“New York State law requires residents to possess and produce a valid state driver’s license at the request of a peace officer—and the law states that a new license must be obtained within thirty days of official residence. Are you aware of that?”

“No, I wasn’t, but, as I say, we just got here—”

“I’m going to have to write you up, failure to signal, invalid license, no vehicle registration.”

“Oh, come on, give me a break—I’ve never had a ticket in my life.”

The cop took his time. He was smiling, actually smiling. “Well, you’ve got one now.” He paused. “Actually,” he said, “you’ve got three of them.”

Chapter 3

3.

In the next month he must have made the drive to Beacon five or six times, filling in for teachers who were out sick or just sitting in front of a space heater in their pajamas with a book and a mug of coffee laced with bourbon, using up their paid sick leave. Each time, without fail, he was pulled over by Officer Salter, he of the stone face, or his younger colleague, Officer Albright, on one pretext or another, though he’d paid the fines and mailed a Photostat of his registration to the courthouse and was careful never to drive under the influence or fail to use his signal light. Did he know his license plate light was out? Did he realize he hadn’t come to a full stop at the corner of Elm? Was he aware that the starburst crack in the lower right-hand corner of his windshield was technically a violation? Where was he going? Where had he been? He lived up at the Alte Haus, didn’t he?

It wasn’t just him, it was everybody. Dick was flagged for speeding, Fanchon pulled over for failure to come to a complete stop not twenty feet from the entrance to the estate and Tim himself given a lecture by Officer Salter over the distinction between a blinking yellow light and a blinking red. And then there were the weekenders. The ones who didn’t arrive by taxi were subjected to the same sort of harassment, which didn’t bode well for the summer’s Castalia Foundation seminars, and though no one was arrested on any charge, trumped up or otherwise, it certainly didn’t enhance the Millbrook experience or improve anybody’s mind-set. Tim sent a letter to the police chief in protest and Dick followed up with a letter from his well-connected father’s well-connected lawyer and the police eventually backed off, though they’d served notice, and every transaction, every session, every high was tainted with the knowledge that they were out there, awaiting their opportunity.