If anyone had been let down, it had been Gavin Denham, and Bergen’s, a furniture manufacturing company, had done it to him. This grand old year of 2001 had mostly been known for a recession and a stalled economy, but then along came September 11 and suddenly it was the year of the most audacious terrorist attack in history, which only made things worse at Bergen’s, where orders for its finely crafted dressers and armoires and chairs were down sharply. Gavin had worked for them nearly two decades, but that didn’t count for much when the bosses had to lay people off. Gavin started drinking, or, more accurately, had started drinking more, which prompted his wife to leave him and move to Portland to live with her sister. Gavin couldn’t keep up the rent on their apartment and before long found himself on the street.

“Well, if I hear of anything a little closer to home, I’ll let you know,” Harry said.

Gavin smiled. “You know where to find me. Get all my mail sent to this bench.”

Harry stood, reached into his pocket, and brought out a five. “Get yourself some breakfast or something.”

Gavin shook his head forcefully. “Couldn’t do that, Harry. Not looking for charity. Things’ll turn around. You wait and see.” He grinned as Harry slipped the bill back into his pocket. “Maybe you need another deputy or something?”

“These days I could probably do with an extra dozen.”

“I tell ya, there’s some weird shit going on, isn’t there?”

“You could say that.”

“For like a month now?”

“Give or take.”

“You know what I think?” Harry waited for Gavin to tell him. “I think it’s the terrorists.”

“Oh yeah.”

“They started with something big. Bringing down the Twin Towers, hitting the Pentagon. Freak us out, waiting for the next big thing, but now they got their operatives spread out all over the country doing smaller missions to keep us on edge.”

“That’s an interesting theory,” Harry said.

“Just thought I’d mention it so you’d know what you might be up against. Osama’s minions right here in Vermont.”

“You have a good day, Gavin.”

Harry stepped out of the way to let a woman in a dark green pantsuit exit the diner, then went in. Jenny had already filled his mug and had it on the counter in front of the stool closest to the cash register. Harry hauled his butt up onto the padded cushion, reached for the sugar dispenser, poured in a generous amount, and gave the black liquid a stir.

“You’re an angel from heaven, Jenny.”

“And you look like hell,” she said.