Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

168 :: JOHN R. MABRY
“Speak of the devil,” Susan said. “You better go talk to
him.”
Dylan took another deep drag on his joint and put it out.
“Any more of that?” He pointed at his cup.
“Here, take mine to him. I’ll make more,” Susan said, sliding
her cup towards him.
“Wish me luck,” he said.
“See you in bed, baby. I’m heading up.”
“Okay. Ah’ll try not to be too long.”
Susan went back to the stove and Dylan got to his feet
with a groan. Tobias shadowed him to the door. “Stay here,
big boy,” Dylan said, and shut the door.
Richard was sitting in one of the porch swings. Dylan
could tell by his breathing that he’d been crying. Dylan sat in
a folding chair near him, and placed the cups down on the
rail of the porch. “Susan made cocoa.”
Richard reached out and topped off one of the cups from
a flask of whisky. He then sipped at the cup without a word.
“Dude, it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna find him.”
Richard swung for a good long time before replying. “We
haven’t got a clue.”
“Not true,” Dylan said. “Clues we got. We just don’t
know what they mean yet. But we will. We always figger it
out. Ah believe in us, man. Hell, Ah believe in you.”
At this, Richard buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
“Ah, dude, don’t do this to yerself.”
When the jag subsided, Richard fished for a handkerchief
and dirtied it. “I’m not the right guy for this job.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dylan asked
indignantly. “Who the fuck do you think could do it better?”
“You.”
“Fuck that. Ah’m no leader. You gotta be born a leader.
People follow you or they don’t. The only place people follow
me is to the dinner table. You, though.... Shit, man, any