September, 1987
Henry Deacon sits in the interrogation room in the police station, staring at the tiles. About five minutes ago he had a palm on his forehead, but that didn’t accomplish anything either.
Nick has sighed a few times.
Oh to be anywhere but here right now. Such a perfect fall day. Sun broke through the clouds early to take some sting out of the chill, the Bears were coming on at noon, then the phone rang. His one call.
“They, um...they treatin’ you ok?”
Nick eventually nods. They had picked him up about five blocks from the church, with the other two, just strolling along in a daze.
“Have your folks been by yet?”
Deep breath. Shakes head.
Deke turns and faces him squarely. “You know I’ll do whatever I can, my bar is still good, but you realize you really fucked the pooch with both balls this time, doncha?”
Nick tears up and begins to sob. Deke reaches out and grips his arm with a huge reassuring hand.