Brother Odd

opens outward," Brother Maxwell noted, tapping the crank handle. "Even if it smashed a pane and reached through, it would be blocking the window it was trying to open."
        "While clinging to the side of the building," said Romanovich.
        "In high wind," Brother Maxwell said.
        "Which it might be able to do," I said, "while also keeping seven plates spinning atop seven bamboo poles."
        "Nah," Brother Knuckles said. "Maybe three plates but not seven. We're good here. This is good."
        Squatting beside Jacob, I said, "That's beautiful embroidery."
        "Keeping busy," he said, his head remaining bowed, his eyes on his work.
        "Busy is good," I said.
        He said, "Busy is happy," and I suspected that his mother had counseled him about the satisfaction and the peace that come from giving to the world whatever you are capable of contributing.
        Besides, his work gave him a reason to avoid eye contact. In his twenty-five years, he had probably seen shock, disgust, contempt, and sick curiosity in too many eyes. Better not to meet any eyes except those of the nuns, and those you drew with a pencil and into which you could shade the love, the tenderness, for which you yearned.
        "You're going to be all right," I said.
        "He wants me dead."
        "What he wants and what he gets are not the same thing. Your mom called him the Neverwas because he was never there for the two of you when you needed him."
        "He's the Neverwas, and we don't care."
        "That's right. He's the Neverwas, but he's also the Neverwill. He never will hurt you, never will get at you, not as long as I'm here, not as long as one sister or one brother is here. And they're all here, Jacob, because you're special, you're precious to them, and to me."
        Raising his misshapen head, he met my eyes. He did not at once look shyly away, as always he had done previously.
        "You all right?" he asked.
        "I'm all right. Are you all right?"
        "Yeah. I'm all right. You… you're in danger?"
        Because he would know a lie, I said, "Maybe a little."
        His eyes, one higher in his tragic face than the other, were pellucid, full of timidities and courage, beautiful even in their different elevations.
        His gaze sharpened as I had never seen it, as his soft voice grew softer still: "Did you accuse yourself?"
        "Yes."
        "Absolution?"
        "I received it."
        "When?"
        "Yesterday."
        "So you're ready."
        "I hope I am, Jacob."
        He not only continued to meet my eyes but also seemed to search them. "I'm sorry."
        "Sorry about what, Jacob?"
        "Sorry about your girl."
        "Thank you, Jake."
        "I know what you don't know," he said.
        "What is that?"
        "I know what she saw in you," he said, and he leaned his head on my shoulder.
        He had done what few other people have ever achieved, though many may have tried: He had rendered me speechless.
        I put an arm around him, and we stayed like that for a minute, neither of us needing to say anything more, because we were both all right, we were ready.

CHAPTER 48
        
        IN THE ONLY ROOM CURRENTLY WITHOUT children in residence, Rodion Romanovich put a large attaché case on one of the beds.
        The case belonged to him. Brother Leopold had earlier fetched it from the Russian's room in the guesthouse and had brought it back in the SUV.
        He opened the case, which contained two pistols nestled in the custom-molded foam interior.
        Picking up one of the weapons, he said, "This is a Desert Eagle in fifty Magnum. In a forty-four Magnum or three-fifty-seven, it is a formidable beast, but the fifty Magnum makes an incredible noise. You will enjoy the noise."
        "Sir, with that in a cactus grove, you could do some heavy-duty meditation."
        "It does the job, but it has kick, Mr. Thomas, so I recommend that you take the other pistol."
        "Thank you, sir, but no thank you."
        "The other is a SIG Pro three-fifty-seven, quite manageable."
        "I don't like guns, sir."
        "You took down those shooters in the mall, Mr. Thomas."
        "Yes, sir, but that was the first time I ever pulled a trigger, and anyway it was someone else's gun."
        "This is someone else's gun. It is my gun. Go ahead, take it."
        "What I usually do is just