On the Fifth Day Read Online Free Page A
Author: A. J. Hartley
Tags: Fiction, thriller, Thrillers, Fiction - Espionage, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +
Ed's room," said the priest. "Top of the stairs on the left. Illinois game tonight. You a basketball fan?"
17
O n t h e F i f t h D a y
"Not really."
"Perfect," said Jim. "Me neither. We can get a pizza, a cou
ple of beers and watch freakishly tall people running around for no good reason."
The sheer ordinariness of the generosity took Thomas off guard, so it was a moment before his pleasure and gratitude could make its way into his face and voice.
"That would be great," he said. "Can I go on up?"
"Sure. I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind," said the priest. "I have a spiritual direction meeting."
Thomas laughed. "Sounds like something I could use," he said as he made for the stairs, avoiding the priest's gaze. CHAPTER 3
Ed's was a sad little room. The minimal furniture was cheap, old, and stained with years of use. Apart from a meager selec
tion of clothes there were only books, papers, an overstuffed manila folder bound with rubber bands, an ancient transistor radio, and a couple of shoeboxes of oddments, all stacked haphazardly on a set of shelves made of planks and cinder blocks. The place looked less like the home of a priest than it did a dorm room that had been hurriedly vacated. A crucifix hung on the wall, but the place was otherwise unadorned ex
cept for an Amnesty International calendar. As Jim had said, there was nothing here, certainly nothing of value. Thomas's trip--save the pizza and basketball part--was likely to be done within the hour. If he'd known, he wouldn't have both
ered coming. Now he had to kill time before the lawyer ar
rived with the paperwork.
He sat on the bed. The mattress was thin and uneven, the springs pressing insistently through.
God, what a place.
18
A. J. Hartley
It felt empty, joyless: not unlike his own house, Thomas thought wryly. This was what Ed had chosen, what he had dedicated himself to, sacrificing God-alone-knew-what for this blank little cell with its cheap crucifix for company. Thomas had found a certain comfort in calling Ed's life an escape, a way of dodging the soul-killing business of every
day life, but sitting here now he had to admit that if his brother had thought in those terms he had been sadly de
luded. But Thomas suspected that his brother had known ex
actly what he was getting himself into and, perhaps more tellingly, what he wasn't.
Thomas picked up one of the boxes and emptied it care
fully onto the bed. Most of what spilled out looked like junk (a ticket stub from a Cubs game, a few faded and unframed photographs, a dusty cassette tape, some weird little silver trinket shaped like a fish, a stub of pencil), but it all felt saved somehow, hoarded as if it had all once been special, meaning
ful. The thought depressed him.
He flipped one of the photographs over and his breath caught. His own face looked up at him from the paper, a smil
ing, confident face Thomas had searched for in the mirror for the last six years. Next to Thomas was his brother in full cler
ical array--vestments, collar, the works--but somehow still looking like his brother as he had been when he taught him how to read a curveball or showed him the best comic books. And beside Ed was Kumi, her long black hair up and knotted in a suitably Japanese arrangement, the white of her wedding dress almost too bright for the camera to capture. They were all beaming, glowing with happiness, standing in the weedy garden only yards from where he now sat. Thomas closed his eyes, permitting himself to remember her as he so rarely did, suddenly feeling her absence as he had done when she first left.
The picture was almost ten years old, but she'd been gone for more than half of that. It struck Thomas that his wedding day had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with 19
O n t h e F i f t h D a y
his brother. They had always been a little different, but that day, the sheer rightness of it--in spite of everything that had followed--had been their last moment of
17
O n t h e F i f t h D a y
"Not really."
"Perfect," said Jim. "Me neither. We can get a pizza, a cou
ple of beers and watch freakishly tall people running around for no good reason."
The sheer ordinariness of the generosity took Thomas off guard, so it was a moment before his pleasure and gratitude could make its way into his face and voice.
"That would be great," he said. "Can I go on up?"
"Sure. I'll leave you to it, if you don't mind," said the priest. "I have a spiritual direction meeting."
Thomas laughed. "Sounds like something I could use," he said as he made for the stairs, avoiding the priest's gaze. CHAPTER 3
Ed's was a sad little room. The minimal furniture was cheap, old, and stained with years of use. Apart from a meager selec
tion of clothes there were only books, papers, an overstuffed manila folder bound with rubber bands, an ancient transistor radio, and a couple of shoeboxes of oddments, all stacked haphazardly on a set of shelves made of planks and cinder blocks. The place looked less like the home of a priest than it did a dorm room that had been hurriedly vacated. A crucifix hung on the wall, but the place was otherwise unadorned ex
cept for an Amnesty International calendar. As Jim had said, there was nothing here, certainly nothing of value. Thomas's trip--save the pizza and basketball part--was likely to be done within the hour. If he'd known, he wouldn't have both
ered coming. Now he had to kill time before the lawyer ar
rived with the paperwork.
He sat on the bed. The mattress was thin and uneven, the springs pressing insistently through.
God, what a place.
18
A. J. Hartley
It felt empty, joyless: not unlike his own house, Thomas thought wryly. This was what Ed had chosen, what he had dedicated himself to, sacrificing God-alone-knew-what for this blank little cell with its cheap crucifix for company. Thomas had found a certain comfort in calling Ed's life an escape, a way of dodging the soul-killing business of every
day life, but sitting here now he had to admit that if his brother had thought in those terms he had been sadly de
luded. But Thomas suspected that his brother had known ex
actly what he was getting himself into and, perhaps more tellingly, what he wasn't.
Thomas picked up one of the boxes and emptied it care
fully onto the bed. Most of what spilled out looked like junk (a ticket stub from a Cubs game, a few faded and unframed photographs, a dusty cassette tape, some weird little silver trinket shaped like a fish, a stub of pencil), but it all felt saved somehow, hoarded as if it had all once been special, meaning
ful. The thought depressed him.
He flipped one of the photographs over and his breath caught. His own face looked up at him from the paper, a smil
ing, confident face Thomas had searched for in the mirror for the last six years. Next to Thomas was his brother in full cler
ical array--vestments, collar, the works--but somehow still looking like his brother as he had been when he taught him how to read a curveball or showed him the best comic books. And beside Ed was Kumi, her long black hair up and knotted in a suitably Japanese arrangement, the white of her wedding dress almost too bright for the camera to capture. They were all beaming, glowing with happiness, standing in the weedy garden only yards from where he now sat. Thomas closed his eyes, permitting himself to remember her as he so rarely did, suddenly feeling her absence as he had done when she first left.
The picture was almost ten years old, but she'd been gone for more than half of that. It struck Thomas that his wedding day had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with 19
O n t h e F i f t h D a y
his brother. They had always been a little different, but that day, the sheer rightness of it--in spite of everything that had followed--had been their last moment of
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