guide were among the elite in town and it was an exclusive, if tiny, neighborhood.McCann had acquired his house in a foreclosure auction,but nevertheless.
As he pulled into his driveway he saw immediately that his house had been vandalized. The windows were broken and FILTHY FUCKING MURDERER was spray-painted in red on the front door, drips of paint crawling down the wood like dried blood.
He charged up the walk and kicked through weeks of porch-deliverednewspapers and entered his dark house to find the power and water shut off. He experienced a moment of overwhelmingdespair: How could they expect me to keep up with the local bills when I was incarcerated?
Retrieving a flashlight from his car, he returned to his home as despair sharpened into quiet rage. His house reeked of spoiled food from inside the refrigerator and freezer. He didn’t even open them. Long-dead tropical fish floated in a slick of scum on the top of his fish tank. His cat was long gone, althoughhe’d shredded most of his living room furniture and sprayed the carpet in his bedroom before finding his way out.
Drawers and closet doors were agape, clothing thrown across the floors by investigating cops. His telephone was ripped from the wall for no good reason at all. His bookcase was ransacked, emptied, law books tossed into piles along with the military thrillers he liked to read. Holes were punched into his walls as they looked for . . . what? What were they trying to find and why were they trying to find it? The case wasn’t a mystery,after all.
What made him angriest was to visualize the slow-witted localcops and park rangers rooting through his personal belongings,reading his mail, laughing, no doubt, at his collection of pornography in the drawer of his nightstand and finding— Jesus —the cardboard box containing the stuffed animals from his childhood that he just couldn’t make himself throw away. He wondered how many people knew about that. If somebody said something about the box in town, he vowed, he’d sue their ass so fast it would leave skid marks.
No note of apology, no crime-scene tape, no acknowledgmentof what they’d done. They simply trashed the place and left it for vandals.
He would need protection. Some yahoo might try to take him down, try to become famous for killing the man who beat the system. These people here liked that kind of rough frontier justice. Unfortunately, the Park Service hadn’t returned his weapons and he’d have to threaten a suit to get them back. As he drafted the action in his head, he remembered something. Months before, a client charged with his third DUI had paid him a retainer consisting of cash and a .38 snub-nosed revolver. The lawyer had dropped the gun into a manila envelope and filed it among his casework portfolios in his home office. Remarkably,the cops had missed it. He retrieved the gun and checked the loads, more familiar with weapons than he used to be, and slid it into his jacket pocket. It felt solid and heavy against his hip. He liked how it felt.
Pausing on the porch among the litter of unopened mail and newspapers, McCann took a deep breath of cold air. It tasted faintly of pinecone dust and wood smoke. He fought against the dark specter of being absolutely alone.
Because it was late in the year, only locals were out. McCanndrove to Rocky’s, a local favorite they all raved about like it was Delmonico’s, but he found more or less passable. It was both a bar and a restaurant, one big room. He wanted a beer and a burger, something they couldn’t mess up. Ninety days of jail food had screwed up his system.
The place was humming with raucous conversation as he entered,and it took a moment to get the bartender’s eye. When he did, the man simply looked at him with tight-lipped trepidation as if he were a ghost, a demon, or Senator Teddy Kennedy.
Then the din started to fade, and it continued to diminish untilit was almost silent inside. McCann felt nearly every set of eyes in
As he pulled into his driveway he saw immediately that his house had been vandalized. The windows were broken and FILTHY FUCKING MURDERER was spray-painted in red on the front door, drips of paint crawling down the wood like dried blood.
He charged up the walk and kicked through weeks of porch-deliverednewspapers and entered his dark house to find the power and water shut off. He experienced a moment of overwhelmingdespair: How could they expect me to keep up with the local bills when I was incarcerated?
Retrieving a flashlight from his car, he returned to his home as despair sharpened into quiet rage. His house reeked of spoiled food from inside the refrigerator and freezer. He didn’t even open them. Long-dead tropical fish floated in a slick of scum on the top of his fish tank. His cat was long gone, althoughhe’d shredded most of his living room furniture and sprayed the carpet in his bedroom before finding his way out.
Drawers and closet doors were agape, clothing thrown across the floors by investigating cops. His telephone was ripped from the wall for no good reason at all. His bookcase was ransacked, emptied, law books tossed into piles along with the military thrillers he liked to read. Holes were punched into his walls as they looked for . . . what? What were they trying to find and why were they trying to find it? The case wasn’t a mystery,after all.
What made him angriest was to visualize the slow-witted localcops and park rangers rooting through his personal belongings,reading his mail, laughing, no doubt, at his collection of pornography in the drawer of his nightstand and finding— Jesus —the cardboard box containing the stuffed animals from his childhood that he just couldn’t make himself throw away. He wondered how many people knew about that. If somebody said something about the box in town, he vowed, he’d sue their ass so fast it would leave skid marks.
No note of apology, no crime-scene tape, no acknowledgmentof what they’d done. They simply trashed the place and left it for vandals.
He would need protection. Some yahoo might try to take him down, try to become famous for killing the man who beat the system. These people here liked that kind of rough frontier justice. Unfortunately, the Park Service hadn’t returned his weapons and he’d have to threaten a suit to get them back. As he drafted the action in his head, he remembered something. Months before, a client charged with his third DUI had paid him a retainer consisting of cash and a .38 snub-nosed revolver. The lawyer had dropped the gun into a manila envelope and filed it among his casework portfolios in his home office. Remarkably,the cops had missed it. He retrieved the gun and checked the loads, more familiar with weapons than he used to be, and slid it into his jacket pocket. It felt solid and heavy against his hip. He liked how it felt.
Pausing on the porch among the litter of unopened mail and newspapers, McCann took a deep breath of cold air. It tasted faintly of pinecone dust and wood smoke. He fought against the dark specter of being absolutely alone.
Because it was late in the year, only locals were out. McCanndrove to Rocky’s, a local favorite they all raved about like it was Delmonico’s, but he found more or less passable. It was both a bar and a restaurant, one big room. He wanted a beer and a burger, something they couldn’t mess up. Ninety days of jail food had screwed up his system.
The place was humming with raucous conversation as he entered,and it took a moment to get the bartender’s eye. When he did, the man simply looked at him with tight-lipped trepidation as if he were a ghost, a demon, or Senator Teddy Kennedy.
Then the din started to fade, and it continued to diminish untilit was almost silent inside. McCann felt nearly every set of eyes in
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