The Sentry by Robert Crais Read Free Book Online Page A

neighborhoods, but not all, leaving a sad reminder of days gone past and dreams unrealized. But men like Father Arturo Alvarez were trying to change that.
    Father Art was not a priest, though the women and kids in his care called him Father and blessed him with the love and respect of a man of God. Artie Alvarez was a murderer. He murdered his first and only victim when he was eleven years old—a thirteen-year-old Shoreline Crip named Lucious T. Jefferson, whose only mistake was pedaling a blue Schwinn bike past Artie’s house. Artie was brutally honest when he told the story of how and why he killed the boy, which he told often to elementary-school children, civic leaders, and business groups throughout the Southland. He spoke to kids because he hoped to change their lives for the better. He spoke to civic leaders and business groups to raise money to fund his programs.
    The heat was merciless on an August afternoon the day Artie committed homicide. Artie, his two younger brothers, and baby sister were on their front steps, waiting for their mother to return from work as a housekeeper in Cheviot Hills. Their father was away, which meant he was doing time in Soledad Prison. Artie recalls that he and his siblings were bored, and making up lies about their father, entertaining themselves by pretending he was a larger-than-life outlaw instead of a drunken bully with mild retardation from huffing too much paint thinner and glue. Artie and his siblings had reached a lull in the stories when Lucious Jefferson pedaled past. Artie’s baby sister, Tina, was on his knee when Artie saw Jefferson on the shiny blue bike. Jefferson wasn’t even looking at them. He was pedaling past, taking his time, and for no other reason than the rage in his heart, Artie called out—
    “Get off our street, you Crip nigger!”
    Jefferson, who, until this time, had paid no attention to the four children on the steps, flashed a gang sign and shouted back.
    “Spic beaner! Fuck yo’ pussy ass!”
    As Arturo told the story, he flew into a blinding rage that left him alone in the world. His two brothers and sister vanished. Thoughts of his mother, now only moments from home, vanished, and reason as civilized men know reason ceased to exist. He has no memory of pushing his sister from his knee, nor of her screaming when her head split so deeply on the step she would require eight stitches.
    Artie ran into his house, snatched his father’s .22-caliber rifle from beneath his mother’s bed, frantically checked to see it was loaded, then crashed out of the house. He caught Lucious Jefferson a block and a half later where Lucious was waiting to cross a busy street, whereupon he pushed the rifle’s muzzle into the older boy’s back and pulled the trigger. Killed him. Murdered him. 187’d his ass.
    Lucious Jefferson did not even see Artie coming. He was watching the traffic for a break in the onrushing river of cars when Artie ran up behind him and shot him between the T5 and T6 thoracic vertebrae, destroying his spinal cord and sending a bone chip from the T6 transverse process into Jefferson’s pulmonary artery. Artie would later say, in that moment, the real world and the reality of what he had done crashed into him like a freak wave, waking him from the mindless place of his rage by crushing him with the horror of what he had done. Lucious collapsed onto his bike, fell, and landed on his back. His eyes were wide as saucers, so wide they were balloons bulging out of his head. Artie saw the terror and pain in the dying boy’s eyes, a horrible pain that flowed from his eyes like a spirit leaving his body and flowed into Artie, forever changing his life.
    Following that terrible event, Artie Alvarez spent three years at a special facility for boys, where he kept to himself, took part in regular counseling, and was visited by Lucious Jefferson’s eyes every night in his sleep. The arrogance of his youth was replaced by guilt and a thoughtful shame. He