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Griggs and Charlie spent the afternoon at the batting cages. Griggs was hitting pretty strong.
Charlie had already struck out and was glad to be sitting it out, eating his hot dog. “You know, there are ways to authenticate that signature.”
Inside the cage, Griggs had his eye on the ball. SMACK! The ball shot up into the net. He glanced over his shoulder toward Charlie. “What?”
Charlie wiped mustard off his mouth. “I said there are ways to authenticate that signature on your baseball.”
“Ah.” Griggs shook his head. “That again.” Another ball rocketed out of the machine. SMACK! It shot up into the net. “That’s how you do it!”
“It could be authentic, you know.”
“It could be fake.”
Griggs hit a few more balls. Charlie watched. Once his time was up, Griggs sat on the bench next to his partner. Together they watched the next man up.
Charlie said, “Not every fake is malicious.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sports autographs. Not every fake is malicious.”
“If somebody is trying to make a buck—”
“No,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “In the field of sports memorabilia, the reason some sports autographs are not authentic is because the athlete’s spouse or manager might have signed it. It was not intended as fraud.”
“Fine.”
“I’m talking about classic signatures, of course. Remember, sports memorabilia has only become an industry in the past twenty or thirty years.”
“Sure.” Griggs looked off into the distance. “I don’t know what that has to do with my dad.”
“I’m just saying, the baseball your father gave you might be authentic. But even if it is not…” Charlie let the sentence drop. The two men sat in silence a while.
Finally, Griggs spoke. “I’ve been thinking about that man who came in. You know, the one who thought he killed the preacher.”
“Hogan?”
“Right.” Griggs sat on the bench, thinking about his next words. Charlie did not push. Finally, Griggs reached into his gym bag and pulled out an object. The autographed baseball he had gotten from his father.
Charlie squinted. “You have it with you.”
“Yeah.” Adjusting his fingers on the ball, Griggs turned to his partner. “This man Hogan—here was a guy so wrapped up in himself, so wrapped up in his own story…”
Charlie waited. “Yeah?”
Griggs shrugged. “He became disconnected. From his wife. From his children. He was blind to them. Blind to their needs. Blind to their…” He trailed off. Finally, he shrugged. “He was blind.”
“Uh-huh.”
The two were quiet again, watching the others in the batting cages. Finally, the older detective, still fidgeting with the baseball, leaned toward Charlie and grunted. “Do I get like that?”
“What?”
“Like that guy. You know, so wrapped up in my own stuff—”
“You’re comparing yourself to a freak who borrowed money from the mob so he could be in a boat for the Rapture?”
“He was so focused. On the wrong stuff. At the expense of—everything else.”
“When you put it that way,” Charlie nodded, “maybe we all do that.”
“No, this is something that goes much deeper.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“Go ahead and check the signature.”
Griggs handed Charlie the ball.
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There are 70 chapters for Tribulation House. You can purchase the whole eBook from Amazon, Apple, Kobo, B&N, and more!
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Tribulation House: Reloaded
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