Free Black Friday by William W. Johnstone Page A

The guy was young, little more than a kid—although at Pete’s age, almost everybody seemed like a kid. He had tousled blond hair and looked like he ought to be surfing in Southern California instead of being a parish priest in Springfield, Illinois.
    Pete didn’t like Father Steve, he also recalled. Maybe he was jealous. Not in any sort of romantic way, since he didn’t feel like that about Sister Angela and likely Father Steve didn’t either, considering his calling, but the priest got to spend a lot of time with her, the lucky son of a gun.
    â€œYeah, I . . . remember you,” Pete said. “What do you want? Where’s . . . Sister Angela?”
    â€œI’m afraid she’s under the weather.”
    â€œShe’s . . . sick?”
    â€œIt’s nothing serious, she assured me.”
    â€œOh. Well, I guess . . . bein’ a nun . . . don’t excuse her from havin’ lady troubles.”
    Father Steve flushed and said, “I don’t think it’s anything like that—”
    Pete waved his right hand to stop him.
    â€œIt’s all right. Thanks for . . . comin’ to tell me . . . I guess. She could’a just . . . called me . . . and not bothered you, Father.”
    â€œIt’s no bother. And I didn’t just come by to tell you. Sister Angela said that the two of you had an outing planned for today.” Father Steve stepped aside a little and waved toward the handicap-equipped van parked at the curb, the van that Sister Angela carried Pete around in on their excursions. “She asked if I’d mind taking you to the mall, and I told her I’d be glad to.”
    â€œWhat?” Pete started to shake his head. “Oh, no, that’s . . . not necessary.”
    â€œI really don’t mind, sir,” Father Steve said. He didn’t sound completely sincere. Pete would have bet that Sister Angela had had to talk him into this.
    He started to roll the wheelchair back from the open door and said, “No, forget it—”
    â€œShe told me you’d say that.”
    Pete paused where he was.
    â€œShe did, did she? What else . . . did she say?”
    â€œThat you like to pretend to be a cantankerous old curmudgeon, but that you’re really not. She said that you’re actually a kind, generous man who doesn’t like to allow anyone to get too emotionally close to you.”
    Pete narrowed his good right eye and said, “Yeah, that sounds just like . . . the kind o’ bleedin’ heart claptrap . . . she’d come up with, all right.”
    Father Steve took a deep breath and went on, “She told me to ask you to go ahead and carry on today just as the two of you had planned. She said it’s been a while since you’ve gone anywhere and that it’ll do you good to get out of the house.”
    â€œThat sounds like her, too,” Pete admitted grudgingly. “If I don’t . . . do like she says . . . she’ll go and get her feelin’s hurt . . . won’t she?”
    â€œShe’d never say so, but I suspect that she would.”
    Pete sat there for a long moment, then muttered, “Oh, the hell with it. I guess we’re goin’ . . . to the mall . . . Father.”

Chapter 12
    T obey woke up with his arms full of firm, warm female flesh. That sure was an improvement over the way he emerged from slumber most mornings in Iraq. Too many of those had been rude awakenings involving gunfire and explosions.
    As he stirred into wakefulness, Ashley did, too. They were spooned together, but she rolled over so she was facing him. She nuzzled her face against his shoulder as his arms tightened around her again.
    â€œThis is wonderful,” she said in a sleepy murmur. “I could stay like this all day.”
    â€œSo could I,” Tobey agreed, “but we’ve got things to do. We’re going to the mall, remember?”
    â€œI remember. It still seems a little odd for