The Inn(78)

THE FEDEX MAN had followed our sign at the front of the house and was turning the corner of the porch hefting a large box. Angelica ran to him like a wife welcoming a sailor home from a decade at sea. Everyone crowded around as she placed the carton on the table and set to it with a box cutter.

As my friends huddled around one of their own in her proudest moment, I looked at the faces near me. Nick had been officially diagnosed with schizophrenia and was being treated. He caught my eye from across the group, and despite the terrible secrets he carried with him, he smiled. Clay was on the other side of Angelica, chewing his nails in anticipation. When I glanced up I saw that Neddy Ives was looking down, his head almost touching the windowpane in order to get a better view.

Angelica shoved open the flaps of the box, reached into the packing peanuts, and brought out a book with a yellow-and-black cover. A moan of appreciation went up from the gathering.

“What’s it called again?” Vinny leaned in to see. He’d been asking what it was called for weeks, over and over, poking fun at his girlfriend. Angelica put the book in his hands and I saw the jacket illustration of a beautiful woman, a farmer’s wife, looking out across an empty field.

“‘The Lucky Ones,’” Vinny read.

“It’s an allegory,” Angelica said proudly. “It’s based on a story Marni told me once. Oh, I can’t wait for you to read it, Vin.”

The old gangster tucked the book under his arm and started wheeling himself away. “Any excuse to get some goddamn time to myself. I’m outta here. See you guys on the last page.”





CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED ELEVEN





BEFORE THE PARTY could break up, I tapped Effie on the shoulder. The fat lump in her shirt pocket was wiggling, the little pink nose snuffling for more treats.

“I’ve got a present for you,” I said.

She pointed at her chest.

“Yeah, you,” I said. I gave her a package I’d wrapped in pretty silver paper. Hearing the packet rustling, Crazy poked his head all the way out of Effie’s pocket. I watched as Effie unfolded the paper to reveal a thick paintbrush.

She looked at me, questioning.

“We can start tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll help.”

Effie grinned and punched the air. Susan clapped her hands beside me, looking up at the worn and weather-beaten house.

“It’s going to look beautiful, Bill.” She put an arm around my waist. “It’s about time.”

“I have a present for you too,” I told her. “Come on.”

I led Susan through the house, up the stairs, and to the loft door. I turned a handle that hadn’t been turned in three years, and it came off in my hand.

“Son of a …”

I put the doorknob in my pocket, shouldered the door open. Walking the dusty steps to the big, peaked-roof room was like climbing up a mountain, exhausting but also exhilarating. I stood with her in the dim light filtering through the cracks between three wooden boards nailed over the circular window, gold dust motes swirling all around us. From my coat I took another package wrapped in paper and handed it to her.

“It’s like Christmas.” She laughed. She unwrapped the claw hammer and smiled at me.

“Go ahead,” I said.

Susan put the claws of the hammer into the first plank and yanked the handle upward; the old, dry wood squeaked as she ripped it from the frame. In a short time, she’d removed all the planks from the window. We looked out at the pine trees and the pale gray sea beyond.

“It’s going to take some work,” I said. “But if you want to, I think we could make it a great room.”

We held each other and watched a crab boat on the horizon heading for the harbor.

“I can hear the waves,” she said.





THERE’S NO TIME TO WASTE. AND IF THEY FAIL – THEY DIE.




Read on for a sneak preview of Killer Instinct, available from September 2019





THERE’S NOTHING quite like walking into a room packed with more than a hundred students and not a single one is happy to see you…

If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost take it personally.

“Good morning, class,” I began, “and welcome to your final exam in Abnormal Behavioral Analysis, otherwise known as Professor Dylan Reinhart messing with your impressionable minds for a little while in an effort to see if you actually learned anything this glorious spring semester. As legend correctly has it, I never give the same test twice, which means that all of you will be spared any repeat of a previous exam, including my personal all-time favorite, having everyone in the class write and perform an original rap song about Sigmund Freud’s seduction theory.”

I paused for a moment to allow for the inevitable objection from the brave, albeit delusional, student who thought he or she might finally be the one to appeal to my better judgment, whatever that was.

Sure enough, a hand shot up. It belonged to a young man, probably a sophomore, wearing a rugby shirt and a look of complete consternation.

“Yes, is there a question?” I asked.

He was sitting in the third row, and best I could tell, it had been three days since he last showered. Finals week at Yale is hell on personal hygiene.