Free Armageddon Conspiracy by john thompson Page A

sobered and gave Brent one of those dead serious looks that made him seem years older than sixteen. “But I appreciate you coming, man.”
    They headed over to Broadway to a little pizza place, and Brent grilled DeLeyon like always about his grades and everything else in his life. DeLeyon mumbled his answers, pretending to resent the intrusion, but after a bit he reached into the pocket of his shorts and pulled out a sweat soaked report card. He handed it to Brent, who unfolded it with care and scanned DeLeyon’s grades.
    Brent smiled as he saw nothing less than A+. “You need to work a little harder.”
    “You ever quit, man?”
    “Not until you get into Harvard.”
    “Yeah, right,” DeLeyon said, shrugging it off.
    DeLeyon didn’t know it, but Brent had long ago determined he’d put him through college and pay whatever the scholarship didn’t cover. “Okay, gotta go,” he said. “Keep it up. I’m proud of you.”
    “You really are, aren’t you?” the boy said, the tough outer layer disappearing for a brief second.
    Brent nodded. “Yeah, I really am.”
•  •  •
    By twelve thirty, after a shower, several cups of coffee, and three power bars, Brent’s hangover had faded to a sort of depressed exhaustion. As he toweled off he looked around at his confusion of unpacked boxes and scowled as he realized the problem. Being with DeLeyon always left him with a feeling of vague dissatisfaction and reminded him that there were more important things to do than trying to make himself rich.
    He pulled open one of the boxes, started to unpack a stack of plates, but then glanced out the window. He’d planned to spend the day getting the apartment organized, but the sky outside was cloudless, the temperature pleasantly cool. Besides, why unpack? He wasn’t going to be here that long. Soon, he’d find a way to get Simmons her proof and then get on with his life, whatever that meant.
    Fifteen minutes later he was in the BMW, roaring out of Manhattan on his way toward Morristown. It was much too perfect a day to be trapped inside, and he hadn’t seen Fred in almost two weeks. Of course, Fred would act like his visit was no big deal, but Brent knew that down deep it mattered.
    The Lincoln Tunnel traffic was light, typical for a Sunday, and when he emerged on the other side, the summer afternoon was sodelightful that even Newark’s grunge didn’t seem too oppressive. He sped through the Oranges and crested the Ramapo Hills, where New Jersey transformed itself from a wasteland of abandoned factories and ruined tenements to the green rolling hills of Morris County.
    On reaching Morristown, he drove straight to his old neighborhood and parked in front of a white clapboard bungalow on a quiet street close to the town center. A few miles away grand homes sat on multi-acre lots, the estates of investment bankers and lawyers who commuted to Manhattan, but the close-in neighborhoods contained small neat homes, most built after World War II and owned by people like Fred who lived and worked in Morristown—policemen, firemen, city workers, and teachers.
    Brent found his uncle in the back yard, wearing dark pants and a threadbare wife-beater. He was bent over, trimming his roses and humming a little tune, and if he heard Brent approach he gave no indication. In spite of a knee injury that had forced his early retirement, Fred Lucas was big boned and still thickly muscled. Although Brent could see places where the flesh was starting to sag, his uncle’s shoulders and arms still looked powerful.
    “Need some help?” he asked when he got close.
    Fred turned his head just enough to see Brent in his peripheral vision. “You wouldn’t know a rose from a freaking dandelion.”
    “Yes, I would,” Brent countered. “Dandelions grow in the middle of the lawn. Roses grow around the sides.” He paused. “Otherwise, I think they’re almost indistinguishable.”
    His uncle had gone back to cutting. “You’re a