Sheila uttered another trembling sigh. "I'll be fine. Stay safe, okay?"

"You too."

Before he could say goodbye, he heard the click of her cradling the phone.

He put his cell back on the dresser and snatched the joint from the girl's pursed lips. He dragged deeply, aware the high would only amplify his paranoia and not caring, only craving a temporary release from the jangling of his nerves.

"Asshole," Tish muttered, her eyes red and glassy.

He took another long pull. Held the smoke in his lungs, feeling his heartbeat slow to a dull thud.

"So who was that bitch, anyway?"

"The asshole repairman," he said, exhaling a lungful of smoke. "Apparently my warranty's up."

2

Chapter and Verse

PENNSYLVANIA IN OCTOBER and another snowy, relatively busy day, this time at the Dusty Corner bookstore in Reading—pronounced Redding, not as Martin thought, which possibly explained the small turnout.

Every time the door chime rang—tinkled, he thought, remembering what Tish said before she used the bathroom—he imagined Barclay stepping in, his country swagger more pronounced by the limp allegedly caused by shrapnel he caught in Vietnam. He'd be wearing dirty blue jeans, an open-throat, Roy Rogers-style Western shirt and an off-white sport jacket, a dusty rose handkerchief folded neatly in its breast pocket. He'd likely have on something heavier for the weather over top, probably a thick corduroy jacket with a wide shearling collar. A miasma of English Leather aftershave and cigarettes would precede his entrance.

He scrutinized every tall, slender man who walked through the door with dread, limp or not, until the face became visible in the overhead lights. Only then would he allow himself a sigh of relief.

After little over an hour, signing autograph after autograph, scanning every unfamiliar face in the crowd, a wiry, wild-eyed man in the front of the line held out a copy of Witch Hunter. "I like your book," the man said. "S'good."

Martin sized him up. Dead incisor on the right side of his mouth, tobacco-stained fingers, long, neat fingernails, and a single long hair below his Adam's apple the razor hadn't caught, suggesting dirty mirrors, bad eyesight, or just plain indifference.

"Thank you. That's the most concise literary acclaim I've ever received. Do you mind if I quote you on the cover of my next book?"

The man considered what to say, then shrugged. "Nup."

"Great. You know, if brevity really is the soul of wit, you could be the next Dave Barry."

"My name's Dave."

Martin laughed gregariously and scribbled Dave, Such a rare pleasure speaking with you! He signed his name below and handed it back.

The man puzzled over it. He looked up with his brow furrowed. "That s'posed to be a joke?"

Martin held up his hands, playing innocent. "Just being nice."

"This is not nice." The man held up his book, jabbing a yellowed finger at it. "This is fuckin smarmy. And if it's a fuckin joke, I don't think it's very funny, either."