Jack hit 3.
“Who knows,” Derrick said. “Maybe Evan really did help him.”
Jack rejected the possibility. Gone. Wouldn’t even consider it.
They got off on the third floor and followed the signs to Galen’s room.
Jack felt he owed Derrick a response. “The dude is a bad seed . Guys like that are evil to the core. Birth to death. It’s not gonna change.”
“Hold up. You think God makes people like that?”
They stopped outside Galen’s room, and Jack lowered his voice.
“Look at Pharoah. Look at Judas. The Bible says God made everything for its own purpose—even the wicked for the day of evil.”
“But people can change, dude. I’m not saying he has, but it’s possible.”
“Okay.” Jack held up a hand. “We need to shift gears. We can talk theology later. You got a pad and pen? We both take notes.”
Once ready, they nodded at each other, and Jack knocked on the door.
After a moment he knocked louder.
Finally LJ opened the door, adjusting his eye patch. The TV blared from within. “Hey Jack, come in.” He nodded at Derrick and went back into the room with a bounce in his long stride, as if he was welcoming them to a New Year’s Eve bash. “We got the race on, and Daddy’s feeling spunky as ever.”
“Hey, Jack.” Travis got out of his chair and shook hands with both men. “And it was—”
“Derrick,” Jack reminded them. “Hey, Galen.” Jack crossed to the bed where Galen sat fully upright, glasses on, glued to the roaring TV. When Galen didn’t look at Jack, he rested a hand on the older man’s shoulder.
Galen looked up. “Oh, hey, young man.”
“Jack Crittendon.”
“I know that.”
“And this is my buddy from the Dispatch , Derrick Whittaker.”
Galen gave him the up-and-down and shook hands. “Good to meet you. Who you pullin’ fer?” His eyes went back to the colorful race cars blowing around the brightly lit track. Galen had an oxygen tube hooked to his nose and an IV in his arm, but he looked like he could get out of bed and walk five miles. A small, worn-out brown leather Bible sat on the nightstand next to the bed.
Derrick gave Jack a quick shake of the head.
Jack looked up at the screen and figured out it was NASCAR.
“I’m not really too up on it myself,” Jack said. “Jimmie Johnson?”
“Crashed in the second lap,” LJ said.
“Dale Earnhardt Junior?”
“Mountain Dew car. Number eighty-eight. Back of the pack,” LJ said. “You like the old-timers, Jack.”
“Hasn’t won anything in three years.” Galen’s watery eyes were fixed on the screen. “Shadow of the driver his daddy was.”
“That old Impala don’t help things none,” LJ said. “He needs a faster car.”
“Who’s driving the Target car?” Derrick asked. “My fiancée loves Target.”
All three Randalls turned to Derrick, then back to the screen.
“That’s Montoya,” Travis said. “He’s got the same problem as Earnhardt. What he needs is that new Dodge Charger just got announced for the Sprint Cup Series. That thing is a rocket.”
“What race is this?” Derrick asked.
Even though the noise was mind-blowing and all three of the Randalls had their
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