Read Rage for Free Online Page A

Rand from choking Kristal.”
    “Yup.”
    His
lips curled upward and I watched for the return of the smirk. But something
happened to his eyes that softened the expression.
    The
resigned, world-weary smile of one who’d seen it all but had managed to
maintain his dignity.
    “I’m
very sorry,” he said. “It was up to me. I’m the smart one.”
    * * *
    He
was.
    Full-scale
I.Q. score of 117, which put him in the top twenty-five percent. Given an
abstract reasoning subtest in the ninetieth percentile and spotty school
attendance that weakened his knowledge base, I figured it for an underestimate.
    Worlds
apart, intellectually, from Rand Duchay.
    I
shoulda stopped it.
    Maybe
Sydney Weider’s coaching had fallen short. Or she’d told him the facts and he’d
blocked them out.
    Or
he’d simply chosen to lie, figuring me for a gullible jerk.
    I’d read
the coroner’s report.
    Traces
of Kristal Malley’s skin had been found under Troy’s fingernails, not Rand’s.
    * * *
    For
the rest of our sessions he cooperated fully, blithely lying every step of the
way.
    When
I asked about his mother he told me she was trying to be an actress and that
she visited him all the time. The logbooks said she’d been there once. Deputy
Sherrill told me Jane Hannabee had been obviously stoned, the visit had lasted
ten minutes, and she’d left looking angry.
    “Once
you see her, Doc, maybe you understand something about the kid. But not all of
it, right? Other punks have crackhead skanks for mothers and they do bad stuff,
but not this bad.”
    According
to Troy, his father had died “in the army. Shooting terrorists.”
    When
I asked him what a terrorist was, he said, “It’s like a criminal but usually
they’re niggers and they blow stuff up.”
    I
revisited the murder several times and his position remained the same: Kristal
had gone with him and Rand voluntarily; Rand had committed all the violence.
Troy felt bad about not intervening.
    On
the sixth session, he substituted “guilty” for bad.
    “You
feel guilty.”
    “Real
guilty, sir.”
    “About
what?”
    “Not
stopping it, sir. It’s gonna delay my life.”
    “Delay
it, how?”
    “I
was gonna be rich soon, now it’s gonna be later.”
    “Why?”
    “
’Cause they’re gonna lock me up somewhere.”
    “In
jail.”
    Shrug.
    “How
long do you think they’ll lock you up?”
    “You
could tell them the truth, sir, and maybe it wouldn’t have to be so long.” He
cocked his head, almost girlishly. His smile had a feminine cast to it, too. He
had a dozen smiles; first time I’d seen this variant.
    “You
think that if I tell them the truth, your sentence could be shorter.”
    “The
judge likes you.”
    “Someone
tell you that?”
    “Nope.”
    When
most people lie they give off a “tell”— a shift in posture, subtle changes in
eye movement, tone of voice. This kid could fabricate so coolly I was willing
to bet he’d fool the polygraph.
    “Troy,
do you ever get scared?”
    “Of
what?”
    “Anything?”
    He
thought. “I get scared of doing bad things.”
    “Why’s
that?”
    “I
don’t want to be bad.”
    “Are
you ever bad?”
    “Sometimes.
Like everyone.”
    “Everyone’s
bad sometimes.”
    “No
one’s perfect,” he said. “Except God.”
    “Are
you religious?”
    “Drew
and Cherish say I am, sir.”
    “Who’re
Drew and Cherish?”
    “Ministers.”
    “They
visit you?”
    “Yup.
Sir.”
    “Do
you find that helpful?”
    “Yessir.
Very helpful.”
    “How
do Drew and Cherish help you?”
    “Tell
me I’m gonna be okay. Tell me everyone makes mistakes.”
    “So,”
I said, “you think sometimes you’re bad. Like how?”
    “Not
going to school. Not reading books.” He stood, took a volume from the bottom
shelf. Black cardboard covers. Holy Bible in green script.
    “Drew
and Cherish give you that?”
    “Yessir.
And I read it.”
    “What
are you reading about.”
    A
second’s pause. “Day Two.”
    “Of
creation?”
    “Yessir.
God