Crazy Dangerous by Andrew Klavan Read Free Book Online Page B

the last time he’d get to see him.
    So I sort of put on a relaxed voice and said, “Oh no, it’s not urgent. Go on over to the Bolings’. We can talk later. I hope things turn out all right.”
    My dad smiled sort of sadly. “I’ll see you later, Sam,” he said.
    He turned and went down the stairs.
    I stood alone in the hallway and sighed. I guess I was a little relieved I didn’t have to tell my dad about Jeff Winger, but mostly I was disappointed because I’d already worked up the courage to tell him and I knew I really needed his advice. I didn’t think my mom would be as helpful. It’s not that my mom isn’t smart or anything, it’s just that she tends to give advice that would be good if you were going to take it, but you’re just not going to. I mean, she’ll say stuff like, “Report him to your teacher,” or “Just explain to him that it’s not right for him to take your lunch money.” That sort of thing. My dad’s advice is more practical is what I’m saying.
    So I stood there and I heard the front door close downstairs as my dad went out to see his friend. And then I sort of put my hands in my pockets, wondering what I should do. Then, without really deciding, I kind of wandered down the hall to my dad’s study.
    I’m not sure why I did that exactly. I just felt like it. It made me feel better to be in his study somehow.
    The lights were off in there except for the small reading light on his desk. He was always forgetting to turn that off when he went out. The light shone down brightly on the Kindle he’d been reading from and then sent a sort of faint glow out over the rest of the room. The rest of the room was mostly books, shelves of books on every wall except one wall that had windows overlooking the backyard. There were also a couple of chairs for people to sit in when they came to visit and talk.
    The desk was big—a big old wooden thing that nearly stretched from one wall to another. I walked around it and plunked down in my dad’s chair. The chair was big too—a big leather swivel chair with a high back. My mom had gotten it for Dad for Christmas a few years back. It was soft and comfortable.
    I sat in the chair and swiveled back and forth. I had my right hand in my pocket. It was wrapped around the Buster. I rubbed its cool metal in my fingers. I was thinking: What do I do, what do I do, what do I do? Over and over again like that. Not a prayer exactly—I was too ashamed to pray. It was more like a chant in my mind. But I guess it was kind of a prayer too, since I was secretly hoping God would take pity on me and send an answer—fast.
    As I swiveled and thought, my eyes went over the desk, the computer, the letter opener, the penholder, the Kindle under the reading lamp. Then I sort of swiveled around and looked over the books on the shelves, which were sort of sunk back in the shadows.
    There was other stuff on the shelves too. Photographs of Mom and my brother and me. There was a drawing I’d done when I was, like, I don’t know, five or something: a crayon drawing of a rocket ship. I don’t know why Dad framed that and kept it, but he did. There was a drawing by my brother, John, too. And there was other stuff: tokens and souvenirs that people had given Dad or that he’d brought back from some trip or something. An old coin mounted on a block of wood. A carved cross from a church in Africa. Some of this stuff was hard to make out in the shadows, but I’d seen it so many times, I already knew what it was.
    But then I saw something I didn’t recognize, something I hadn’t seen before. Maybe it was new, or maybe I just hadn’t noticed it. It was a small statue of an angel. Even in the shadows I could tell what it was because its wings were spread. It was lifting a sword too, so I guessed it was the archangel Michael. He’s the head of God’s armies and does battle with Satan in the Bible, so they pretty much always show him with a sword.
    Like I said, I’d never