Lamentation by Joe Clifford

person who would. Except this hadn’t been my brother. Someone had been after more than spare change or trinkets to hock.
    Scanning the damage in the living room, I could see my TV facedown on the carpet, books and DVDs, my entire movie collection fanned like a bad blackjack hand.
    Had one of those thugs from the computer shop followed me back here? Had the guy who phoned yesterday found out where I lived? Charlie had been amped up over the hard drive. I wasn’t even sure it existed. But why else would someone break in?
    Then I thought about Jenny. How long had I been at the Dubliner? What if she had still been here when whoever did this showed up?
    I pulled my cell to call her and saw that the porch door was open. I thought I heard stirring out there. Tucking the phone away, I crept past the closet toward the patio. I took a deep breath and jerked the handle. Something jumped at me and my hands flew up.
    I looked down and saw my nameless cat rubbing against my leg, crying.
    “What the hell is wrong with you?” I said. “Get in here. You’re going to freeze to death.”
    A blur came from out of the shadows, a hard crack against the base of my skull. A searing flash of white blazed behind my eyes.
    Then everything went black.

CHAPTER NINE
    Deadened voices dialed in and out of reception, a radio clinging to its last taste of frequency, like that dream you have where you’re drowning, clawing at the ice or trapped beneath an avalanche, muffled sound clapping in waves. A pinhole of light shone from far away, expanding into a slow ball of heat. Reaching for it, I anticipated warmth and forgiveness, some profound emotion.
    Instead, I opened my eyes to Turley jabbing a penlight at my irises.
    “He’s all right,” said Turley, with a goofy grin. He kneeled beside me, laboring with each breath the way fat men do. I sat up. My skull felt like it had been stomped by a pair of Doc Martens at a punk show.
    “Whoa, big fella,” Sheriff Sumner said. “Hold on. You got whacked pretty good. Wait till we can get a doctor up here to check you out.” With his diminutive stature and snow-white hair, Pat Sumner reminded me of a badger from a children’s book.
    “I’m fine,” I said.
    Turley placed his hand on my chest. I shoved it away and got to my feet. I rubbed the back of my head, which lumped sticky with congealed blood.
    Another uniformed cop, a young Puerto Rican kid I’d never seen before, clean-shaven with a crew cut, walked in and said something to Turley, who turned and left the apartment. The kid poked around in the kitchen, picking up and inspecting random objects, leaving me in the living room with Pat, expression awash with grandfatherly concern.
    “How’s your head?”
    “I’m all right,” I said, patting down my jeans for my cigarettes and not finding any.
    The detective I’d seen at the TC stepped in from the porch, scowling as he scoured my dingy apartment and surveyed the carnage from the break-in. His face was cold and alien, void of any charm or kindness. I immediately resented him being there. It was more than the slicked hair and moisturized skin, the way he pulled off his leather gloves one finger at a time. He projected a superior disdain, like somehow just being in our hick town was beneath him.
    “Can you tell me what happened?” Pat asked.
    “I’d gone down to the Dubliner,” I said. “When I came home, the place was torn to shit. I checked the back porch. I guess somebody was still here.”
    “Didn’t see who?” Pat asked.
    I shook my head “no.”
    “Have you spoken with your brother?” the big city detective asked, stepping to me without a trace of sympathy or respect for personal space.
    “No,” I said, pulling back, “I haven’t.”
    He scoffed. “I find it hard to believe he wouldn’t have contacted you by now.”
    I turned to Pat. “Who the hell is this guy?”
    “Jay, this is Detective McGreevy. He’s up from Concord, investigating the Pete Naginis