us to this brave new world still haven't come up with a way of devising a personal computer that you can easily carry into the bathroom when the need arises.
I went through the parking lot on my way back, seeing a panel truck at the north end of the lot. JIMMY'S ELECTRICAL SERVICE, FALCONER, it said on the side of the truck, and I felt bad for Jimmy, having to hump his equipment up to the hotel.
Down the driveway I went, and back home, there was someone waiting for me at the doorsteps to my house, sitting there, legs stretched out, looking quite comfortable. It looked like the fourth estate hadn't given up quite yet in their quest to interview me. I came down the driveway, focusing on my footwork, making sure I didn't slip and knock my skull against a piece of rock outcropping. I looked up once, and my visitor was still there, sitting patiently. Well, he could be as patient as he wanted. I certainly wasn't going to say much when I got to the doorway. I was done with the news media. The primary election was just a few days away, and I was going to keep my head down, ignore the senator's wife, and make nice with Annie Wynn after our last discouraging phone call.
When I got to my house, I stopped, as if the snow about my feet had suddenly turned into ice, keeping me still.
For before me was Spenser Harris, fake Secret Service agent.
I stood, waiting to see if he would say anything, but that didn't seem possible.
For he was dead.
Chapter Seven
I gingerly walked around, checking to make sure he was as dead as he looked. He was on the snow-covered ground next to the doorsteps, leaning up against the stone foundation. His legs were out in front of him, his hands were folded primly in his lap. His eyes were closed. Thank God for small favors. I looked to the side of his head and saw a mass of blood and torn flesh and splintered bone just behind his right ear. He seemed to be wearing the same coat and necktie and slacks combination from his first visit to my home.
I stepped back, taking a breath. I didn't like him, and didn't like what he had done to me, but still ... I didn't like seeing him dead on my doorstep.
Another breath.
There were things to do, procedures to be followed, phone calls to be made.
I unlocked the door and went inside.
I left the dead form of Spenser Harris behind me.
I dropped the newspapers and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Into my office, up to a small closet. Opened the closet, went through some boxes of papers and files until I saw a small, multicolored box stuck in the rear. I ripped the box open, tearing a bit of finger skin in the process, and sat on the floor, going through about twenty pages of instructions in English, Spanish, French, and German, and then tossed the paperwork aside.
Before me was a prepaid cell phone, about the size of two credit cards together. I had gotten it as a Christmas gift the previous year from Detective Sergeant Woods, when she had told me that in this new age of ours, it was customary to be accessible through instant communications. I replied that I rather liked being inaccessible. And she had smiled and said next time I was driving in East Overshoe, New Hampshire, tracking down a story, it would be nice to have a cell phone in case my car died or I ran into a moose.
I had agreed, and had promptly put the phone in my closet. Until now.
It had no charge in its little battery so I managed to plug it into a free receptacle in my office. I fumbled through a few more minutes of trying to figure out what in hell to do with this marvelous instrument, when I started punching in the numerals.
By now, I guess shock was coursing its way through my system, for my hands were shaking.
But I still managed to dial the number. I waited as it rang.
And waited.
Conscious that a body was cooling itself outside my front door. The phone was answered.
"Yeah."
"Hi, it's me."
"Oh. What's up."
"Got a situation," I said.
"A situation?"
"Quite the
I went through the parking lot on my way back, seeing a panel truck at the north end of the lot. JIMMY'S ELECTRICAL SERVICE, FALCONER, it said on the side of the truck, and I felt bad for Jimmy, having to hump his equipment up to the hotel.
Down the driveway I went, and back home, there was someone waiting for me at the doorsteps to my house, sitting there, legs stretched out, looking quite comfortable. It looked like the fourth estate hadn't given up quite yet in their quest to interview me. I came down the driveway, focusing on my footwork, making sure I didn't slip and knock my skull against a piece of rock outcropping. I looked up once, and my visitor was still there, sitting patiently. Well, he could be as patient as he wanted. I certainly wasn't going to say much when I got to the doorway. I was done with the news media. The primary election was just a few days away, and I was going to keep my head down, ignore the senator's wife, and make nice with Annie Wynn after our last discouraging phone call.
When I got to my house, I stopped, as if the snow about my feet had suddenly turned into ice, keeping me still.
For before me was Spenser Harris, fake Secret Service agent.
I stood, waiting to see if he would say anything, but that didn't seem possible.
For he was dead.
Chapter Seven
I gingerly walked around, checking to make sure he was as dead as he looked. He was on the snow-covered ground next to the doorsteps, leaning up against the stone foundation. His legs were out in front of him, his hands were folded primly in his lap. His eyes were closed. Thank God for small favors. I looked to the side of his head and saw a mass of blood and torn flesh and splintered bone just behind his right ear. He seemed to be wearing the same coat and necktie and slacks combination from his first visit to my home.
I stepped back, taking a breath. I didn't like him, and didn't like what he had done to me, but still ... I didn't like seeing him dead on my doorstep.
Another breath.
There were things to do, procedures to be followed, phone calls to be made.
I unlocked the door and went inside.
I left the dead form of Spenser Harris behind me.
I dropped the newspapers and went upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Into my office, up to a small closet. Opened the closet, went through some boxes of papers and files until I saw a small, multicolored box stuck in the rear. I ripped the box open, tearing a bit of finger skin in the process, and sat on the floor, going through about twenty pages of instructions in English, Spanish, French, and German, and then tossed the paperwork aside.
Before me was a prepaid cell phone, about the size of two credit cards together. I had gotten it as a Christmas gift the previous year from Detective Sergeant Woods, when she had told me that in this new age of ours, it was customary to be accessible through instant communications. I replied that I rather liked being inaccessible. And she had smiled and said next time I was driving in East Overshoe, New Hampshire, tracking down a story, it would be nice to have a cell phone in case my car died or I ran into a moose.
I had agreed, and had promptly put the phone in my closet. Until now.
It had no charge in its little battery so I managed to plug it into a free receptacle in my office. I fumbled through a few more minutes of trying to figure out what in hell to do with this marvelous instrument, when I started punching in the numerals.
By now, I guess shock was coursing its way through my system, for my hands were shaking.
But I still managed to dial the number. I waited as it rang.
And waited.
Conscious that a body was cooling itself outside my front door. The phone was answered.
"Yeah."
"Hi, it's me."
"Oh. What's up."
"Got a situation," I said.
"A situation?"
"Quite the
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