Our town became a place of pilgrimage for journalists, historians, students, and scores of curvy women with teased hair and excessive makeup who turned up at the prison gates to visit Terry. Most were turned away and wound up wandering around town, many clutching first and only editions of The Handbook of Crime. The book had been ripped from the shelves on the day of publication and quickly banned for all time. It was already a collector’s item. The obsessive fans were searching the town for guess who? Me! They wanted me, as credited editor, to sign it! At first it gave me a thrill to finally be the focus of attention, but I rapidly couldn’t stand it. Every autograph fiend hounded me with endless questions about Terry.

Again, Terry.

It was in this throng of star-hungry morons that I ran into Dave! He was wearing a suit but no tie, and his hair was neatly combed back. He’d really cleaned himself up. He was going for a new life. Apparently he’d found God, which made him less violent but no less unendurable. I couldn’t get away from him; he was hell-bent on saving me. “You like books, Martin. You always did. But have you read this one? It’s good. In fact, it’s the Good Book.” He held a Bible so close to my face I didn’t know if he wanted me to read it or eat it.

“I saw your brother this morning,” he said. “That’s why I’ve come back. I led him into temptation and now I’ve got to lead him out.” This Biblical talk was making me irritable, so I switched subjects and inquired after Bruno. “Bad news there, I’m afraid,” Dave said sadly. “He was shot dead during a knife fight. Martin, how’s your family? In all honesty, seeing Terry was only half my mission. I’ve also come to see your parents and beg their forgiveness.”

I strenuously advised him against it, but he was unswayable. It was God’s will, he said, and I couldn’t think of a persuasive argument against that, apart from saying I’d heard otherwise. Religious nuts! It isn’t enough that they believe in God, they have to go all the way, seeing into his vast mind. They think faith gives them access to his glorious to-do lists.

Dave didn’t come up to the house in the end; by chance he ran into my father outside the post office, and before he’d so much as pulled his Bible from his back pocket, my father’s hands were already wrapped around the poor bastard’s throat. Dave didn’t fight back. He thought it was God’s will he be strangled on the post office steps, and when my father pushed him to the ground and kicked him in the face, he thought that was God’s afterthought.

You see, my father really did have a list, and Dave was on it. The list fell out of his pocket during the fight. I picked it up. There were six names.

People who destroyed my son

(in no particular order)

1. Harry West

2. Bruno

3. Dave

4. The inventor of the suggestion box

5. Judge Phillip Krueger

6. Martin Dean

Given that he hadn’t been shy in blaming me with every look and gesture for most of my life, I wasn’t surprised to see my own name on the list, and it was only fortunate for me that my father didn’t realize I actually appeared on it twice.

After the fight, my father stumbled off into the dark, muttering threats. “I’ll get every last one of you!” he shouted to nobody, to the night. The police wandered up as they always do, like garbagemen after a street party, and as soon as Dave’s breath returned, he shouted, “I don’t want to press charges! Let him come back! You’re impeding God’s will!”

I grimaced, hoping for Dave’s sake that God wasn’t listening to his presumptuous rant. I don’t imagine God likes a sycophant any more than anyone else.

To tell you the truth, that episode saved me from death by boredom. With The Handbook of Crime finished and promptly buried, with Caroline gone, Terry locked away, and Harry dead, the town had little to recommend itself to me. My loves were all out of reach and I had nothing to keep me occupied. In short, I had no projects left.

Yet I couldn’t leave. True, I couldn’t stand cohabitating with the living dead too much longer, but what to do about my regrettable oath not to leave my mother under any circumstances? Certainly while she was decaying so unpleasantly, it seemed impossible.

There was nothing I could do to help her condition or ease her physical suffering in any way, but I was very aware that my presence in the house gave my mother considerable peace of mind. Jasper, do you know the burden of being able to make someone happy by your mere presence? No, probably not. Well, my mother was always visibly affected by her sons- the light in her eyes was unmistakable, every time either Terry or I entered a room. What a heavy load for us! We felt we had to enter said room or else be held responsible for her sadness. What a drag! Of course, when someone needs you to the point that your very existence acts as a sort of life support, it’s actually not bad for your self-esteem. But then, Jasper, do you know what it’s like to see that same loved one deteriorate before your very eyes? Have you ever tried to recognize someone across the street in a heavy rain? It became like that. Her body became too thin to support life. And with her approaching death came the approaching death of that need for me. But it wouldn’t go quietly. Not by a long shot. The course of her life had produced two things: me and Terry, and Terry had not only slipped through her fingers long ago, he was now languishing indefinitely just out of her reach. That left me. Out of her two boys, whom she once said she wished to “pin to her skin so as never to lose them,” I was the only one left, the only thing that gave her any meaning. I wasn’t going to abandon her, no matter how revolting the notion that I was only waiting in that dusty house for her to expire.

Besides, I was broke. I couldn’t go anywhere.

Then a letter delivered by courier complicated matters. It was from Stanley.

Dear Martin,

Well! What a shit storm!

The book is out of print, out of the stores, out of circulation. The state is suing me, the bastards. You’re in the clear, though, for about five minutes. If I were you, I’d make myself scarce for a while. Go overseas, Martin. I’ve been listening very carefully to these clowns. They’re not done yet. They will come after you. I told you not to put your damn name on the book! Now they’ve got you for harboring a known fugitive and correcting his syntax. But you’ve got a little breathing time left. The cops don’t know the first thing about publishing. They’re looking for a way to beat the defense that the whole thing was done by mail. Plus, how about this for a kick, they don’t want to know about Harry. They slap me in the face every time I mention his name. They refuse to believe that Terry didn’t write the book. I guess they figure it gives the case a bigger profile. No wonder the world’s a mess. How can you trust anyone to act decent when all they want is to push you out of the way so they can get to the spotlight? Oh well.

Honestly, Martin, listen to me on this one. GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY. They’re coming for you with a briefcase full of bullshit charges.

I’m giving you everything from the initial sales. Don’t think I’m being generous. The truth is, there’s no point in me holding on to it, the courts are going to take it all anyway. But I know how much you put into it. I know how much it meant to you. Plus, I want to thank you for the ride of my life. We did something! We made some noise! I felt for the first time that I was involved in something meaningful. For that, I thank you.

Enclosed is a check for $15,000. Take it and go. They’re coming for you, Martin. They’re coming soon.

Warm regards,

Stanley

I shook the manila envelope until something nice fell out. The check. There it was: $15,000. Not a huge amount of money, but by the standards of a man who was in the habit of recycling old cigarettes, it was considerable.