I took control of the tiller and piloted us the rest of the way home.

The visible consequences of the expedition unspooled in predictable fashion. It was several days before my body didn’t feel as wrecked as the SUV looked. My favorite rental agency banned me, and yes indeed, those premiums boarded a rocket and zoomed into the stratosphere. These were transient inconveniences. The astonished look on the sales clerk’s face when I handed him the keys was priceless. For a moment he looked as if he’d drop to his knees and tear his hair in anguish. I told him, yeah, he was crying now, but he’d laugh about it someday.

PART III

DEATH OF THE STARRY-EYED KID

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Minerva and I spent the holidays camped out at Meg’s house. I glanced over my shoulder, dreading repercussions that lurked but didn’t manifest. All terrible things in their own due course, Gene K used to say with a murderous twinkle in his eye. The hammer always drops.

Ulster County enjoyed a white Christmas and a white New Year. One of those big daddy mid-Atlantic storms that come along once or twice a decade made landfall and dropped a foot of snow from Upstate New York to the northern hinterlands of New England. Then it got cold. Toboggan rides, plush hats, and scarves for everyone. And miles-long traffic jams and cancelled flights. Hot-chocolate-by-a-roaring-fireplace weather. For me, Tom and Jerrys by a fake fireplace with a dog at my feet. No less cozy.

I happily self-medicated with aspirin, extra rations, and sleep. Sleep is the closest thing to a panacea. The swelling in my knee went down within a week, thus I assured myself that an emergency hospital visit was unnecessary. Gimping around was absolutely fine. Meg didn’t comment. I avoided taking my shirt off in front of her for a few days, but she finally caught me stepping from the shower. She wordlessly regarded my poor battered torso and the bloody, inflamed slash on my back. Her expression of shock did the talking. This meant she’d come to accept my lifestyle with the cool nonchalance of a gangster’s moll or, and more likely, she was saving her remarks for later.

Between lounging with a drink in hand and entertaining young master Devlin, who pounced upon my extended availability as a playmate, I chiseled at the Pruitt case, attempting, and failing, to reach Linda, the widow. I also made a second round of calls to Sean’s former friends and associates. The first person I contacted was Sean P’s colleague Robert Thorpe, in Pittsburgh. He took my call with an affable demeanor.

I initially met Sean through my roommate, Danny. The night Sean died? I pulled a double shift. We were understaffed. Everybody in my department was working OT. I hadn’t seen him in two or three days. He had a key, though. Came and went as he pleased. Thorpe wasn’t aware of any enemies or debts. Sean was on the outs with his wife by then. I mean, that’s why he had a key. For those times he needed a place to crash. Dunno what their friction was. Except, well . . .