Free Black Friday by William W. Johnstone

still got along—if that meant they didn’t fight—but the idea of spending the day at the mall with his sister didn’t really appeal to him.
    On the other hand, having her come along meant that he wouldn’t be alone on the drive to and from there. As jumbled up as his mind was these days, he didn’t really want to be alone any more than he had to.
    Once they were at the mall, they could split up and go their separate ways, rendezvousing later at the food court or something. Maybe they could even have lunch and talk some about her plans for college.
    Those thoughts went through his head in a flash. He shrugged and said, “Sure, if she wants to, that’s all right with me, I guess.”
    â€œI don’t think she’s up yet. Do you mind waiting for her to get ready?”
    Aaron shook his head and said, “Nah, I don’t have anywhere I have to be at any certain time.”
    Wasn’t that the truth?
    * * *
    Pete McCracken got himself up and dressed, into the wheelchair, and made his own breakfast. He still had enough use of his left arm to pilot the chair with it, although sometimes he had to use his right hand to move his left one into place where it could grasp the control knob. His right arm worked just fine, about the only part of him that still did on a consistent basis.
    Sister Angela had helped him move everything in the kitchen down low enough that he could reach it. He actually enjoyed getting his own meals. It told him that if Sister Angela ever stopped coming for any reason, he could survive without her.
    Whenever he thought about that possibility, however, he felt a cold, empty spot inside him. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, the nun was his only friend. He didn’t want to lose her.
    Luckily, in the time he had left he might not have to. Unlike most young women, she wasn’t going to get married and go off somewhere with her husband, her already being married to God and all.
    He supposed her bosses in the Catholic Church could move her to another parish or something. Not being Catholic himself, he wasn’t sure how all that worked, just like he wasn’t sure why she had ever “adopted” him the way she had.
    Maybe she was just a good person. It was possible, he told himself . . . although not too common, in his experience.
    When he had finished breakfast, he went back to the bedroom and got the Browning Hi-Power from the drawer. There was a little pouch on the inside of the wheelchair’s right arm where he slid the gun and an extra loaded magazine.
    Loading magazines was a pain in the butt in his condition—that was why he liked the Ruger revolver so much, a wheel gun was easy—but he managed, just like he managed everything else that was a physical challenge since the stroke.
    He’d be damned if he was going to roll over and die because of some blood clot in his brain.
    The doorbell rang while he was rolling out of the bedroom. He said, “Hold your . . . damn horses,” even though it was unlikely whoever was on the other side of the door could hear his croaking voice.
    Couldn’t be Sister Angela. He had given her a key when she started taking care of him, and she would have let herself in. Pete couldn’t think of who else might be visiting him on the morning of the day after Thanksgiving.
    Maybe that fat cop had come back to return his Ruger Redhawk to him. Pete didn’t think that was very likely, but it would be welcome if that turned out to be the case.
    It didn’t. He unlocked the door, swung it open, and glared as he saw the man standing there. He said, “Who the hell . . . are you?” then noticed too late the white collar around the man’s neck.
    â€œWe’ve met, Mr. McCracken,” the priest said with a patient smile. “I’m Father Steve.”
    He had been with Sister Angela once when she’d stopped by, Pete recalled. They had been on their way to run some errand.